to drink coffee with a ghost

by Amanda Lovelace

lately, it seems like everywhere i look, i only find daughters haunted by something their mothers did to them. we tell each other that we would raise our daughters differently. we

REAL

the little girl was so desperate to feel loved, to feel like she existed at all, that she took anything she could get, even if it was nothing but a bunch of make-believe. - don’t accept scraps.

Sadly me

what you told me after you saw the thin lines on my wrist. - “depression doesn’t exist.”

Felt

i used to turn to you. with scraped knees. with paper-cut fingers. with battle wounds from playground wars. then things changed & i didn’t feel like i could do that anymore, so i turned to people who knew exactly what i was going through. help, i cut myself so deep i think i may have to go to the emergency room. help, i haven’t eaten in two days & i’m afraid i’ll die if i don’t & also if i do. help, he touched me & i still feel his fingers. when you found out, you locked me up. buried the key someplace you forgot about. you gave my pain a name & it sounded like rebellion, not depression. no one ever bothered to tell you about the sad type of daughter & you did everything possible not to see her. - blindfold.

Crying because this is me

The art is so good

people keep asking me if i love you or hate you. the answer has never been as simple as yes or no. of course i love you, but i hate so

Yessss