Snap(shot): A Collection of Poems

Snap(shot)

*Check out the author's note in the next chapter for backstory and more*

1.

This one's of you

cocooned in a crib

as Daddy winds the music box

to the mobile overhead.

With no need for stars,

you were safe under a sky

of flying clowns and Daddy's love

and stuccoed white.

4.

This one's of you

dozing off at Mass.

You almost bruised your jaw on the pew

but Mommy was quick to catch.

You mumbled: How many more songs?

And she kept whispering: One more.

You forgot to bless yourself

at the closing prayer.

13.

This one's of you

tossing a sandwich in the trash.

Your edges grew sharper

but friends were too polite to ask.

Sarah did it, too,

but Dad still warned: Watch what you eat

You know, deep down, he never meant

to egg on your disease.

But now you're staring down the glass,

shame snaking up your throat

and you hate yourself so desperately

because self-destruction is all you know.

18.

This one's of you

locked in their screaming match.

Your sisters are simmering

and so are Mom and Dad.

But you're just laying low,

feigning neutrality,

and every part of you numbs and stings.

18.

This one's of you

slumped in Unit D

beside a dark angel

who's less fallen than he thinks.

And you tell him about your dad

and he says his was the same.

And the rest melts like film on an open flame.

18.

This one's of you

sobbing silent on the couch

and Dad's too busy going off

to even think of Mass.

It's the same tired fight—

the cord's starting to fray.

So you staunch your tears,

loosen your grip, murmur Okay.

18.

This one's of you

plotting an escape—a grand Houdini act—

from the life you longed to take.

You wish you could call Daddy,

prod for some advice,

but opening Pandora's chest

holds a hefty price.

18.

This one's of you,

back in Unit D.

Mom and Dad don't know

but that's the way it's got to be,

because Daddy lost control

and you don't know him anymore.

He's not the man who made clowns fly

and Mommy's a liar.

Her tongue stumbles on fiction—

anything to gain control—

and their rigid anger, crooked love

left this home in shambles.

19.

This one's not of you.

This one's of them.

It's not even pretty,

just an undeveloped photograph.

The faces are blurred, just like the truth.

and it looks right because their shadows

are all you ever knew.

19.

This one's of you

praying in the quiet.

And they can't take an ounce of credit for

the saint you're bent on becoming.