Familiar: the anthology

Headwind

There’s a monster on the loose,
the alarm bells sound.

When it’s time, close your blinds.
Lock your doors.
Turn off your lights.

There’s a monster on the loose,
you might be next.

Her vicious claws, sharp teeth.
Go to bed.
Try to sleep.

There’s a monster on the loose,
she’ll hiss your name.

Yell out for her child.
It’s not you.
Run. Hide.

There’s a monster on the loose,
looking for lost kin.

She’ll hunt through the night,
dragging you,
headwind.

A Love Letter To The Dying Tree Outside My Bedroom Window

I remember when you were green,
full of nests and dancing leaves.
The birds sang me lullabies,
when I lay awake,
alone,
counting hours I couldn’t sleep.

Your resilience, now familiar,
watching you change—
my aching chest.
Your leaves shed color,
like blood from my face,
poisoned by nausea,
season after season,
I long for rest.

In your shadow,
my darkest fears come to light.
Bound by constraints,
choking my cries,
your solace makes me feel alive.
Seen and heard,
less alone,
I survive.

While I fade in synchrony,
your leaves are lessons in letting go.
Your decay, a story of surrender,
as our roots intertwine,
rot and tire,
slow.

Still, I hope to see you green again,
and that maybe, one day,
you’ll see color in me too.
For the silent strength you offer,
my companion,
every fall,
we make it through.

My Brother's Funeral

My brother’s funeral was on Tuesday, and I’ve been pacing back and forth ever since.
My mind has gone numb, and the lines have been blurred between today and yesterday.

I blink and it’s Thursday; somehow I’m still in bed.
I try to get up, but my roots have rotted; covered in moss, I decide to sleep in.

On Wednesday I feel sick. Death, like illness and nature, is a force that cannot be denied.
It drops by your door every day you grieve, stealing your sleep each night.

Tomorrow’s sun burns brighter than most.
I’ll soak up the sting in my stitched-up wounds; these scars can’t be undone.

Friday’s here but I’m unsure of the day; the smell of death still lingers.
Saturday rises. Sunday sets. Monday’s moon is full.

If death blurs each line, and my fingertips bleed dry,
Do we remember what’s been left behind?

Do we remember your name?
Do we remember your grave?
Do we remember to cry?

Monsters Under Your Bed

There’s a moment in each of our lives when we learn that monsters are real.

You learn that when they say they live under your bed, they are telling you the truth.

They hide in your sanctuary, in your place of security.

They burrow under a fortitude of love; they disguise themselves as your home.

You let them into your bed.

You let them into your dreams.

They grab at your feet, sticking out from under the sheets.

They fooled you.

There are monsters under your bed.

The Devil and a Bath

I stepped out of the cold water—my skin now cleansed and red.
I fell asleep in the tub and drowned myself thin.
I stayed in too long. The damage is done.
For what’s another night, soaked and spun?

The room now familiar—a chilling embrace.
My only companion, desperate straits.
My skin finally smooth. I’ve picked it clean.
It’s plagued my mind. Devilish and Diseased.

At least on the bright side, I’ll finally get some sleep.
For my eyes only rest, after my body empties and bleeds.

Sunday’s Drive

Growing up, there was a maple tree in the front yard.
Every day, after school, in rain and sun,
I’d scrape and bruise my knees climbing up,
building calluses on my hands from the unforgiving bark
as I daydreamed of running away.

I’d climb until I’d taste sweat, until blood dripped down my shin.
I’d climb until I was scared the branch holding me would give.
I’d climb until the cat that joined me nodded it was enough.
I’d find a spot, a place that fit me like a glove.
I’d write music without any instruments.
I’d create stories without any characters.
I’d find a family without any foes.
I found what it meant to be alone.

Now, as an adult, I spend my life looking for another tree.
One I’m not too big to climb.
For the familiar bark that bruised.
For the same sap that stuck.
I spend my life chasing the fear,
of leaning back too far,
of grabbing the wrong branch,
of falling out of the tree.

I miss the taste of love on my lips,
when I put myself first.
The bark that bites my skin doesn’t burn the same.
The fear of leaning back is replaced by desire.
I hear that their roots talk underground.
I wonder if the trees that hear my cries
have heard the stories,
of the kid trapped in the trees,
constricted and self-made,
longing and desperate to escape.

I wonder if they see it in me now,
in the new stories I share.
The kid trapped in the trees,
constricted and self-made,
longing and desperate to escape.

Shadowed Well

If a plane crashes with no sole survivors,
except a lone shadow waving through the night,
does that count as a win?

If the shadow stumbles off a cliff,
into nothing but a crater full of the abyss,
does that lesson turn into a gift?

If it climbs out days later,
bones weakened and withered blue,
does the fall break through?

If the shadow moves on,
recovered, naive, brave,
does that make it prey?

If the shadow finds joy,
in the depths of the darkest parts of the forest,
does that make the plane crash loop?

If the shadow doesn’t see,
the hole that's beneath, and falls straight in,
does that make it The Fool?

If the shadow can’t get out,
and no one can save you but yourself,
does all hope fade?

If the shadow gives up,
and lays down to rest, bare down its arms,
does the time add up?

If the shadow makes it out,
once again, resilient and tall,
does the threat go away?

If the shadow stumbles,
down a dried and decayed wishing well,
does anything still exist?

If the shadow waits,
for a decommissioned train,
does survival still have needs?

If the voices grow louder,
and the faces in the wall smile back,
tell me,
does that mean it’s time to quit?

A Eulogy for My Father

I know you weren’t expecting me here today. Honestly, I wasn’t expecting to come. I thought my days of having a father, of having to speak to you, were far behind me. When I first heard the news, it was like I saw color again. I always knew this day would come, and, for a long time, I have been waiting, silently, to breathe again. Today, I come to speak the truth, to lay to rest the part of me that has been buried beneath your weight, and to make room for new roots to grow.

I’m not sure of the last time you saw me, but I’ll never forget the last time I saw you. It was September 2nd, 2019. 7:00 PM. We lived in the same town, but you wouldn't know that. Our silence had stretched for years, greater than your release from prison and wider than the dismissed childhood fears. I worked as a server at a local pizzeria, an old favorite of yours. My back was turned when I heard a familiar voice. Before I looked, I knew. The voices of you and your wife—calmer than the years I heard them screaming—were still familiar. I, however, appeared to be nothing.

You sat in the same middle booth. You ordered the same Diet Coke. You twirled the same straw in the same circles before your same first sip. You covered your same pizza with the same mozzarella. You repeated the same patterns in the same booth, decades apart. I watched as the two of you ate your meal, occasionally catching eye contact. With each glance, I wondered if recognition flickered in your mind—if you realized why the fear in my eyes and the hunger in yours felt so familiar. As soon as you came, you left, planting us face-to-face. Your eyes empty, as if I were a stranger, as if you had never touched me, as if another one of your children was already dead.

I didn’t think I had changed that much, but after years of being alone, you discover and fall in love with yourself. I should’ve known you would never recognize self-love. My hair dyed brighter and cut shorter than you ever allowed. My body decorated in more piercings and tattoos than you ever found attractive. It was easy to change in the presence of freedom. As easy as it was for you to kill your own child.

Today, I allow myself to breathe air into the child you tried to suffocate. Do you remember my birthday? The sports I played? Do you remember your empty promises? Do you remember the bruises you gave? Do you remember the way I would squirm under your hand? Or the way you used to look at me? Do you remember those nights? Do you remember that day?

In preparation for your funeral, I dug into my skin in hopes of finding our earliest memories together but my younger self buried them deeper than bone—somehow it felt as if it went according to your plan. I dug into the hand of cards you dealt me. I dug until I found Disneyland, screaming in terror on the jaws ride as you laughed and threatened to throw me in. I found California, waiting outside dispensaries and bars. I found Las Vegas, sneaking through casinos and strip clubs. I found New York, the Hoover Dam, and the top of the Sears Tower. I found a lot of trips. I found a lot of excuses, fuel for your addictions. I found my innocence traded for your inebriations.

I dug further until I found your parents' house, unwillingly as always—from hostage to holiday, you always drug me back. I begged to go home. I was reminded that this was home. I begged to go home. I was reminded why to never ask twice. The air was thick with strange rules and cruel punishments:

1. Don’t go in the same room with grandpa alone; he can’t control himself.
2. Never close the bathroom door fully when bathing; it blocks his view.

I learned quickly that if you tend to the garden, it keeps the unwanted visitors away. Did he teach you that too?

Still searching for the first memory, I found more than I hoped for. I remembered rituals of ours, Friday night movies at the theater and Saturday stealing sprees at the mall. On Fridays, I learned to remember every handful of pills pulled from your bag forced to swallow down before going in. Every bitter beverage handed over and ordered to drink. Every memorized step to sneak a child into R-rated films. Every hand laid heavy on my thigh, squeezing through the most horrifying scenes. Every lingering finger, lingering further than it should. On Saturdays, I learned to remember to keep my distance from you, always following at least one arm away. It’s how to avoid being pushed. Pushed into people passing by, kiosks on display, down the escalator ride.

I dug deeper in desperate measure, with a desire to find something less dark. Instead, I found the time you took me to the mountains. I remember us lying on the hotel bed, taking photos of each other, straight from the hot tub and glasses of moonshine. Do you still have those pictures? Do you ever look at them? Do you ever touch yourself to them? I found diary entries trying to solve the equation of your sober love. I found myself questioning the existence of love. I remembered each party. On Christmas, New Year's, birthdays, Saturdays, Thursdays, Tuesdays. I remembered more pills, unknown substances, nights I couldn’t remember my name, days you couldn’t remember mine. I found fear for your hands before I found love for myself. Did he hit you like this too?

I think back to my time with my brother often. How he should be here today and how you attended your own funeral before you attended his. He should get to see the ghost that’s been made out of you. I wrote a eulogy for him too, except with his, I mourned over the regret he shared in his last moments. Do you remember what happened? Abandoned both his body and home he died in, overdosed on addictions you passed down to your kids. Did you know what it was laced with? Would that have mattered? To you, to him? You always said there were ghosts in the house. In the same way that life has no value to you, when you view the living as ghosts, it’s easy to witness them pass.

I might not find everything, but I found enough. Enough to build something new. Along with you, I’ve buried your addictions—sex, violence, alcohol, drugs, sex, porn, gambling, sex. I bury the videos you used to show me. The lessons on how to drive under the influence and steal what I wanted. I bury our father-daughter time and how you taught me that drugs and sex always come before people, but especially your children. I leave behind your racist comments. Your sexist comments. Your homophobic comments. Your perverted comments. Your violence. Your anger. Your voice. Your hand. I leave behind the shattered glass of broken plates, the holes in the walls, the doors torn off their hinges, the cops at the front door, the secrets you forced me to keep. I bury the way you treated my siblings, making us forget who we were, making ghosts out of the living.

Despite the nostalgia wrapped in pain, I look at you and find relief. A eulogy for my father was all I ever needed. I don’t need to remember you anymore. You no longer have hands to lay on my thighs, no eyes to gaze me over. I no longer have to protect myself from you. Just as you forgot about me, it is your turn to be forgotten. As your body returns to the land and your blood returns to the sky, I will sing songs of celebration I never knew existed. I stand here today without a father, just like I always have. You’ll lie here forever without children, just like you always have. There is no one to mourn your life when you spent it collecting ghosts from those you created.

Control

Can you imagine being a fly?
A pesky kitchen gnat?
To fly, to be free, to be feared.
Can you imagine getting caught in your trap?
Your life reduced to a sticky pad,
an electrocuting bat,
a force to end you, to wipe you off the map?

Every time I blink, every time I open my eyes,
I see it.
The ritual.
The humiliation.
The torture.
The degradation.
The shame.
The fear.
The damage.
The wounds.
The blood.
The bodies bleeding.
The bleeding bodies burying bloody bodies.
The scarcity and control.
The greed and power.
I wonder, why them, not me?

I watch the scene,
where they get covered in slime,
where they are demolished and deconstructed.
where they are missing their legs,
where they are framed as criminals,
by the criminals causing corruption.
Where I wait, still,
for a myth that was never mine,
for a death that will never arrive.

Can you imagine a storm?
One so violent you feel it in your bones,
where it breaks them in two,
shattering everything you once knew to be true?
It happens more than you think.
Tell me, do you feel comfortable in your body?
What would you change?
Tell me, do you feel comfortable with your thoughts?
What would you change?
Tell me, do you feel comfortable in your home?
How much does it cost?

Like rush hour traffic on a busy highway,
Like a blood clot in a human leg,
Like a can exploding,
A meteor erupting,
A bomb dropping,
A lightning strike,
A plane crashing,
A story never told,
Your life,
Can you imagine,
It being,
Someone else’s to hold?

Splinter

Missing you is waiting for the knock at my door,
kneeling for The Devil, and begging death to come.
It’s a cruel joke.
They promised it would come.
It’s the one certain, the one constant, the one guarantee.
Still, it never arrives.
It torments,
Teases,
Taunts.
It touches those you love.
Those who love you.
Those who don’t deserve it.
Those who are begging us to save them from it.

Still, I’m hungry.
I want it.
I leave my door unlocked.
I carve prayers in my chest.
I search for you, high and low.
I search for you, day and night.
I search for you, under my sheets.
In my hair, between my teeth.
I search for you in places I shouldn’t.
In people I should leave alone.

Still, I know you will arrive.
You’ve done it every time.
I’ve seen it among the news,
The trees, the lovers, the towers.
I’ve seen it in the fields.
In my house. Down the street.
Under the moons.
Under the graves.
Like a nail in a board.
Like a splinter under skin.
Like the wind in a storm.
Missing you is waiting for the nightmares to end,
Screaming a plea as I close my eyes,
That tonight,
The torture will finally be yours.