Remember to Breathe
I think cigarettes are nasty.
They stain your teeth, they ruin your lungs,
they increase your anxiety, they’re poison.
But the thing I hate the most is the smoke.
The smell makes me nauseous,
and I don’t mean to be dramatic but
when someone lights a cigarette, I have to leave the room.
I don’t want the smell to stick to my clothes you see.
I don’t want to have to smell the smoke for the rest of the day-
for the rest of the week.
Because the thing about cigarette smoke is that it
does not wash out.
My parents used to smoke so I’m well-versed in how it permeates everything.
No matter how hard you scrub, no matter how much time has passed,
inevitably you will inhale the smoke again.
It’ll happen when you’re trying to sleep, and you roll over into an old pillow
You’ll feel like you’re choking
like the smoke is filling your lungs and you can’t inhale
it’s got a death grip inside of you and you can’t exhale
you can’t breathe
I can’t breathe
I’ve forgotten to breathe
how do you forget to breathe?
how do you forget something so deeply ingrained in your brain that
it’s the first thing you do when you’re born you take a breath
but I have somehow I have forgotten to breathe.
Maybe it makes more sense than I think.
After all your mother is the one who teaches you to breathe.
She’s the one who breathes for you before you can do it yourself.
And my mother smoked while she was pregnant with me.
I had smoke before I had air.
… I think cigarettes are nasty.
Animal
I don’t remember much about being a kid,
all of the memories simultaneously blur together and fall apart.
Television static where pictures should be.
I remember everything about being an animal,
a frightened animal locked in a cage, scrounging for scraps to survive,
staying quiet to avoid attention from predators,
stowing food away for when a shortage would surely strike,
never getting good sleep because nowhere would ever be safe enough to relax,
startling at the slightest sound.
I learned how to take care of myself.
I learned how to act like a person.
But a beast is taking up the space where my inner child should go.
It’s mangy, and starved, and easy to spook.
It comes out when I’m eating,
when I scarf down food fast enough to choke in fear it will be taken from me.
It comes out when a voice or a hand is raised,
when I recoil in fear of pain or abuse.
It tries to help,
but I don’t need it anymore.
That sounds cruel,
but it’s the truth.
There’s no place for it in my life now.
But I can’t get rid of it.
Where I leave footprints I’m sure to see paw prints right alongside.
Where my shadow goes its shadow follows.
I can’t get rid of it.
So maybe I should take care of it.
Taking Care
I just got a new therapist,
we’ve only had about four sessions together so far.
Today I began explaining to her a piece of my childhood.
I told her how I never got to have a real childhood experience.
How I was made to take care of my siblings and myself like a third parent.
How I was made to do the chores of everyone in the house.
How I was taught to put everyone else’s needs above my own.
And after I was done she asked me a question.
“How did that experience benefit you?”
How. Did. That. Experience. Benefit. You.
My answer was simple,
“It taught me how to take care of myself”.
It’s the truth,
I do know how to take care of myself.
“So maybe we could view it as a positive instead of a negative”,
was her reply.
“Yeah I guess so”.
Yeah I guess so,
I guess it wasn’t that bad.
Because I know how to take care of myself,
I just don’t think I deserve it.
Make It Better
I want you to hit me.
Please.
It would be so much better if you did, if I came away from this with marks,
with scratches, with cuts, a black eye, dark bruises,
a bloody lip, a bloody nose, a broken bone, a sprain, anything.
Anything more than nothing.
Please.
You should feel honored. I don’t beg easy but
I’m begging you now. Please don’t leave me with nothing,
nothing to prove something happened.
It’s not fair to leave me with nothing to show for it.
Please.
I want you to hit me.
The Bottom Shelf Review 
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