it's hard to walk out the door

to make a left down main

and a right on 31st

just past the old stone cemetery

it’s hard to carry plates that smell of California

electric blue margaritas

smiling with the glittering teeth

and ignore sneers of customers

(I'm sorry, "guests")

it’s hard to keep pretending

all for a paycheck

of less than six hundred

to pay the rent and the phone bill

it’s hard to walk into a shop for

a bag of black brew, a bottle of Jack

wake me up then knock me out

numb the agony into a dull ache

it’s hard to stay in a world I

was supposed to call home

where I should have been happy

instead of hating myself

it’s hard to feel

an unrelenting craving to

taste the concrete beneath

the six story balcony

it’s hard knowing no one gives a damn

they’d replace me tomorrow with

someone whose teeth are whiter or

someone who’s got a better sense of humor

it’s hard that I understand

the hole gets deeper each

and every time I try

to climb out

but the hardest thing

is closing my eyes each night

praying to a deity who

never seems to hear me

wishing they'd never open

but when I inevitably wake

doing it all again.

I try

so damn hard

to be perfect

and to fulfill every expectation.

I do everything you ask,

then go above and beyond.

I do it with the prayer

that maybe soon you’ll love me.

And it hurts.

I perform

and play the perfect daughter

so that you’ll never have to explain

why our family is in fragments.

I comfort your children, stifling my own tears

and be the mother you’re supposed to be.

Yet when you look at me

your eyes say I’m not enough.

And it hurts.

You will never truly see

exactly what you’ve put me through.

There are scars tattooed on my conscience

and scars that once bled crimson.

And you’ll never get to see those scars

because you don’t care to accept the truth.

If I were to show you

my ears would ring from your melodic screeches.

And it hurts.

With every step

it gets harder to breathe.

And every step I feel

myself slowly shattering.

But somehow I’ve succeeded

though I’ve been weighed down

by iron chains you bound me with.

I’ve amazed even myself.

Then I realized what hurts so much.

The poisoned arrow you pierced me with,

that once inflicted nearly fatal pain

was the moment when I saw

that in your eyes:

I only ever fail.

A feeling.

A heartfelt emotion.

An inexplicable sense.

An instant attraction.

That's what everyone says love is.

Skipping across an emerald meadow.

Picnics on red checked blankets.

Dancing underneath a starry sky.

Kissing as raindrops gently fall.

That's what movies say love is.

A fight that ends in passionate sex.

Running hand in hand through a fantastic realm.

Riding off together into the sunset.

Winning a battle, side by side.

That's what books say love is.

That's not what love is.

Standing by someone through hell and high water.

Willingly fighting for someone else.

Staying when it would be easier to walk away.

Giving up happiness for another's sake.

That's what love is.

When a baby is born, there is a bond.

When best friends meet, they make a commitment.

At the alter, a vow is made.

A similar meaning behind each.

That's what love is.

Because love is not a feeling.

Love is a promise.

And one must make that choice.

The choice to do right by someone else.

The choice to put another first.

The choice to give that precious word.

Love may be a promise.

But it is a promise that is so rarely ever kept.

We begin to lose faith in the principle.

And without trust, love cannot exist.

Mama? Meh.

Mommy? Once.

Mother? Barely.

Mom? It’s the only one left.

Long ago, I loved this special day.

I loved to give you gifts, hugs, and love.

It was the agreement we had- you and me.

We never said it was, but deep down we both knew.

We had a dynamic that worked.

Actions that were reciprocated.

The standard arrangement between a mother and her child.

The problem with a deal is when one party no longer adheres.

There’s been rules set in place for a reason.

When one starts to stagnate, everything crumbles.

As is evident by you.

Bit by bit, you let go.

First it was hugs.

Then it was the love.

The gifts are still given, though only out of obligation.

So you can lie and pretend that you’re doing right by me.

By all of us.

As a child, it’s easier to say Mamma.

Through the tears of my adolescence, I just wanted my Mommy.

When I needed my mother, the one who loves and comforts, she was nowhere to be found.

There’s only one left.

That’s why I call you Mom.

I can’t feel anything anymore. There is no joy, no sorrow, nothing. But somehow everything hurts. I don’t understand it. I need something definite. That’s what the knife is for. I understand that feeling. I understand why it hurts when I slice into the skin. It’s physical pain. I can control it. I can control how deep, how long, and how much it will sting. I like it when they bleed. What should I do today? A word? A picture? Oh, I know! One cut until I reach my age.

One cut.

No one ever notices the lines.

Two cuts.

No one would care even if they did.

Three cuts.

It’s because no one cares about me.

Four cuts.

My parents ignore me and tell me to go away.

Five cuts.

I don’t think they love me.

Six cuts.

The handle to the bathroom door turns. I freeze, staring at the shiny metal handle. Mom and Dad aren’t supposed to be home. Who’s home? I don’t have time to hide the knife. I don’t have time to roll down my sleeves. The door creaks open. My heart is pounding. My stomach is flip flopping.

Kayla walks into the bathroom. “Oh, sorry sis. I didn’t…what are you doing?”

I look down at my arm. There are only six cuts. I’m not going to be able to finish. Kayla will yell at me. Then she’ll tell Mom and Dad. They’ll yell at me too. They won’t get it. This is the only feeling I understand.

“This is the only feeling I understand,” I whisper.

Silence.

I don’t know how long it lasts. But it feels like forever. Kayla sighs. Then she starts to do something. I look up at her, though I don’t meet her eyes. She shuts the bathroom door. Then she turns and pulls down her leggings.

There are lots of angry looking lines on her thighs. Some are small. Some have healed and scarred. Some spell out words. Fat. Ugly. Worthless. There’s a fresh word on one of her legs. It’s tiny. I squint to see it better.

Whore.

I look up at her, but she looks away in shame.

“What does whore mean?” I ask quietly.

She still doesn’t look at me. “It’s what I’ve become. It’s a feeling I understand. You’ll get what it means in a few years.”

Maybe Kayla understands. I pat the floor beside me.

“When did you start?” she asks in a soft voice, sitting down beside me.

“Couple months ago.”

She pushes my hair out of my face gently. “I started when I was your age, too."

I want to finish my cuts. I’m almost done. But I don’t know if she’ll let me.

“Is it okay if I finish? I’m almost done,” I ask, bracing myself for her response. She stares into my eyes for a moment. She’s going to say no. She’s going to tell me to stop.

“Okay.”

She said okay. She does understand. I position the knife carefully next to the previous cut and push firmly down.

Seven.

Maybe I’m not completely alone. “I like it when they bleed a lot,” I say.

Eight.

Maybe Kayla does care about me. “Me too,” she says.

Nine.

“I love you,” Kayla whispers as I finish my final cut. I look up at her and see tears brimming in her eyes.

“You’re seventeen now. Does it ever get better?” I ask, feeling little drops in the corner of mine.

Kayla shakes her head sadly. “I wish I could tell you it does.”

I crawl into her lap, and she wraps her arms around me tightly. We sit, crying silently. Neither of us can stand loud noises. I forgot that earlier. She never yells at me. She’s the only one. Kayla strokes my hair gently, and I feel her body shaking slightly. Mine is shaking too. Everything is quiet. And for the first time in a long time, I feel something else. I feel safe.

Kayla breaks the silence. “Wanna go get some ice-cream?”

I look up at her tear-stained face and give her a watery smile. “Yeah.”

The world kept whispering, “You can trust us.”

She had learned at a very young age they were lying.

But one day she broke. One day she gave in. She chose to trust someone.

And when the world found her suicide note, they had no response. Three words explained her cruel reality.

He betrayed me.

Flash.

Bang.

As he breathed his last, he whispered one final prayer.

“Deliver my child from her father's wicked deeds.”

Big brown eyes

full of curiosity,

searching for truths

to satisfy her inquisitions.

Starry, hope-filled eyes

that believed deep down

that she had strength

to stand by her morality.

She grew up.

Once bright eyes began to flicker

as reality set in.

The world was not as kind

as she had once thought it to be.

Fiery eyes soon became extinguished

as life turned cold and coarse and cruel.

Truth that was once so desperately craved

became a deeply resented foe.

And she made a realization.

Dejected eyes traced the lines,

the marks, the stains, the scars.

Rereading and reliving

each unforgiving memory.

Big brown eyes looked hopelessly

down in resigned despair

at the darts, contraceptives, spirits, cuts,

at a blood and tear-stained diary.

Her innocence was gone.

And it was never coming back.

“I nicked myself shaving this morning.”

That was her response when asked about the cuts on her arms. No one ever inquired further.

Except for one stranger whom she met by chance. He told her to stop lying. She asked what he meant.

“Accidental nicks are not perfect incisions.”