writing
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I look in the mirror and see my mother. I see her in my gestures too— the disorder she passed down, or a few. She taught me hatred. Not toward other people—never. She taught me to hate myself, burned it into me with every cigarette she pressed between her fingers, smoke simmering into my skin.…
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People rarely understand. That in itself can be off-putting, almost alienating. But I’ve learned that if I don’t make light of my own situation, its weight threatens to squash me flat—just like the ants we all are in the vast and indifferent scheme of things. —Janie Lyvon
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— by Janie Lyvon I sink to the cool stone nave, knees bruised, palms spread— an unlit votive waiting for the ember kept behind His teeth. Incense of dusk spirals, braiding clove between our breaths. Heat climbs the vertebral rungs; His tongue forges raw ore into prayer. The altar hums…
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Tell me, child, why do you betray yourself for grief? You choose to learn nothing in its hasty wake. Is it your desire to self-destruct? Or were you simply looking for that excuse to destroy yourself. — Janie Lyvon
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One of my earliest life memories is of hastily leaving my childhood home after my siblings returned from school. Our mother was in a manic state. “Where are we going?” I remember asking—or perhaps only thinking it—and wondering where Dad was. I started crying. My mother thrust my sippy cup at me and screamed, “Here!…
Janie Lyvon 