Bitter, brutal, breaking
walls are falling down
on top of us.

Cruel, crisp, catastrophe
the pillars are crumbling
down over our heads.

Broken beer bottles could write my life story. Daddy was never quite sober enough to clean up the shards, or rather to not smash them to begin with. Seventeen and bouncing off the walls to break free, I was too cautious to be crazy and never quite pretty enough to be beautiful.

I hid the bruises as best I could. Alcohol abuse often carries with it the physical variety. Punches thrown after downing countless cold ones are promptly forgiven with the morning apology.

“Hilda?” my mother calls up the stairs, I should respond, but I have not the energy. A loud sigh is all I can muster and I’m afraid it doesn’t quite travel down the flight of stairs into her lovely ears.

I contemplate and decide my descending footsteps are enough of a reassurance. I’m pouring my morning coffee as my father staggers through the front door. I’m five feet away and I can smell the rum seeping through his pores. It’s a dangerous, distinct scent.

His boots drummed across the kitchen floor as I held my breath. Fear strummed across my bones and I felt the room shake with his anger.

“Hilda! What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get me a beer!”

“Alright, Daddy. I’m sorry.”

My hands shook as I put the milk back and pulled out a beer, popping off the cap and handing it to him. I had never tried harder to steady my hands.

As I handed off the bottle her grabbed a fist of my hair and yanked. I yelped and laughter boomed, dark. A sick smile crossed his lips as he whispered, “Good girl.”

His clutch released and the fire on my scalp was soothed. “Shouldn’t you be at school, little girl?”

“I-I-I’m on my way there. I was just pouring my coffee, Daddy. I’m sorry.” I stood, pulling my fingers away from the cold brew and walking to my thermostat of coffee. I was out of the door.

School went by like the blink of an eye, whirling my safety away and spiraling me back onto a school bus, destination home. On the bus, I sit with James. He is gentle, a polar opposite of anything I’ve ever known. He makes me smile. I keep smiling.

Turning the door knob.
Still smiling.
First step in the door.
Still smiling.
Gun shots.
A scream.
Blow to my chest.
Pain.
Tears.
“Mom?”
She’s gone.
Not smiling. 

Bright-bright hospital lights,
question after question oral exam,
sea walls breaking—
bitter and exposed.
Slow, deep, through my nose—
breathing, drowning.

Sixteen pills and a shot later,
nausea settles and pain claws.
An STD prevention cocktail,
antibiotics and more.
Raw, open, exposed,
bugs crawling.

I’m locked in a room with no door,
pulsing heart rate pinning me to the floor,
inertia is everything in this muddled, misplaced world.
Stomach pains lash and I sob,
too torn to remember,
too fragile to want.

Written off as crying wolf,
unkind glares and harsh words.
Clawing hard to hold on,
wanting nothing more than to
LET GO. 

Panic attack,
rough smack,
knife to my back—
nothing like serendipity.

Balance lost in the washer,
my pocket lint clean.
This is evolution on a ladder—
climb, climb, climb.

Rung after rung,
grip slip and hit and miss grab, 
falling, spiraling,
so out of control. 

Weeping willow, whiplash,
Workers wishing, clean water. 
Haiti shakes with a quake,
people crushed by broken ruins.
Poorly constructed structures
shaken from their frames.
Beautiful wreckage,
painfully stoic—
the now orphaned
crying in the arms of other evacuees. 
Some things can’t be saved,
buried with blood-stained rubble. 

I want you to kiss me so hard it’s soft. I want to get lost in the ripple of your smile and swim across your skin.

You shook my walls like thunder,
tidal waves pulled me under.
You were beautiful,
etched into moonlight.
Half past noon,
you’d already torn into the moon shine.
Backwoods, hillbilly hatred,
you get mean with a bottle to your lips.
Glass shatters,
brace for impact.
Hands fly up,
shaking,
I feel the cuts,
each one somewhere between
alive and giving up. 

Bones break and promises crumble,
You’re deafened by a roaring rumble.
This life is a charred one,
Taking black eyes and coke lines in the back of a trailer because your standard of living isn’t high,
But you’re high,
You’re so high—fighting off the bugs and they crawl across your porcelain skin.
Almost beautiful, crack pipe in hand.
Crystal meth is your best friend and the high it gives you is the only thing keeping the house clean.
You lose sight of everything.

“She asked for it,” spills out his mouth, shouts. “That tight ass in that short skirt, begged for it,” I let out a muffled sob. I walk home, alone. Turn the shower on, hot. It burns and I scrub, I still feel dirty. My pores penetrated, sanctuary desensitized. Hands shaking, I turn to the mirror, pull out rusted pencil sharpener blades. The cuts gush, blood spills onto white sheets, scarlet.

I’m choking back this choked up philosophy of letting broken hearts bleed. I’m falling apart and wishing on stars, if only I could just fall into your embrace. I wash away the guilt, hot water on pale skin at midnight. I cling to the scars on my wrists and hold ‘til morning. You were my one shot at something other than agony, whispering sweet nothings on cold pillow sheets. I folded my goodbyes into your pockets and pockets of sunshine spilled through the shades.