Growing up, I watched, young and impressionable
as my father battled his demons. Sometimes
he heard them in my mother’s voice, saw their shadows
hiding under their wedding rings, those were never quiet
nights in the house. When the first boy to love me
asked why I wouldn’t love him back
I saw in his face the brown eyes of my mother,
aged and jaded, the need to fix me was freckled
like specks of his golden heart were misplaced
in his eyes. He begged me to love him and I heard
my mother’s tired voice repeating her vows, selfless
soul turned martyr for sinner. I returned the love
letters, weathered keepsakes I didn’t deserve
because in his hands I could only see chains
for my neck, hugs were jail cells and kisses poison,
his tongue twisted compliments into arguments.
In him I could see the reflection of my flaws
and they looked like my father.

if I squinted hard enough,
I could pretend I have rose-colored glasses
and be swept away by the shoddy love song written
on the back of his notes, passed to me between classes.

maybe I could perfect my laugh
and be the one-woman audience to his Shakespearean
comedies, alligator tears for his imitation tragedies.

I’ll write myself sweet nothings in his handwriting
between the lines of his drunk compliments
great tits, nice ass, built like a pornstar.
as he dances around his intentions

and I meet his clumsy waltz with smooth steps,
I’ll woo my reflection in his name
for a fairy tale romance with a thorny beast.

I learned to cross my eyes to keep his flaws
out of focus, steadying myself on the fuzzy fading
of his face. Maybe the headaches could be symptoms
of infatuation, if I could just convince myself.
Maybe he could be better than the last time
I forced a weed to look like a flower.

Trigger Warning-  Sexual Assault, Domestic Abuse

The boxing bell echoes in the quiet
while his hands, those rugged and freckled
buckets for cinnamon whiskey and beer,
boxing gloves that always strike,
nestles the bottle opener against his next drink,
the last still half full, stale and warm,
and his opponent slumps against the suede cushion
that marks the boundary of their ring.

The rusty bell sings to her battered ears
like the distant, warbling chirps of early morning blackbirds
and she wonders if they can hear her too.
The bells confess the end of another round
but the hits have left her lips bruised, eyes swollen
with tears. Disoriented she finds another round thrust
upon her.

She cannot feel the words that slip and slide
down the tip of her tongue to land at his feet
Is it blood or spit or dignity
that she’s dropped? Will he make her clean
the bits of herself that spill out in the fight?

Those creeping, speckled hands tighten around the neck
of the bottle, push the smooth glass into her hand
gentler now, she’s surprised by the change in tactic
and falls into his trap. Another sip decides the match.
The knockout tastes almost as bitter as his lips.

Last night she asked how you were as your eyes rolled back,
slumped against the loveseat, leather jacket a makeshift blanket
over your barely clothed chest. She expected an answer be it
laughter, rolling off the couch, asking for water, a mindless noise even.

You stared at her. White-hot static buzzing in your brain instead
of words. A thumbs-up sufficed to say everything was okay.

She walked you home in the middle of the night, streetlight
ambiance and the cool night air of summer fading to autumn.
Despite her warnings, you said hello to the strange man wandering
but you felt he was a kindred spirit, incapable of posing a threat
because the world, though dark, was rosy pink last night.

When you stopped to sit in the grass, she stared and asked
for the third time that night if you were okay. This time
you smiled, the toothy, gum bearing smile you saved for real moments
of bliss, the smile that exposed all your teeth were straight except
those front two, one crossed over the other just slightly and you answered
I think I love her and I’m okay with that and she laughed, picked you up
by the arms and walked you home in silence.

Maybe I’m just afraid of aging,
not for cosmetic reasons, I’d rather
have a wrinkle over a pimple on my face.
It’s the uncertainty of the far future. I know
the lavender bush will bloom next season,
but will she last the next five years? Ten? Forty?

I see in my grandfather the grip of time,
I could accept the greying hairs, but now
they recede and leave his head bare.
I worry he needs a hat to keep warm
and to keep the memories neatly where they belong.
I worry that it won’t be long
until my grandchildren have the same fear.

I’d rather die young, forty in a mysterious incident
or thirty-five in the ocean, saltwater flooding
my lungs because I never learned to swim
from my grandfather. I’d rather die young
than live long enough to know that my babies
fear the day I might forget them. I’d rather die
young than watch my grandchildren wait for me
to become a caricature of loneliness, the familiar
features of my youth faded into a new face. I’d rather die
clueless to the way their hearts break seeing me
grow old and frail and grey, teary-eyed goodbyes
because they think each day with me is a miracle.
I’d rather die than become a stranger in their mother’s casket.