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The moonlight pours through the blinds and penetrates the air like a sharpened blade.
My frosty fingers gently reach for the window, sliding the glass to reveal a winter breeze.
The luminescent moon touches my face and caresses my cheeks like a lost lover.
I take a deep breath, and my cold hands stroke the beds’ woolen blankets.
I am pulled back into the safety and comfort of slumber, and I remind myself I will be okay.
Leaving was a small thing,
a settling of the dust.
The single most abstract thing
I had ever done.
In that abstraction, I yearned for freedom.
But now I see that freedom
just means the ability to go anywhere
and still know that I’m loved.
The sky changes colors like mood rings, each one
a testament to the pain of being seventeen.
Not a single tear,
but a continuous flow that runs down my face.
I catch it on my tongue,
and swallow it.
Without warning, the tide rolls in
and, for once, I don’t run for high ground.
I let the waves of sadness drown me,
and pull me under until I can’t breathe.
Until all I can feel is the cold of the world in its final moments,
and all I can see are my own dead eyes staring back at me.
And still, they’re beautiful.
The light blue irises in the murky depths of my own opaqueness.
The long eyelashes
that brush against my cheeks,
as I sink deeper into the sea.
The way the saltwater numbs
my lips, my face, and then my limbs.
Until I’m only waves,
and I become an extension of this world
that wants me to be something else.
we kissed to the beat of
voices in our heads
that said
this is forever, this is all there is
we ran off, away from the streetlights
into a pitch-black oasis
where we could see all of the stars
the way we wanted to then,
when we were seventeen again.
When girls go to museums
with their fathers,
they don’t turn to the paintings and ask them,
“Why is that man so upset?”
or
“When will he be okay?”
Because good girls don’t tell their fathers
that they are in mourning, too.
Or that they also wonder when they will be okay.
Because girls don’t think of their fathers
as men who have lived with their own private sorrows, fears, or loneliness.
Young girls don’t see the paintings’ beauty
or the artists’ ability to represent the human face and form.
They just see themselves,
a mirror that reflects their sadness.
Good girls don’t ask
what made their fathers so sad,
why they are so distant,
why they, too, are so alone.
The boy in the old photograph
Is not the boy in the old photograph
I see you growing up
from the inside out
I see your beauty collide with your demons
and I’ll always wonder what it felt like
your body crashing against the pavement
with poison in your veins, leaving lost hope
scattered all over the sidewalk
a part of your past
holds you
under
and you’re so exhausted
you don’t even know how to move
you just sit there and stare, your mouth open
you think this is the most exhilarating feeling
and it’s not
it’s not
We’re sobs punctuated
by unspoken words
we whisper in our sleep.
We wake up in empty beds with
full-throated cries,
but that’s when
we’re whole.
We eat our hearts out with closed eyes
and can’t find our way back
to those moments when we were open-eyed and on the cliff
when we could’ve gone over,
could’ve taken the leap; but didn’t.
I’ve had my fair share
of secret lovers and furtive trysts,
and I’ve seen the dream die.
I’ve seen it die more times than I can count.
The first is always the hardest,
but it gets easier.
And the thing about love affairs,
is they have a way of dying, but sometimes
they have a way of waking up one day
and coming back to life.
I’m starting to understand that the body is just a map that can’t be read
and that the heart,
like a compass,
points all over the place.
I guess that’s why I’m here now,
to try to figure out what we lost.
But it’s like looking at a road map in the dark.
And all these nights alone,
they’ve turned into another kind of map,
an ocean chart of words that take you nowhere.
Why Adult Children Cut Ties With Their Parents
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