Danica-Shardae

I was with mom when we found you, passed out on the floor of the Arizona Room, a bottle of pills spilled next to your hand and an ashtray with a still-lit cigarette in it. Mom freaked out and ran toward your body, but I just stood there in the doorway, frozen, staring at what was left of that burning cigarette.                            ---------- Just like I stood in that exact same doorway, four years before, and watched as the cops questioned you and mom glared  disappointingly and grandma was just plain furious. You looked back at me with hatred in your eyes because you knew I was the one who had told on you, but I knew you w

I was 14 and ¼ when I met him, made up of scraggly arms, stick thin legs, and a mop of curly red hair. I still had that sparkle of innocence and purity in my eyes. He was like a neon sign, when I first saw him. Face bright and shining, broadcasting his life over his pale skin. He had the most beautiful jawline I had ever seen, all sharp angles and straight lines. He was 16 then, but he felt so big to me, the most adult person I knew. He'd look at me and say, "Sweetheart, you're like Hawaii; all warm and sunny and inviting. You draw me into you." He would make promises of a white picket fence and 2 ½ kids and forever. I would smil

you're just like those carnival teacup rides; beautiful at a glance but you make me sick. you used to place your piano-fingered hands on my waist and lift me, yelling "fly, sparrow! fly". you would run around the house with your arms tucked under, no parachute, andjump. i always needed a parachute, or your hands, because my wings are made of things like paper mache and month old glue; barely sticking together. you liked to trace my shoulder blades with your tongue, and i would whisper "i wish i could fly for you" but you would just keep tracing my broken wings. i've come to the conclusion that you're a hawk, sharp tongued and loud. you eat

since you left, i look at your pictures every night in the hope that i'll dream of you. and sometimes it works. but other times it just makes me miss you more. ialwayswasamasochist i speak in lines of poetry and deep breaths, like that moment right after you've finished crying but your breath hitches anyway, and you can't seem to control your own body. i haven't been in control in a long time, and i always did have a problem with telling you no. youwouldn'thavelistenedanyway you always used to bring me fresh bread and a new set of lies when you came over, but now you don't even bother. youjustbringthebread you ask me if i love you as mu

I sit here drinking orange gatorade and thinking about the day when you said you loved me. It wasn't a particularly good or bad day; just a day. The stars spelled out smiles and ran on for galaxies as we travelled through space together, hand in hand, with nothing between us but a time machine and a shared connection to the universe. And something inside me exploded when you leaned into my space bubble and whispered, "I love you, darling." Something just exploded and my air cut off and all of the stars and planets and space ships suddenly became a blurry mass of black hole. The good kind, though. Not the universe swallowing, I'll-ruin-your-da

When I look at my grandson, I see hope. Hope for a future where he isn't faced with making the same mistakes I did. Hope that he won't have to look on as his homeland, his country, continues its power hungry quest for more than its fair share of God's green earth. Hope, that he won't see innocent children die, and an even greater hope that he won't have to be a part of that. I only wish I could have been as lucky as I pray he might be.             Little Niklaus sometimes begs me to tell him stories of my "glory days", when I served in the German army. His homeland has brainwashed h