sound echoes when

there's nothing there

to hold it,

and I keep bouncing

between the banks

with tears that stutter

on the way out,

so I let them fall

like angels

ready to rise

like demons from the dirt,

and my dreams

are murdered

by the creeping dawn,

and I can't click my heels

to get home,

just these dull thuds

that ache more

with each attempt,

holding a pillow

I haven't used,

and whiskey could teach

me to bleed straight,

instead of scribbling

bloody messages

for no one.

and it's me.

but I can't read

like I used to.

though I have

enough scars

so all you see

is a grin.

hello. nice to meet you. fucker.

will you join me in the field?

we can murder roses

and lay them on my name,

and you can give a speech

about the tragedy

of my heel,

about the sound of me drifting

as I run from mud,

tripping over the crispy halos

I let break without a fight.

and when it shatters,

we'll see havoc become confetti,

in a beautiful celebration

of wasted breaths

that shimmer on the forest

of my life,

growing fresh upon the rot.

A butterfly 

Flapped its wings

In Pasadena

And here you are, 

A Hurricane at my front door.

Your eyes, still

Like the night

We chicken danced

Barefoot in Central Park,

I laughed until

I collapsed.

You kissed my bruised knee

And made a wish. 

A million flecks of stardust

Have streaked the sky

Since I saw you last, boarding 

A plane to another life.

Sometimes, it takes more 

Than gravity to keep 

Two people

Together. 

Now we are molecules

Colliding in a bed

Where vows lay dormant, 

Dusty like the caverns of the dead.

My body a pendulum, 

Your breath 

Causing ripples

That will turn to waves.

I'm bracing for the devastation. 

Dreams are crushed when

days begin and end with a

darkness set ablaze by dysfunction

The curtains and door hid

the hoards of filth and the

rodent-infested train wreck

that was 333

A byproduct of three

unwavering generations

Innocent little minds

blind to the darkened

state of chaos

were forced to create

beautiful memories

in the simple things

Sanctuary was found

behind the glass doors

where there was a

forrest in the middle a city

Days were spent in

a play-pretend world

exploring a magical forrest

where there were forty foot

bamboo plants all around

Peace was found in knowing

that there was a world outside of

333

Garland

And Columbia

Peace was found in knowing that

your play-pretend world

was your one way out

I remake the world while I dream. Well, my world at least. I see through the chaos. I change what I need to change. You see, it’s like…. Well…. Hold on, let me back up.

When I was a kid, I had a rough time of it. My brother was in jail. Actually, Charlie’s still in jail. Yeesh, I’m doing this wrong. Anyway, just try to follow along. I’m going in fits and starts I know, but it will make sense. Trust me.

Anyway, my big brother was in jail back then for carjacking. My mom worked as a nurse at the old folks home down Tunner Lane and she worked the early morning shift at Pete’s Donuts too. Both places were close enough so she walked everywhere and so did I. My dad, well, I remember a scratchy jaw, cigarettes, his name embroidered on his shirt, the Old Spice, but not much else. He’d been gone already a year when this all began and he’s not really part of the story. Although in a way, he’s the whole story. Because what else was I really looking for but him…and Charlie and…well…

I was six when Charlie was arrested and I remember holding my bear (also named Charles), by one dirty paw and running down the pavement after him as he rode away from us in the cop car. He didn’t look out the back. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to see me crying, a sad sack of a younger brother, snot rolling down his dirty face, clutching his only friend left in the world. In any case, Charlie going off to prison hit me hard and I guess something broke loose inside. Something giant and unknown. And it swept me up. But not in a good way.

Sometime that summer, I was out in the back trying to get thru brackle to the blackberries hidden there. I was getting pecked by birds, stung by bees and eaten alive by mosquitos. But I was also getting loads of tart-sweet berries into my face. I didn’t get lunch back then cause Mom was at work and I was on my own. Don’t judge. That’s just how it was. And besides, I had an elderly neighbor, Ms. Jenkins, I could go to if shit went south.

So, back to the berries. I was shoving them in when I remembered that Auntie Lorie told me there was another, much larger, patch of berries in the way back, beyond Old Christ Farm. By then I was sweating and thirsty and in no mood to go traipsing through the underbrush, getting lost in the process. I was a boy without a dog and I knew, sort of, that staying close to home was a good idea. So, instead I lie down, back to the long itchy grass, gnats buzzing my ears and closed my eyes. I tried to imagine where the patch was, believing in fantasy and flight and all at once, I was there. It was about a quarter mile away, past the chicken coops and hidden behind the tractor graveyard. Just a tangle of wild berries sitting in sunlight, hemmed in on three sides by high brush.

My eyes sprang open with an audible click and I sat up, dehydrated and dizzy. I hadn’t had anything to drink since the OJ that morning and I could tell by the sun that it was early afternoon. Whatever had happened just now was a dream, brought on by a lazy summer day, unquenched thirst and more than a little wishful thinking. That night, when Mom was scrubbing my ankles and clucking at the rivulets of dirty water streaming off of me, I asked her if she would take me on her day off to the big berry patch. She smiled in that toothy way she had and nodded yes. My mom wasn’t perfect, but she never broke a promise. Sure enough, two days later, we were weaving through the forest, crossing the small stream by the smelly coops and coming out behind three abandoned tractors. The patch was exactly where I’d seen it. Where I’d dreamed it was. I never told her of course. A child keeps secrets he knows must be kept.

As I grew, my ability to find things in dreams grew with me. Mom only had one pair of gloves and when one glove went missing in late January, she was upset. After a quick sweep of the house, she flamed red and then pulled a sock over the empty hand for the long walk to the donut shop. After she left, I simply lay down, closed my eyes and let random clips of the day flash under my lids. When no glove came into view, I pulled glimpses of the week and when still nothing happened, I pushed deeper in.

This sometimes got scary. I had the vague impression that if I wasn’t careful (and who knew how to be careful with this thing), I might get lost in the enormity of it all. I could pull from within a series of messy fleeting snapshots, that had weight and volume and seemed more somehow that what I knew, what I had actually seen, myself. So, when I pushed into this new wealth of knowledge, grasping bits, turning them in my mind, and sorted them, I saw it. Mom had dropped the glove bringing in the groceries from the back door. It had fallen down under the step and been tucked in by snow that fell that night. I placed it in the center of the kitchen table for her when she got back from work, late though it was. She made me hot chocolate from scratch (rare in my house) and gave me two kisses, one on each cheek.

The thing I couldn’t find, though, was money. I had looked and looked, but we were surrounded on all sides by folks at least as poor as us. No-one was sitting on a stack of cash. Well, almost no-one. Sometimes at the end of the month especially I could hear Mom at the kitchen table crying. Also, we got calls all the time. I was pretty sure we were going to get kicked out of the house.

It was then that I thought again of visiting Charlie. Now, Mom visited him once a month. She begged a ride from the Minister’s wife and down they would go in her best dress, the navy one, an hour and a half, into Cranston. But I wasn’t allowed. When pressed, Mom had said, “I love your brother with all my heart. Just as much as I love you. But he’s made some bad choices, Conner. And he might never come back and be your big brother again, the way he was. I don’t want you to see what he is now, just in case that’s all he will ever be.” I didn’t understand that then, but I do now.

So, that night in September, when my Mom had returned with Mrs. Daughtery from Cranston, I’d lain in my bed and tried to find Charlie. I sorted for him. First I sorted our town, a hodgepodge of single story houses and failing businesses. I pulled out towards the outskirts, throwing out a drunk man crashing through his screen door, a pack of deer sipping at the stream and the abandoned train tracks, focusing instead on the old logging road, which cut West into the forest.

Coming out the other side of the trees, I sorted the next town, Briar Mills, picking up only the new gas station. It was mostly deserted, but there was a trucker napping in a red cab out behind the pumps, near the weigh station. Dead-ending there, I realized I had lost the scent. Where was Charlie? I relaxed inside and let the night come alive under my eyelids, hovering above the sleeping trucker.

Conversations, flashes of booze, women and loud music, flowed in and through my mind. A jumble. A mess. I held tight to what I was looking for. And then it came. Above the ridge to the West, just barely visible was a tower and a blinking yellow light. To me, in my bed, it looked like a Lighthouse, shining through a storm. But the storm was inside of me and the Lighthouse was a prison tower. I had found Charlie.

On I went, sorting through sleeping prisoners, all the same in orange. Picking up one in my mind and then tossing him back into the sea. At last, in the eighth wing, I found him. He’d grown a bit and he no longer fit on a twin bunk. His hair stuck up in all directions, and I laughed when I saw that he still slept like that, two hands pressed together at his chest, knees pulled up. Like an angel in prayer.

Now, I had found lots of things by then. Had seen lots of places. But I’d never touched anything. This time I dropped. And it hit my stomach hard to do that. My balls shriveled as I suddenly “became”. If I could have seen myself back in my bed, I would have still been there, asleep. Nothing had changed. But in reality, well, everything had. Because now I was split. And I knew that if I wasn’t careful, I could get trapped out here in the open.

I watched him sleep for a minute more. Gosh, I missed my big brother back then. And then I leaned down, with arms that weren’t really there and I touched his shoulder. Even now, I can remember that electric shock feeling. Like my finger had fallen asleep and touching him woke it up all at once. And maybe it had. Of course it had.

Charlie sat up at once and looked right at me. No bleary eyes, no shrugging off the sandman. He just sat up, backbone straighter than it had ever been in real life, and turned his head to mine. One soul talking to the next. “Hi Charlie,” I’d said, for lack of anything better. He didn’t smile or even smirk, but instead he reached out his hand with the long fingers and tousled my head that wasn’t really there. “What’s up Connie?” he asked. It was an old joke. Charlie liked to call me a girl’s name because he knew it made me mad. But I wasn’t mad now. Wasn’t capable maybe. For a long moment, we just stared at each other.

And then, “Charlie, we need money.” My voice sounded older than I was. I could feel something at the back of my mind, pulling me. It was gentle, like a warm breeze, but it felt like time. And it was running. Some internal atomic clock was ticking down. Charlie didn’t say anything, but he took his hand back and let it fall in his lap. It was then that I noticed only half of him sat up in bed. There was a sleeping form lying supine below the Charlie I was talking to and he popped out of the middle, like a Charlie in a Box.

No trickery, no argument. Just, “I have some, Connie, but it’s not going to be easy to get.” I nodded. Now, the feeling was of a tearing at the back of my brain, no longer gentle. It was time to go. “Charlie, it’s…” “Yeah,” he responded, “I can feel it too.” He told me then, who had the money and where it was. As he was finishing the where and the how, I started moving, swimming almost, backwards. I could see him staring after me, but like a rubberband pulled too tight, I was snapping back into place. Just before I was pulled back through the cell wall, I saw him turn away from me and lay back down in bed. Lay back into himself. I wondered then whether he would remember.

But he hadn’t. It was my ability, not his. Voluntary or not (and I know it was not), Charlie had given up his whole life for us right then and there. When Charlie got out of prison, the money was missing. The rumor was that he thought Ace Farber had stolen it, and of course I knew why. He’d beaten Ace almost to death and gone right back in.

But he had actually given it away. To us. Or had I stolen it? You know, Charlie could have come clean. Maybe he would’ve left prison, dug up the money and saved all of us. That troubles me. Often. Maybe I’m the bad brother after all. Maybe I’m the real thief. I stole Charlie’s life. Because I could.

Mom never asked where it came from. Instead, when she came home and saw the stack of money piled high on the kitchen table, dirt still dribbling from some of the bills, she’d collapsed into a chair and stared, mouth open, at the present I’d given her. And she’d kissed me. Once on either cheek. I guess I stole that from Charlie too.

Natural chaos of darkness

skates on swirling clouds,

knits together in pewter hues.

Shamed sun hides

behind maudlin clouds.

Catcalls of screaming winds,

an iced suicide draft of

unrelenting numbness

walks on the edge.

Feeble eyes freeze

behind hidden truth.

Emotion of clouds

wrung out like sheets,

hung to dry on

turbulent clothesline.

Tumbled storms

dance on tip

of my awareness,

occupying black spaces

within flailing breaths,

shivering in unknown soil.

Ocean cobalt darkness

twists shadows to open

pinhole of light,

moods of change,

strung together

in birthed vapor.

Whisper of fresh ozone,

layers of hope and

warm vistas open

glimpsing creation

of reborn existence.

I'm losing track of time, and these Irish waters bare their fangs while they spit in my face. I smell the salt in it's breath as it wails it's rage against my very presence. The deafening howls twirl my hair, and my skin is drenched, shining in the moon's light. 

Nature herself knows this is unnatural. She fights me. She needs me to leave, but I have nowhere else to go. Her rage is potent still, as if this transgression was solely my own. 

I'm sedentary in the sand, clutching at handfuls, but I can't catch hold. My head is pounding with the force of holding back mournful sobs, and even as a traitorous tear slips past, I don't feel it fall. 

In the distance the waters are restless. The feeling is mutual. Their deep indigo breaks own so many secrets; most of them my last moments. I can't remember how long it has been, but splinters of the wreckage are still lying along the shore. 

I haven't found the courage to see it up close. Not yet. 

My heart is lying somewhere in between sorrow and relief. Sorrow for what I have lost. Relief that the pain has ended. 

The crash was spectacular in the most horrific way. It was suppose to be fun and adventurous. My little girl and I, out on the open waters, a trained guide speeding us along the ocean's surface in a metal machine designed to go fast. We were laughing. Laughing so loud I almost didn't hear the hollow metallic sound of gears breaking beneath us. 

Laughing one moment, screaming the next. It was suppose to fun. 

Instead, I'm haunting this beach. I'm alone, and that should make me feel placated.

She made it then, right? 

My baby. 

I force my way over to what was left of the speed boat. Seeing footprints in the sand drove so much pressure into my chest I thought I'd explode. 

I was running. Just follow them...follow them. 

Flecks of red dappled the ground, and I felt so alive. I'm sure I couldn't possibly be flushed, but my face felt hot. Stagger-running up a grassy embankment, I could see flashing lights flickering against the black sky. Ambulance. This was it. I fell to my knees and crawled to the crowded parking lot. 

Men in dark blue uniforms waving flashlights. Women in firefighter jackets holding blankets and notepads. So many people, and no one I recognized. Except one. 

My little girl. 

There she sat, huddled under the arm of a man I didn't bother to look at. She was cold. She was scared. Her sweet face red and puffy. I ached to kiss the tiny scratch across her upper lip. I just wanted to make it all go away. 

"Everything will be alright, love. I'm here now." 

That voice...

Deep. Dreamy. I missed it. Spending months lying awake needing to hear it again. 

My daughter's father. He had been gone for so long. Hearing his sonorous tones, I was immediately reminded of all the nights my girl would stay up, asking where her daddy was. He was a good guy, and a marvelous father. I had been the one to push him away. My lies, my cheating. 

My drink.

It was too much for him. I drove him to leave, and hurt my angel in the process. 

I glanced over my shoulder to the beach below. The waters were calm now. Inviting. 

A hiccup and a cry brought me back to her shivering body. His arms held her tight, and I knew they wouldn't let her go again. 

I don't know if I smiled, but my baby did. It was a sad smile, but it was for her daddy. 

I turned to make my way towards the ocean, passing by a gurney carrying a white body bag, tufts of my red hair peeking out from under the zipper. 

Only God knows all the tears I've cried

May never all be dried

But they splatter to the ground instead

Where a lonely seed lies dead

When the summer's leaves now shattered lay

In winter's slow decay

There they seep beneath the crusty earth

Where seeds await rebirth

But only tears locked away inside

May be lost when never cried

Surely God knows those ones we've finally wept

Will waken seeds that slept

And after winter's long and chilling storms

They'll sprout again when spring is born

The walnut tree in the yard was old.

My mom hired a lumberjack, who

Would later arrive with a quite bold

And slightly annoying attitude.

He started with the smaller branches,

So we could portion the wood later

On, when he would be done with the job.

I was crying, because I missed the 

Old walnut tree. And its flying leaves

Encircled me, the last embrace, both

Comfortable and anonymous: meek.

What I did not know, that feeling,

The little hymn of broken leaves, which

They muttered in my ears was simply: change.

The woman you see before you wasnʼt born to human parents, she wasnʼt created from any act of lovemaking, she wasnʼt a product of immaculate conception. The woman before you is a daughter of chaos, she was forged in fire and then emerged from those flames, fully grown yet with the uncertain steps of a newborn deer.

The same heat that shaped her bones has colored her vision, everyone she encounters she sees through eyes that burn. Like Superman seeing through solid objects with Xray vision, she can see through people; the twisted, ugly depravity hidden beneath cloaks of concern. She recognizes the selfish greed that is human nature, right there, just beneath the surface. And the sneaky, underhanded way most people justify their actions and think their own corruption isnʼt as bad as everyone else's.

She sometimes feels envy for other women, for the Modern Brides and the Redbook wives. Drinking their non-fat mocha lattes, delivering brownies for the PTA bake sales. Concerned with whatʼs for dinner, preoccupied with Botox and facial and vaginal rejuvenation, complaining about ungrateful children, pretending that their marriages arenʼt dead. Blissfully unaware they are teetering on the edge of their cookie cutter lives, blind to the danger as they balance on the precipice of a very different future. Sometimes, she feels pity for her estranged sisters. Mostly, she feels bitterness and disgust.

Three years ago, she was one of the Stepford wannabes, she kept up on things that mattered through Entertainment Tonight and Facebook. Sheʼd sit at football practice with the other Ladies Home Journal moms, never once considering she liked these women even less than she had in high school. She planned her grocery list and weekly meal plans with Pinterest. Sheʼd waste hours online, taking every Cosmo quiz, reading every Cosmo article she could find, hoping to find a way to recapture her husbandʼs attention. It never occurred to her that her husband was a bully, a mean drunk who fed his control issues by feeding her insecurities

It never occurred to her, during the countless office visits, the long drives to specialists–2–3 hours away, that her sonʼs medical issues didnʼt make him incapable of behaving appropriately. It never occurred to her that she bore the burden of running the household while her husband felt his workday ended when he clocked out and drove home. It never occurred to her to wonder why she was making these trips all on her own, scared to death with a strong willed, uncooperative child. It never occurred to her that being used as a human shield, standing between her husband and her son, was unfair to her. She spent so many years with a pleasant expression plastered over her face; she even bought into her own bullshit for a while.

She never talked herself happy, but she was satisfied with being complacent. She understood the importance of projecting the proper image, and she did it like she got paid to do so. She posted the family vacay on Instagram, she uploaded school pictures to Facebook, she posted sports highlights on YouTube. She documented well her pretty house and pretty smile and her perfect family and perfect fucking life. It never once occurred to her that the years spent walking on eggshells through her own home had pushed her right to the edge of her own self-destruction.

She grew anxious as her dissatisfaction increased. The more unhappy she was, the less willing she was to toe the line obediently. She was ‘not herself’ when she refused to cater to her husbandʼs tyrannical demands. She was ‘unfair’ when she allowed her son to experience the natural consequences of his own actions. Her days as an unwilling referee were finished. She tried to drown her discontent in whiskey, but only managed to throw up and pass out. With each passing day she grew more antsy, more ill at ease in her own company. She dreaded going to work. Worse, she dreaded going home.

She found a remedy for her restlessness. A complete cliché, perhaps her final attempt at a Young and the Restless kind of life. She began having an affair with a younger man, the adult child of her husbandʼs best friend. She knew the ensuing scandal if people were to find out would be huge. She knew the devastation that would cause her family. She knew that she was nothing more than a passing fancy to him, a challenge simply because of her last name. She knew it was a bad idea, any sort of relationship she carried on with him was destined to end badly.

Funny thing about girls like her… Smart enough to know when they're making bad choices. Too weak or too selfish or too desperate to care.

And so for months, these two impulsive lovers carried on in secret. To family and friends, they appeared to interact as they always had. But when they were alone, they didnʼt merely hook up, it was never just about fucking, even from the start it was more than that. Away from prying eyes, they wouldnʼt simply come together, they would collide, like waves crashing against a rocky shoreline, like cars meeting head-on in a deadly game of chicken. The tiny spark of attraction that had always been between them had exploded into a raging inferno, completely out of control, unconcerned with the damage left in its wake. And some fires are too big, too fast, too hot to extinguish. You gotta just set a fireline, cut your losses, and try your damndest to salvage the little pieces of your former life that you can carry out on your back.

As reckless as the affair was, she felt no pressing need to actually disrupt her life. She was a woman who enjoyed material things, she was proud of her 1800 square foot home, she liked driving her silver SUV. She liked going to dinner and the couples who were friends, she liked being needed and belonging to a family. She also didnʼt want to deal with the anger, the hurt feelings, or the explanations people would expect. Her best friend accused her of wanting her cake and eating it too, which she declared to be the most ludicrous saying ever. Who gets a piece of cake to look at? If you get cake, you better fucking eat it.

Life doesnʼt believe in complacency, and in the blink of an eye, everything changed. A medical emergency landed her in the hospital for a week, organs had begun shutting down. She woke up 3 days into her stay, after pulling through the initial danger. Her husband sat in a chair in the corner, and upon realizing she was awake, immediately began berating her; her hospital stay was inconvenient and made him look badly at the new job heʼd just begun. He was annoyed that sheʼd failed to do the laundry prior to her ambulance ride, now he had no clean clothes. Before she could even think of how to respond, he began a new tirade after snooping through her cell. Her initial panic was quickly replaced with disbelief. As she lay here on her death bed, he was going through her cell and wanted to pick a fight over conversations sheʼd had with other moms about their kids. Really??

Thatʼs when she knew she was done. She hated him, she was miserable at the thought of going home, and the thought of him touching her made her cringe with revulsion. She had a moment of sorrow that she hadnʼt died. Like a switch flipped, she was finished with being his wife. Her marriage was a joke and she wanted out.

After her hospital stay, tensions grew in her home, so she moved into the spare bedroom. Her son, sensing the tension, decided to add to the fun in the selfish, completely outrageous manner that only spoiled 14 year olds can invoke. Her husband threatened suicide if she left. He threatened to turn her child against her. He threatened to call her father to tell on her. The only bright spot in her life, the only thing she looked forward to were the days that she could sneak away, secret meetings with her new young boyfriend. Her original intention to suck it up at home while saving money to move out was quickly abandoned.

So that's when she blew up her life.

She couch surfed with friends until she got a place of her own. When she failed to respond to her husbandʼs most urgent threat of suicide to date, he responded by trying to murder her. When she served him a restraining order, he showed it to her son and convinced her boy that his mom was a liar. He broke into her home repeatedly, sometimes just stacking the mail into its designated piles, which she had failed to do simply on principle. He hacked into her iTunes Account and pushed Spyware to her phone. He read her text messages and followed her movements on GPS. He printed pictures from her camera roll which he left like surprise grenades designed to knock her off balance. He used his personal and family connections to ensure that every police report she made was discounted, he began working public opinion months before she noticed.

He began systematically poisoning the children against her, but it was subtle, never outright. He never said “You may NOT contact your mother!" Instead, the mention of her name would cause a frown, a scowl, a foul mood or silent treatment. Her son refused to come over to her new place at night after he found out that "Dad gets too lonely when I'm gone." He began attending church, with arms around the children, looking very much the sad, confused, cuckolded martyr, asking everyone to, "Please pray for her, we just want her to come home.”

It dragged on and on, court date after court date, ugly tales and malicious rumors, he stirred the pot and focused a spotlight on her. This was so much different than the image sheʼd painted for social media, what little self confidence sheʼd left that relationship with was soon pulverized into dust. The worst thing though, the cruelest part was that he kept her son away from her for 9 long months. Ask any mom whoʼs suffered the loss of a child what that does to her mental state. Try to imagine the turmoil and ways that would mess with a motherʼs mind. Then imagine trying to deal with the loss of a child who was still breathing, who lived only 10 minutes away…but who hates you and believes that doing so is his own idea.

And while all this chaos is unfolding around her, she was feeling wild, unsure of how to handle sudden freedom after living under a dictatorship for so long. It took 6 months living apart from him before she even began to recognize the emotional and mental torture she'd'suffered as the abuse it really was. She was diagnosed with complex PTSD shortly after she began seeing a therapist, at the urging of her boss who had noticed the mayhem in her life reflected in her job performance. She was unable to deal with any of it, so she decided to ignore it all. She ignored old friends and family in favor of her young boyfriend and lots of whiskey. By doing so, she validated every claim her husband had made. By doing so, she lost in the court of public opinion without ever realizing she had been put on trial.

And through all the madness and the insanity, the stalking and the court dates, the unstoppable rumor mill, the panic attacks, the tears, and the heartache, her young boyfriend was at her side. Cheering her on, helping her move forward, pushing her when she refused to take another step. Until the day came that an opportunity arose and he took it. She gave her blessing knowing it was her only shot at getting her son back, she had to take it.

And now, more than 2 years have passed since she blew up her life. She has survived the chaos created by a vindictive, abusive man. She has survived mental torture and anguish few could fathom. She has found ways to carry on, while piecing back the parts of her own shattered mind.

Sheʼs a much different woman than she was a few short years ago. Sheʼs thinner, paler, quieter. Sheʼs less trusting, she keeps to herself much more. Sheʼs 1 year sober, alcohol free, much to the disbelief of those who bought into the stories her husband had spread around. Sheʼs more guarded, but more observant. Sheʼs much more hesitant, but thinks things through a bit more. Sheʼs well aware of how tenuous her grip on sanity is. Sheʼs well aware of how easy it would be to destroy the new life sheʼs building. Sheʼs been through hell, sheʼs lived through madness, and sheʼs not giving up yet. Her fight carries on today, but her days of rolling over to appease the whims of an ungrateful man are finished. She's stronger than she ever dreamed she could be. She gave up on the cookie cutter, Stepford life she always thought she wanted.

She wasnʼt seeking chaos. But when chaos found her and ripped her limb from limb, she put herself back together. She got up swinging, sheʼs coming in hot.

Boom, motherfuckers.