Forever-Sincerely

I was named in a dream My brother was named in the past. He is the Patron Saint of wonderers and travelers. He doesn't feel at home where we are. I don't think he feels at home in his own skin. I was named in a dream and he was named in the past. And we are so different. I never wanted us to be. I wanted to protect him, to watch out for him, so that if he wondered, I could go with him. Like when we were kids and we would plan to run away, packing up our wagon and saying goodbye to our parents but I would always chicken out at the last second and we would stay. Or if he wondered off without me, I wanted to be the one who found him, becaus

I call it "The Before." No one writes about it. And certainly no one talks about it. Not specifically anyway. But I know. Our Before was an empty void of possibility until he asked for the light to be switched on. Until a son questioned a father. Until a woman wanted to know. I understand why no one mentions it. It hurts too much to talk about. And it's too hard to write about. So we don't mention how we saw the cracks in the foundation. Or when he started to become cold. Or when what they were fell apart. We don't talk about the two brothers. Or the pride of a just and righteous man. We don't mention the fear of silence. Or the avoidance o

I am being eaten away by memory. And it keeps making me shake. I remember asking about love And asking why, if he loved us, he kept leaving? My mother was angry and made promises That neither of them could keep. There is a shoebox that I keep. It is heavy with the weight of memory. When he asks about it, I shake. I want to ask him, to talk to him of love, I want him to tell me about leaving And if breaking bones is easier than breaking promises. My best friend heavily valued promises. We would cross our hearts so our promises would keep. She would commend me for my memory. She lived in a house, with a family, that seemed to always shake. Sh

I remember walking behind you in a parking lot. Always trying to catch up to you Always trying to be like you Always trying to get you to like me. She was fussing over him Remember? And I was chasing after you. You stopped before you crossed the street and looked both ways and I stood beside you, mimicking you. And then you did something that up to that point you had never done before and that you would never do again. Do you remember? You offered me your hand. And, for a second, I didn't know what to do. I had never held your hand before. You were always rushing ahead of us, always leaving us alone, always leaving us behind. But you we

Remember, remember I am the Daughter of The Fifth of November Gunpowder, treason and plot Did not raise me but it was she Who taught me and fought. I see no reason why gunpowder, treason Should mar our lives when you taught That laughter and love were our reason. Should ever be forgot That I am the Daughter of The Fifth of November Then I will use the lessons she taught to Remember, remember.

This is the tragedy of the Lost Girl. Lost Girls want to be Girls of The Word so that Boys of The Word will love Them and They will have the life promised to Them in movies. But the curse of the Children of The Word is that They do not love. Not really. They expect it to be easy and profound and something to write for. But it always ends. It always becomes something to write about. Lost Girls want, you see. This is the curse of the Lost Girl. Lost Girls need. Girls of The Word, like their male counterparts, do not. They want not. They need not. They only crave. And when They are done, They are done. O, Lost Girl, why would You want thi

She's given up on trying to pretend like this isn't about her, like this pain is coming from somewhere deeper than just this moment, and like these screams aren't because her throat has aching to scream, to sob, for days before this. Everyone else like me seems to be doing this to say something profound, to carve into themselves and pull out the syntactic meaning behind the cadence of their words, and to add something that just isn't there to the human condition and I feel so Alone. He seems so concerned about the "what" and the "how" that he dismisses the "why", just like everyone else like us does. What are you trying to say. How can you sa

One thousand, six hundred, and ninety-three. This is the reason she turned into a tree. He pursued her, He loved her, But a woman possessed Is a woman out of rest. She learned to live She learned to love She learned all things from a Morning Dove. She crossed a bridge and burned it down, She ran to warn the other town. One thousand, six hundred, and ninety 3. Her son fell down and scraped his knee. He cried and screamed He ripped and tore her apart at the seams. Her daughter learned that laughter Was all she had to hide her. She learned her named. She was Delight But then she learned to bite. She spun around til she couldn