Heart:

​

 

A story of a girl,

Innocent and trusting.

Parents not by blood

But loved her best they could.

 

Hurt by trust. Hurt by it’s break.

Down a road of costumes she went thus.

Down to a place she grew.

But not enough to see the truth.

 

Haunting trees were massive and welcoming.

They sucked her up til only her heart was left.

It was left broken and crying.

Withering like a grape on an unwealthy vine.

 

Why should she shake and quake in a sea of despair 

When all she gave was love?

But her heart did not have the strength to support

A dying boy and a fervent love.

 

She was supposed to be the one that thrived 

But she could barely survive in her own world: 

So lonely

So frightful

So broken

So loving

This is her Heart.

​

Past:

 

I.

Come and play.

Come and stay.

I’ve been so abused I think it’s love. 

It’s not but it’s too late now.

The deed is done, your innocence gone. 

The reality of abuse has sunk in.

 

No need for “the talk” when she knows too much.

 

II.

Be happy.

Be okay.

You’re too little to understand. 

Just don’t let it happen again.

 

Why is it that my mom is more hurt than I? 

Why is it that I let it happen?

 

Is something wrong with me?

 

III.

Just laugh it off.

That’s what the therapist said. 

Adults know best, right?

 

I hate being so alone.

The only satisfaction is the chocolatey bliss of

M&M’s bribing me to tell more.

 

IV. 

Manipulation...

 

V. 

Masks.

Happy. Funny. Kind.

What about me?

I’ve lost me long ago.

So long ago…

 

Mourning: 

 

I.

Who am I?

 

Ten years too late.

Ten years of pretending.

Strutting on a stage I never knew existed.

 

It’s like ripping off a bandaid.

I am not brave, so slowly the sticky paste tears from my flesh. 

Yet my flesh is not broken, just by quivering heart.

 

The bandaid did not serve its purpose.

 

II.

A white, large silhouette of a man.

A trench coat and a fedora.

Why is he standing at the foot of my bed?

 

A lady in my seat.

Staring as I walk through the hall. 

Why is she sitting at my dinner table?

 

An inquisitive male.

I hear him knocking at me. Why is he here?

 

A dark vastness.

I feel it by me, protecting and terrifying.

Why won’t you leave? I’m so sorry but please leave.

 

Isabel. Nonna. Nonno. Grandma. Jay.

“Tell your mother I’m home now. I’m happy.” Why did you leave so soon?
 

III.

His end is too close, But not for him.

 

He wants to fly with his mother. Away from us. His mind sees falsities.

Ours’ see pain.

 

How do we help? Can we?

 

His heart is shattering, tearing apart his insides and bleeding through the cuts on his arm. The voices quake his core.

The cuts throb.

But somehow he’s still here.

 

Please let him stay.

 

IV.

Every mourning.

Every mourning the sun rises on a shaking child.

His heart is shattering, tearing apart his insides and bleeding through the cuts on his arm.

 

My car fills with tears I think I’m drowning. His sadness becomes mine.

 

A father and a friend heave his weight,

Segments of his heart cut at us, but no blood pours from our arms.

 

He’s still alive.

For how much longer?

 

Just another mourning.
 

V.

Trust the Process.

How can I Trust the Process if it doesn’t let me in? Am I too different? Too hurt?

 

Trust the Process.

How can I Trust the Process if I can’t be with my Best Friend? Does God not want me to love Him?

 

Trust the Process.

How can I Trust the Process if He’s away sharing his life and I can’t be there too? Why do I wish? Does He even love me?

 

Trust the Process.

The Boy is still alive.

If I didn’t Trust the Process he’d be dead.

 

And my Best Friend loves me, He said so Himself.

 

VI.

A friendship made. 

A friendship born.

 

From a child’s pain, 

In the winter’s morn.

 

A car talk with him. 

Then a cell phone call.

 

The chances aren’t slim, 

Neither is the Fall.

 

A boy’s not dead. 

A boy’s not gone.

 

But sometimes it seems,

I’m the only chance he’s got.

 

Falling:

 

I.

When feigning to love,

Please don’t do what I’ve done.

Please don’t turn that feigning into true love.

 

Don’t seek His attention. 

Don’t become His Best Friend. 

Don’t cry in the theatre.

Don’t cry in the dark.

 

His hands will become soft, though clammy and pink.

And His laugh will become the thing that you seek.

Instead of looking for heads you look for legs, 

with the slight bow at the knees, and the spread of his feet.

 

And the way that He envelopes you. 

It becomes your only comfort. 

You’re safe with Him, 

You’re Home at last.

 

And when His awkward arms flail, 

and He accidentally “attacks” 

You laugh as He panics 

and freaks the hell out.

 

Because it’s so obvious He cares about you, 

no matter the doubt. 

I just wish My Love could figure it out.

 

II.

Why am I jealous?

This is new.

Why am I sad?

There must be some clue.

Where did he go?

Would it be weird to join? Maybe. Probably.

I’ll leave Him alone.

 

III.

Alone in the kitchen 

Dancing with a Ghost, 

Cooking pasta for two, 

Frank Sinatra’s our host.

 

Stepping down the aisle, 

With my dad at my arm. 

A Ghost at the end, 

Grinning at my alarm.

 

He and I in the kitchen, 

Dancing close,

Pasta’s on the boiler, 

Frank Sinatra’s our host.

 

Stepping down the aisle, 

With my dad at my arm. 

He at the end,

Grinning at my alarm.

 

How could it be,

A Ghost to He?

I should be thrilled,

Would He share it with me?
 

Beginning:

 

I.

A house in another state. 

Oh isn’t it great?

A home away from home, 

My great escape.

 

But wait just a moment, 

As they put up the sign, 

For a house that is stolen 

Before its time.

 

I remember the cats

and the dogs that would traipse,

Walking around as if they owned the place.

 

But most of all I remember, 

Was the house two doors down, 

Where every month,

There’s a new aunt in town.

 

My nonno and nonna lived there for so long, 

That my childhood is made up

Of their laughter and song.

Too little time that we had,

 

Only 5 to 9,

Where I could truly call them mine.

 

Many years has it been

Since their comforting embrace.

But still I remember their warm, loving faces.

 

As they taught me Italian and food that is love,

And that family is the most important message of all.

​

II.

Cleaning my room for the pictures to sell, 

And watching how my childhood fell.

I became a young woman but all I can see, 

Is the sadness enveloping me.

 

The pictures of Audrey, 

the pictures of James. 

The pictures of people, 

I’ve forgotten their names.

 

But what about me? 

Where did I stand in all this? 

Down center stage, 

the spotlight on me?

 

No no, I’m the one you call a Wallflower, 

watching the world go by. 

Watching as people blossom in the sun.

Watching the seeds become ever growing 

hydrangeas or sunflowers or lilies.

 

And I’m just lavender,

purple and plain. 

Stationary and small. 

Nice but too sweet. 

All the bees just sting me 

and leave me bare.

I’ve been taken advantage of 

too many times to care.
 

III.

All the memories flood back on a weary drive home. 

Black starry night through green starry eyes.

 

Panic engulfs me at 75, 

Of course I stay calm, 

I need to be alive.

 

But he’ll be so far,

And I can’t come home,

Because my home is further than we’ve ever known.

 

IV.

A cup of liquid gold.

Curled wisps of heaven.

Soft steps of droplets.

Haunting trees, massive and welcoming.

 

These things call me from my comfort. 

These things call me from my home.

 

I know I’ll miss the hearty laughs and the warm skin. 

The summertime guitars and the choreographed hymns. 

I know I’ll miss the tickling screams

And the atomic dusks

And the reminiscent coffee dates

And the racing heart of a sweaty sacramento day.

 

But another home awaits. Another school and another Love.

 

One day I’ll look back on my fool hearted years, 

Knowing no matter what comes,

I’ll always have Here.