And then she told me to pray.
I didn’t want her to go there.
I blasted the music in my ears
And danced like I was at a party
With friends,
Begging every time
With the line
Don’t kill my vibe.

I’d been shaken.
And just like every other time,
I hadn’t expected it.
I didn’t know what to do
Once it had been done.

A man’s face
Is really all
That can be seen.
Hearts are stored away
And hidden.
Not even to be brought out
On special occasions.

I really did lie
When I told you
I love you too.

I really won’t
Lie like that


He could still make me cry. Just by talking to me. Just by raising his voice and saying what he wanted to. Making himself infallible yet again. Incapable of making a mistake. Of course it was my fault. Of course it was me who had done something wrong. He wasn’t to blame at all. 

He had the saddest face in the world, and the darkest hair, the clearest expression. He was desperate. He was lost. He needed something right away. I could have helped him. I really wanted to, but the situation wasn’t good. There were red flags and alarms going off everywhere in my head. I knew I shouldn’t have. It didn’t feel okay. I was about to, then I double-checked. I couldn’t – the situation. I told him I couldn’t. I broke with him. And he slowly walked away. Eyes searching for another place where he could get help. A sad little puppy is what he made me think of, and he wrenched my heart with his eyes.

About Life

Let’s have a long conversation about life. Not about the weather, or who moved into where and how much he or she paid for it. Not about whose son or daughter graduated with what honor or got into what college or university with which scholarship. Please don’t tell me about which career makes the most money, or how much debt I might be in when I finally do get the degree that I want. I don’t want to hear about the economy or politics or the unemployment rate, or how long it may take me to get a job in my field once I finish school.

I want to talk about life. How you do it. How you learned to give a hug. Do you give hugs? Or is your culture more inclined towards kissing? Is there a reason you only like to wear sneakers, skinny jeans, and baggy tops? Why the only piece of jewellery you wear is a gold ring on your pinky finger?

Would you mind if I asked you why you always blink so rapidly? How did you grow up? Would you raise your children the same way you were? What do you think about flogging, grounding, time-outs etcetera when it comes to child discipline? What do you think about the fact that the part of a person’s brain that deals with judgement and making decisions doesn’t fully develop until the age of twenty-five but that someone can be tried as an adult way before then?

Why do you think people get jealous? What do you think about broken families? What about families that are bi- or multi-racial? I want to know why it’s hard for my father to say I love you, and why yours can tell you so easily? Why is your mother so strict when mine was too lenient? How can parents develop favoritism for one of their children? How does being the oldest, middle, or youngest sibling affect you in your family?

I want to talk about life and how it happened. Not all the things that may go wrong. Not growing up, not being strong.

Let’s talk about life.

“Do you feel bad?”

I shook my head yes. I admitted it. I felt bad that no one had noticed. That I had done something for the attention of others and hadn’t received it. I tried ignoring it but I knew very well that it was there, again – the feeling of not being good enough. Something had been wrong with what I had written. I hadn’t written it well enough. I hadn’t expressed myself properly.

I didn’t even remember what I wrote.

I’m hiding myself. That’s what it is. The reason I don’t tell you my name, or show you what I look like, is that I’m hiding myself.

I am too afraid, simply put, to speak what is on my mind knowing that anyone can access it, and know who it is coming from. My opinions aren’t universal, and I am not completely independent. They will affect those close to me, and the relationships I have with them. By this I mean they will have something to say about it – something I don’t want to hear.

I want to express my opinions. I had been a very talkative child. Now I’m not so talkative, but I still do have a lot to say. I feel burdened actually, by all the things I want to say, because I’m not able to say them without some adverse response. The person I am doesn’t fare well with negative comments, particularly when said directly to me by someone I know. For that reason I cannot make videos. I did begin to do so, but I stopped. I cannot risk my family seeing them. I don’t want my friends or acquaintances to either. I just don’t want to answer to anyone for anything I say.

Therefore I blog, anonymously, because by doing this I can say what I want to, without anyone knowing who I am. It’s better that way. Call me a coward – I have – but that’s just the way it is.


Writing is a breeze
From the ocean
That cools me off
On a hot day,

Or blows the dust
Off my face
And makes me
See again.

It doesn’t hurt me
Just helps me learn
And gives me
New perspective.

The one thing
Even above family.

The one thing that never lies.

To me.
I can mold it
In my hands
And I can use it
As a shield.
You won’t find out
Where I am.

Unless I tell you.

Unless I let you know.
I am never betrayed
By my writing.

Purchases for purposes temporary.
Important only once upon a time.
Forgotten by dinner time
Not fit for conversation
Moving along the conveyor belt.

There’s a piggy bank
Not full
From all the money it could hold,

We jingle the coins
In our pockets
Filled with holes

And they roll along the sidewalk
Behind us
Reminding us of better days,

But we’re on to the next one
The next song
The next craze.

We Ought to Obey God Rather Than Men

I had to gather up courage in my room first. I recited the scriptures I had memorized and told myself I’d be fine. I was doing this for God. I had to.

I was about to go upstairs and tell my stepmother some new thing I couldn’t do because of my Christian faith. Some new thing that she did all the time, that I did too, but couldn’t do anymore.

That was one time.

Another time I had to tell her I needed to stay after church to attend a board meeting. I was a board member now and I had to do that sort of thing. It was only once a month, but I’d be home late. An elder would drive me straight home though.

She said okay.

This was after we had been forbidden to be out of the house past sunset on Sabbaths. Apparently we were coming home way too late on Saturday nights and this stopped us from packing away groceries that had been bought that day while we were at church. It was also making us too tired to get up early on Sunday mornings to help with preparing dinner – which was a big deal.

Okay, wine. Rice wine. That was an ingredient of Teriyaki sauce, which I used to make chicken all the time. But I couldn’t have it anymore because wine was in it. I don’t know what made me decide to smell the contents of the bottle one afternoon before pouring some into the pot, but the scent made me instantly move my head away because it was so potent. It smelt weird too. I read the ingredients on the side of the bottle. Vinegar, bla bla bla, rice wine – stop. Wine. I can’t drink that. I can’t drink anything fermented. Oh God. How was I going to tell my stepmother. We had already stopped consuming dairy because it was contaminated with blood – and we must absolutely, never eat blood, because that’s the life of the animal – and my stepmother was not happy about that because soy milk cost more than dairy milk, so she was spending more money for groceries every week. She also had to separate our food when making pasta with Alfredo sauce, and make a completely different meal for us when she made lasagna. She wasn’t going to take this well.

I languished at the dinner table when I had to eat something she made that contained an ingredient I wasn’t supposed to eat. If I said anything, she would be upset. And if I chose not to eat, she wouldn’t like that either, though she wouldn’t say anything. I didn’t pray at times like this. I just felt really, really terrible. Depressed. Drained.

I had to do what God said. There wasn’t a question about that. But I lived with this woman, and she was in charge of the food, and much everything else. Besides, she was my father’s precious wife. Upsetting her wasn’t something I wanted to do. But I had to.

We were on our way home from Walmart one night. I think she went to pick up something for my brother. I don’t remember why I was with her. It was Sunday, and she still had makeup on from going to church that morning. I told her I had something to tell her, that I’d been wanting to tell her for a while. It wasn’t really a great time, but I didn’t think I’d every find a good time, and this had been driving me crazy for weeks. I really needed to tell her.

I did. I waited in silence for her response, sure she was getting upset at my decision to cut yet another food from my diet because of church. She said she thought it was something more serious the way I had brought it up. She said it was okay, that I’d just not use that sauce when I was cooking – which I had already begun to do. It’s just that I didn’t do all the cooking.

I was surprised. I knew it was because of my sister. Luckily for me, though definitely not for her, she had caused enough trouble to make this look insignificant. Oh thank God. I was really not up for a fight on this. God knows I’d been fighting myself enough, and that was really, really, exhausting.

I spent the rest of the ride home in great relief, glad I had finally gotten this dumb thing off my chest, glad she had taken it so well. Why was I even that scared in the first place? Psh.