What I still find difficult is that we started out well as friends but after some time passed, the real you in you I didn't know about came out of nowhere as far as I'm concerned.

Arrogant, rude, selfish, inconsiderate, cheater and thief and honestly, you became a horse's ass practically overnight. I never had a clue until then you were a Jekyll-Hyde person.

Your snide remarks to me, to my friends shows that you have no concern for other people's happiness. What the hell is wrong with you? Did you think I would just pass this off in you having a difficult day? I might have, but that day turned into two, three and then four days.

I can't take your conniving, deceiving ways any longer. I don't know how many bridges you have burnt down in the past but that stops with me.

As far as I'm concerned you can take your trashy insults with you along with a suitcase with what stuff you have and get the hell out of my apartment and out of my life. I just don't care any longer if you were to die getting hit by a truck.

Get out of my space, out of my life and pull this shit on someone else. I would say I would wish you well wherever you go but I can't.

You are dead in my eyes.

I am not good with my emotions

But you know how you make me feel

Glass

Water

The most delicate and resilient things

Shatters ripples clinks rushes

I wish I could read you open

In a hushed voice I think about you

Like medicine in a healthy body

And on the face of it I could’ve loved you but for now

Briefly I let it rest

Feel it on my skin and then you’re gone

Glass and water

What wasn't over

My father struggled in school. In time, they realized he couldn't tell red from green, yellow from gray, etc. He was born this way--not the norm... anomaly... different. He didn't have a choice. He had a preferred label, but that wasn't what he heard when the kids talked about him.

In the military, colorblind soldiers are invaluable. Next to motion, normal people rely on color to locate objects. Colorblind people rely on shapes instead, making them uniquely adept at locating snipers hiding in lush jungles. This thing he hated saved lives. The labels changed.

Nice feeling--to read that: the labels changed. Regardless, he was still colorblind. Discharged after losing a leg, life went on. Never asked Congress to change traffic lights to suit his condition. No DAV hats.

Technology advanced... surfing the web, I discovered EnChroma-- eyeglasses which grant full-color-vision to many colorblind people.

Holy shit! I bought them immediately!

His birthday--don't remember which one--late sixties maybe. Mom agreed we'd meet at a nursery; then pizza. He read the box--severe skepticism, opened it.

This man--Vietnam-veteran, disciplinarian, staunch conservative, husband, father--saw brilliant, vivid color for the first time in his life. Red petals, green leaves, yellow pots. Son-of-a-bitch, white clouds contrasted by blue sky! He saw purples, browns... real greys. He saw his wife... saw her tanned flesh, green eyes, pink lips, ridiculous orange pants... a world of color.

He returned the glasses three days later.

Labels are just words. People think labels have the power to alter truth. They do not. The creation of the label, cisgender, is a loophole designed deliberately to suggest that truth is optional. This man held "normalcy" in the palm of his hand and rejected it, epitomizing self-acceptance. Diminishing such character by labeling him "cis-sighted" would be an abomination.

Acceptance begins with self.

Lost in a maelstrom,

floundering in a sea of rage,

heaven’s black as hell is red,

no road to find,

no escape awaiting you,

no hope in sight

and caring is useless.

remember one thing—your life.

Your life is your hope.

Fight against the raging sea,

swim, kick your way to shore,

look to the shoreline,

the road is there,

keep fighting to get there,

never give in to the voices,

never give up you will find hope,

for heaven will break into a glimmer of light,

and hell cannot touch the soul

that still believes hope is alive … somewhere.

i think of you every time my phone buzzes

i quickly, shamefully hope for an apology

some kind of reason i'm worth your time

proof you still think about me all the time

i decided it isn't fair to hold any of this over you

i'm hurt, maybe i did something wrong

i feel tragic and worthless and melodramatic

all the things i promised myself i would never feel

when i promised myself i would never be in love

i've fogged up my window with all this blame

and through the haze i can't see it in myself to hate you

i'll go on hating myself and find comfort in familiarity

What's the earliest you can remember?

Do you smell the sour morning breath of your classmates back in elementary school as they shared an elaborate scheme to send a left-handed letter to their crush?

Do you remember whole films in your head as you fall asleep, twisting and turning on a pillow whose corner you rubbed against your eyelid back when you were old enough to acknowledge that fairies existed?

How about that squeaky toy wagon, screeching away with red wheels and blue edges, your Sesame Street cubes with bite marks resting in a pyramid on top?

Do you remember that Jacob's ladder, how it fascinated you as the colored blocks went form left to right, held up by lace?

I remember it all.

I remember the soccer team's screams as they yanked each other's shirts; I would hang upside down from a red-and-blue metal jungle gym where I'd eat my ham-and-cheese sandwiches, my sweet juice boxes. Berries were my favorite flavors. Mango the least favorite. It tasted bitter more often than not.

I remember every memory, nearly every word, or the flavor they held on the tip of my tongue.

I remember the laughter, the tears, every single thought held tight in the back of my throat;

every nightmare, every dream, every piece of clothing that got torn as I fell while running, on a skateboard, or the 16 miles I rode on a bicycle as the sharp pedal got caught up on my jeans.

Remembering is a blessing. Remembering is a curse.

Because you remember every loving, affectionate moment that made you feel

like you could soar high up in the air, untouched by the lightning in any storm,

and every single moment of doubt and slash of hurt, every cruel concept you've said,

every single goddamn frustration that roams freely across the streets of your head.

You remember every nook and cranny of every childhood homes, every apartment,

every step from every staircase you roamed.

And when people tell you, "Nah, that didn't happen, you're remembering it wrong,"

you feel the growing, aching frustration because

they don't get your brain the way that you do.

They do not get how you remember those exact moments:

the phone call you never picked up,

the hug from every person you've ever loved,

the way their skin smelled and the way their eyes glowed.

You remember everything.

So how dare they

say you

do

not?

I think I might be a terrible person.

I often find myself elbow deep in selflessness, drudgery, and humility: putting on a show for the rest of the world-- being the woman they so desperately want me to be.

I am a servant to others.

I am here for the one purpose: to serve-- to make the world a better place with it.

But it's a lie.

At the end of the day, I resent it.

I'd like to run away.

I'd like to do... just ONE thing for myself.

The mask I put on... it's beautiful.

I am ever the doting, self-sacrificial lamb.

I would jump in front of a bullet for many a random stranger.

I would give my lunch and coat to the homeless man, in hopes he might not freeze to death in the night.

A saint.

A martyr.

A coward.

The truth is... I am a coward. I am too terribly frightened to show the world the pitiful, wretched excuse of a human being hiding behind my many coats and hats.

I know the world would shun me:

The woman who longs for luxury.

The woman who might quite like to be a queen amongst peasants.

The woman who smiles to your face and cackles bitterly behind your back.

The truth is... I don't even know who I am anymore, because in my deepest, darkest heart... I would sacrifice myself for a stranger. I would give away my very last penny to feed the hungry. I would forsake my every desire, just to see my children smile a little more often.

But. I would feel bitterly, wretchedly sorry for myself with every 'selfless' action.

So here I stay, trapped always in a war with my own conscience, tearing me in half, and feeding my scraps to the needy, desperate for respite, but always starving to feed their pleas. A coward. A martyr. A monster. The most selfish of the selfless.

Let me go

Set me free

No more guilt trips.

No more threats.

I am a woman, and that makes me strong

Let me protect myself

because God only knows,

that you won’t

You tell me it’s Love

but what is love

when you’re throwing your hands up in the air,

dismissing every word,

puncturing your own skin

to punish me

lashing out when I don’t read from the script

can’t you listen to me, just this once?

I gave us a chance

and I was proven wrong

You hurt me

not only that, you broke me down

trapped me,

isolated me

scared the living hell out of me

because when I stayed like you asked

you warned me you’d do the thing I’m most afraid of

and it would be my fault

so I stay and you destruct

then blame it on me

as if I must be punished

for finally opening my eyes

but now I am back

and I regret it so much

it isn’t so easy to run anymore

I let you make me cry harder and harder

as you continued to dig deeper

Keep yelling

Now it’s my turn!

I made promises

early on, when you acted so different,

I let you make me hate myself

because I felt so wrong

The way you twist your words,

you know what you’re doing

You used to make me feel obligated

to withhold our promises

but then I was told

“A coerced promise does not get honored”

and that’s when I opened my eyes

To see

You are a narcissistic abuser

In textbook terms

and you fit the description just so perfectly

it makes me sick

it makes me weak

So won’t you stop!

Sometimes I wish I never loved you

Then I’ll think, I deserve this

but the truth is

no one does

I’m just waiting for the day

I have some strength

to leave you!

You can manipulate me

to get what you want

but how does that make you feel,

knowing I am just a puppet?

Back in the days when I slept

with an 80 proof bottle on the left side of my bed,

the world was blurry, uncertain, with strange emotions

I barely knew what to do with.

I saw him tearing up over a ghost I dreamt about,

I saw her tearing up as I held her face between my hands,

so I helped them, between clean shot after shot,

they never knew about from how well-hid it all was,

as I snuck in the bathroom and punched all of its walls

over and over,

and over again,

until my knuckles were bruised,

the hidden bottle was gone,

and my spirit was torn

with the memories

of all those nights

I completely

forgot.