Intergenerational Pain
 
I learned silence from my father;
this is the only way he was ever allowed to grieve
 
I inherited my mother’s rage;
this is the only way she was ever heard
 
 
Numb
There is no doubt about it:
It is easier to think of anything but the grief,
to drift in a constant state of numbness.
The cuts keep coming, but I no longer feel them.
I wear my scars like badges, battle-worn,
yet, truth be told,
I do not remember when they formed—or how.
The anesthesia will fade, eventually,
but healing means confronting the pain.
And who wants to walk down the street,
only to come face to face with their mistakes?
 
 
The eclipse
If I told you
about the darkness
inside me,
would you still look at me
like I am the Sun?
 
 
Chekhov’s Gun
In another lifetime,
 
I learn not to carry the hurt 
like a loaded gun.
 
In another lifetime,
 
you are bulletproof.
 

The Imagined Woman
The men—
they want a good woman, modest,
wrapped from head to toe,
like a secret not to be revealed.
Yet the men—
they like to imagine,
with lustful paintbrushes
and hungry eyes.
Her body becomes their canvas,
where they paint picture after picture
The men—
they do not know her secret,
but they are left satisfied,
all the same.
 
 
I Cry On My Birthday
 
It is October, again
and I get hit with a sense of melancholy,
as I ponder another round around the sun,
with nothing to show for it
 
Nothing has changed and
I desperately wanted things to be different by now
 
It has been a long year
I try not to think about the way that time evades me
 
The days, they have dragged on, but they also
slip through my fingertips
 
I can’t remember what I did three days ago,
but it was probably nothing important
I want to say that this year has not been kind to me,
but I know it is useless to complain
 
I am alive, after all
Sometimes, that is a comforting thought
Other times, not so much
 
Another year has passed me by
I am alive        That is all

 
The Haunting
One night, all the ghosts of my past appeared,
filling me with longing for what I had given up on
(for what had given up on me).
In a trance, I followed them,
my grip on reality loosening,
the weight of everything I had ever lost
lifting away.
I let myself linger there awhile,
amid loose ends and "what ifs."
I saw the bridges I had burned,
and there you stood—just as I remembered you.
I wanted to ask why you left,
but I knew if I stayed too long,
I might become a spirit myself.
What haunts me now is this:
Am I your ghost, too?
Or was I never even worth keeping as a memory?