My parents

My mother cut ties with her mother over 25 years ago
due to her not being what my mother 'expected'.
She refused her existence except to discuss the negation
until a year ago when my grandmother called her and asked, "I'm dying.
Please come see me."
My mother explains how she went right away, no questions asked and
when she arrived she begged her,
"Mom, why haven't you called me all these years?"
My grandmother couldn't answer her
and this, too, fell into the category of another lost
expectation.
No one knows but my mom was poised
to go see her mother again
when she heard the news.
She felt ignored in the process of death
with no true reflection of how
she ignored her in life.
She is still processing these feelings
as they come, but not discussing them.
My father complains about caring for his aging father,
who is 'not dying' which is said in an annoyed tone.
He isn't happy with anything,
he is manipulative,
he is what I hope you will never have to go through with anyone (
because this will NOT BE ME).
I picture him in his chair, unable to recognize where he is,
unable to see the one comfort he had in life, his wife,
unable to be happy with anything because at this stage in his
life
there is just not much to be happy with.
'You give him too much credit' I say,
I want to yell it.
He is just sad and alone and no one would be happy with anything
that way and you too will go through this and no amount of money
or young wives will change it.
My parents are interesting creatures, passing on a maze-like pattern
of how I should then,
interact with them.

A world alone-lorde


All my fake friends and all of their noise, complain about work
They're studying business, I study the floor, and you haven't stopped smoking all night.
Maybe the Internet raised us, or maybe people are jerks.
(People are talking, people are talking)
But not you
(People are talking, people are talking)


....why do I like this haha

Slender arms I held,
but softly,
I was scared to bruise them further.
Looking at her
was like looking in her
the varied dimensions
and layers our bodies make below the skin.
I saved your voice mails
and wear your ring
but try not to hear what
these things are saying.
I'm not ready to hear you
in death
only in the gritty night
under my sheets
where I can talk to you
and pretend we are here
above the ground together.
Only in the glamour shots
I have of you,
placed on my dresser,
purposely hidden beneath clothes
so that you can surprise me
under there every once and a while.
I love you and I am scared of you,
and I'm sorry I hear you but am not yet
ready to listen.