Thoughts...

like the smell of your skin as you pressed in close. or the feel of your palm in mine.

like beer and his beard burned

each time our cheeks grazed.

my second kiss ghosted

over my lips. their pressed

so delicately as they glided.

the third time was forced

in a drunken stupor; tongue prodded

uncomfortably and erratically uncontrolled. 

the fourth time i hoped

it would be better, but felt trapped

but all i have is a handful of blanketed tragedies

crying out for the warmth of their mother after being removed

from her body heat too quickly,

before they had the chance to bond.

which might explain the self inflicted wounds,

the cutting and the biting,

the starving and the puking.

because happiness is just that breeze

in the middle of a hurricane,

when you think it's over,

but then your house is condemned,

and the barbie you got from your alcoholic

mother after her husband

cut you with the metal clipboard

instead of her because you came in between

their crashing bodies

ends up floating in three feet of water

in the room you shared with your two year old half-sister

because there was no way to fit five kids in a two bedroom comfortably.

i don't know what happens after the storm,

but i do know, 

there isn't enough time to make up for my lack of

The first time he hits her, I'll tell her to leave him,

and she will, for a while at least.

Until he comes back, a week or so later,

saying his apologies, grovelling at her feet.

She'll open the door. She'll let him back in.

The second time it happens, I'll bite my tongue so hard

because the "I told you so" is there, but she doesn't need that.

She needs a hug and a cup of tea, but mostly a place to stay.

The third time he does it, the bruise from last time will have just turned yellow,

barely visible under her skin, yet we all know it's there.

He'll kiss her after, whispering how he'll never do it again.

I won't even bother to try and stop her, because I know it's futile.

The last time he hits her, she'll smack into a table,

making her blood puddle onto the floor, and he will be still for a moment,

The summer I turned eleven

I got my period 

for the first time.

I didn't tell my mom.

The next day,

on a car ride home

from an amusement park

I was molested by a man

who my friend's mom called

friend.

When I told her what happened,

she said I was

"Asking for it."

The next time I got my period, 

I asked my mom for pads

and when she asked me why

I didn't tell her the first time,

I thought,

a mixed CD

which I sent to past me

so maybe she would see what I

in the morning

and the only thing 

on my mind

is 

When I think back on that night

all I see is teeth

smiling down at me.

The same teeth that bit my lip;

the ones that left a bruise on my neck.

In the morning, 

I had stubble burn on my face,

but looking back

The muffler rumble of your snores

woke me up  as you panted exhaust-filled-

morning-breath onto my collarbones.

I tried to shift my body from under yours,

but your stubble scraped

against me with the heat of an engine.

When I tried to remove myself

from your seat-belt arm,

you stirred and strapped me in tighter.

Before I could formulate a plan,

your eyes opened and sent me a smile

as bright as high beams,

were the first to touch

mine,

it's your hands 

I can't stop feeling

There is no feeling

quite like the way your body

fills in the space next

to mine as we lie in bed

My hand,

slow and easy,

on the knobs of your spine

as I explored the hills of your

He wore a green jumper

with the word 

Irish

written in plaid,

and I had never wanted anything more.

We exchanged pleasantries

but he warned me

he wouldn't remember 

my name.

Later,

when my mouth 

had unconnected from his

he whispered it,

moaned it,

cigarette hanging like the condemned 

between two red lips,

and pondered what death felt like