Gina Clingan

Family isn’t in the last name. It’s in the lessons and the matching scars.

In the beginning, we were so happy. The house was everything we needed.

My friend informed me that her aunt had a gift. I didn’t know it then, but that woman’s gift would end up changing my life.

Because I am eager to make my own money, build a life, and support myself, I am “trying to prove something”. If I were a man, I would simply be surviving.

The hardest part of not knowing you, is knowing that a stranger is walking around with my face, and my name on his tongue.

Finally, a piece of paper that is adequately long enough to write out a complete and proper hit list.

Just be honest.

Loving you was the bravest thing I ever did.

Blame genetics. Blame evolution. Blame her parents. Blame the planets for the way that they aligned in the sky that night.

I know you didn’t leave by choice. Neither of us expected me to miss you this goddamn much.

I think of you
at 2 a.m.
dancing around my bedroom by myself,
surprised by how much I can move
in the space
you no longer occupy.

Not to brag or anything, but I can make some bomb ass blanket forts, with the assistance of your living room furniture and my inability to grow up.

Call me crazy, but I swear, I can’t help but see the entirety of my childhood reflected in your face. When I look at you, I can’t help but feel a little homesick.

Thank you for keeping me from drifting away from myself, or drowning in anyone else’s expectations.

We live in a society that, as it has been made even more evident across the United States this week, desperately clings to this ideology that a woman’s primary purpose is to be a mother.

What you are telling me is that his few moments of pleasure are worthy of my entire lifetime of trauma.

If it did, I would write you and tell you about all of the miracles that found a way to light up the darkness that came with your absence.

Time continues to pass, and the seasons continue to fade. I guess I just never thought our friendship would.