our skeletal structure. our organs. our faces. Or trying not to hate myself in this family.

my body and heart are uncontrollable organs and piles of flesh running out of this room. Every cell is spinning shot full of adrenaline, desperate... the kind of breathing an face that happens when you are all snot and saliva and tears and vomit is just a moment away. The whole body is wreaked with the work of movement, of escape.

Sitting between my two parents is like that.

they are screaming and shaking. His face is red like the alcoholic painting in your mind, the grey white hair   surrounding the red center like a halo. A Christmas wreath on the doorknob screaming. A life you keep wanting to not live but continues to unravel and build in depth and strength. The roots are thick, they look cut as they have gown around human made objects like fences and side walks and pipes. The roots seem melted around them, like hot lava poured, then hardened.

it feel like it should cut, like how they look. But it's so expected at this point. it's just the numb terrible dull ache you always feel in that one spot where that thing happened that one time when you were that age.

There is not much use in wishing it away. I told my mom on mother day, today, at sushi lunch in the cement parking lot of a strip mall by the LA freeways that some children are killed by there parents. They literally don't make it out alive,
so I am thankful. They were not so much homicidal. So far we have all survived the suicide, that seems the closest culprit to our survivals theses days, in one way or another...
trying to keep ourselves alive
trying to get up and out of bed everyday
trying to take the pills and not drink the poison and look both ways and check for marks on her body, look for signs of abuse, try not to become a smoker again, see if she can get a ride cause you're too tired to go get her.


Walking into this house is like walking into a toxic waste dump. I need so much gear and right ow I cannot afford to check a bag. I show up with nothing.
Or I feel naked, with open wounds still
and the air is salt and lemon juice here.
Fifteen years of therapy inside my head and leaked down into my body is something, but this is serious, I need metal armor and giant swords and magical things I don't even know about because I don't read fantasy, don't watch Sci-Fi movies or any kind of violent things.....

I'm like tiny albino bunny that cant be in the sun or around loud noises or touched at all unless you wear special fluffy gloves. I am too traumatized for reality.

Monochromatic situations soothe me.

feed me from a dropper.

talk about my species and how we used to live before the humans came and made us almost extinct, and mutated and dependent.

tell me about my life before it was like this, tell me everything I don't remember and wish was true.