You Can't Make This Shit Up
You Can’t Make This Shit Up was the title of a prospective autobiography my school guidance counselor pitched to me after I recapped this week’s edition of why life is unfair in between sobs and huffs of peppermint essential oil. A much needed bit of lightheartedness after being dressed in every curse word my mother’s infuriated mind could think of on the twenty minute ride to school where, once there, she substituted a compulsory ‘I love you’ or the even more neutral ‘Have a good day’ with ‘I wish you were never born’ (an expression she used so often that if you pulled the string on her back, she would spout it out like a catchphrase.) It wasn’t even eight A.M. and you would think I had committed some unspeakable crime against humanity, but really she just hated getting out of bed to take us to school. When she asked if we wanted to stay home and I denied while my siblings accepted, she seemed to form some personal vendetta against me. After arriving, as usual, I left quietly, holding back tears until she pulled off and my younger sister, whose loyalty matched those of junior spies in 1984, walked away. So, with my head hung low to avoid the perpetually curious eyes of bored teenagers lining the halls, I walked to her office -- a decision that little did I know would be the stepping stones to escape the grasp of the people who stole my childhood.
I Won’t Be Coming Home for Christmas or Thanksgiving or New Years
Home is a four letter word and my mother washed my mouth out for ones with just three like Why Are you drunk? It’s eight in the morning
I’ve Lived in Seventeen Places, But Seldom Had a Home.
I gained consciousness on County Road 104, Where, forming my first memory, sat BB, a chirping baby rooster, Hidden in an Easter basket by a barbed wire fence.
Another Poem About Roots
I am from Beanie babies from babbling and blasphemed Bedside Baptist. I am from quizzical eyes biting a silent tongue (icy, knowing the world will be unfolded,
A Life Full of Love is a Life to be Loved
Everything. I love that I lean down to turn a penny heads up at the same time the sniper shoots. And that I’d greet a fallen piano,
We're All Human Beings
All other sitcoms can gladly sit down, as Community takes the cake and eats it too. That is, as long as it's consistent with Jehovah’s Witness’ moral standings and is not in celebration of a holiday.
Wiping her hands on the weathered wood, she replaced the original red in splotchy streaks. What have I done? Lips puckered, cheeks pinched and silk nightgown stolen from mama’s clothesline donned, Twyla rehearsed her greeting.
An Angel-Sent Antique Shop
Tucked in a nook in Noonday, Texas stands two pink and yellow buildings housing hundreds of preloved pieces. Just a single step into Our Little Corner will keep you there for longer than you should be, but not as much as you’d like to. The shift of an eye offers another item you just may die without. Frank Sinatra songs float through the air from an fm radio, encouraging patrons to dance down the aisles. No girl can deny The Sultan of Swoon, so of course we did just that, following the riffs to the record section.