The Snow Family (A Poem)

The house looks so picturesque, like something you’d see in a magazine for Home Garden, the Christmas edition.

The front yard blanketed with a fresh layer of snow, icicles forming on the gutters, so artfully dripping as if it was planned.

A neat snowman with a black top hat, a checkered blue and white scarf around his frozen neck, little black buttons to make him a sharp jacket, a carrot for his nose and blue buttons for his eyes, a smile on his face. He carries a briefcase in his hand.

Next to the snowman is his snow wife, a pink scarf around her frozen neck and a cream-colored faux fur hat, a wide smile plastered onto her face. She holds the hand of the snow girl, a mini copy of her with the same pink scarf and faux fur hat. The snow boy stands next to his snow father, a baseball cap on his head and a mischievous smile on his face.

The house is strung up with lights that start white then flash to green, red, blue, yellow, and every color in between. A Christmas tree behind the little snow family, the decorations perfectly in place. Not a pine needle out of order.

No, no, that must never happen. Everything must be perfect.

Emerald green, shimmering silver, gleaming gold, and radiant red delicate glass ornaments so carefully set in the tree. A string of white lights and a wide velvet ribbon wrap around the tree like a noose. Glittery white snowflakes and shimmering clear glass icicles. Cranberries and popcorn on a thread in between the ornaments, snowflakes, and icicles. The snow father placed an angel on top of the tree, her beautiful face filled with reverence, gold wings stretched out behind her, and a glowing halo above her head.

Everything is perfect. They seem like the ideal snow family. Their house is seen in one of those magazines that talks about how the family, a mom, and a dad, two kids, one boy, and one girl, have lived in this house since before there were children. When it was just snowman and his little snow wife.

It seems like nothing is wrong until it slowly starts to melt, revealing what they don’t want you to see.

Snowman yells at his snow wife and broke her carrot nose, blue buttons flashing with anger. “I am the man in this house!”

Snow wife threw a plate at his head even as she clutched her bleeding nose. “It’s Christmas!” she yelled. “How could you?”

Snow boy hid with his little snow sister in their closet, covering her ears instead of her own. “Everything will be okay,” he whispers even as the shouting gets louder, flinching at the sound of glass shattering and their mothers cries. The front door slams.

The icicles dripped onto the polished wood floor.

The angel turned up her nose as her wings turned black and charred, a broken halo on her head.

Snowman knocked the tree over, scattering pine needles and glass for his snow wife to cut her feet on as he fled. “Don’t come back!” screams the snow wife.

Crows eat the cranberries and the popcorn while the snow wife cried, her tears freezing on her face.

Snowman grabbed his car keys and screeched out of the driveway, running over the snow boy and snowgirl in the yard, leaving a track of mud.

Snow wife pours herself more mulled wine, telling her best friend over the phone, “I can’t do this anymore.” Her face in her hands, the tree still laying on its side, needles bent and broken. The first ornamanet they ever bought, a simple blue ball with a pretty white Christmas tree painted on it, laid in pieces on the floor.

Snow boy creeps out of his room, sneaking a candy cane to give to his sister. He carefully picked up the pieces of the ornament and took it to his room, spending all night trying to glue it back together, cutting his little fingers, his tongue sticking out of his mouth in determination.

Snow girl hides under the covers, crying but not understanding why, sucking on the sweet candy cane but not tasting it, clutching her stuffed bear tight, a red bow on his neck.

Snow man drives to the bar, picking up a blonde with too much red lipstick smeared on her face. “Make me feel something,” He tells her. But as she leaves red stains on his tie, the one his snow wife bought him as a gag gift, the one with little briefcases on it, he feels nothing. He shoves her face further down, closes his eyes, and finishes the bottle of whiskey, melting into the bed that smells like piss.

Later snow man will come home. He will kiss his snow wife’s cheek. “I’m sorry, baby,” he’ll say. She’ll smile and forgive him, like she always does. “It’ll get better,” says the snow man as he kisses her frozen lips.

And maybe it does. For a while. The snow boy proudly shows his parents the blue ornament he spent all night fixing, lines of silver glitter hiding the Elmer’s glue. The snow wife will say, “It looks even prettier now.” Presents will be given, red and green wrapping paper on the flooring.

The snow man gives his snow wife a heart shaped dimond to hand around her neck. It will get heavier and heavier as the years go by as her smile gets wider and wider. Back to crisp suits and steak and potatoes on the table. Back to screaming and crying, slamming of doors and broken bottles.

The snow man will continue to see random, nameless woman with lipstick smeared on their faces and cheap perfume. He’ll end up dying of a heartattack, sitting in his own filth in front of the television and leaving his wife all his gambling debts.

The snow wife will drink, throwing herself into PTA meetings, soccer games and ballet recitals, and trying to make everything perfect, putting so much Botox in her face, it’s like she’s permanently smiling. She’ll have to get a job after her husband dies, then another until she’s working three jobs.

The snow boy will drown his pain in pills and whatever else he can shove down his throat to forget the yelling that happens. He’ll turn to a life of petty crime, begging for someone to see him, to save him, until at 17 he ends up on a slab with a bullet in his head. His own hand pulled the trigger.

The snow girl grows up with earbuds in her ears, locked inside her own mind as she makes red lines on her arms and writes into a batter composition note book, hiding from the world. She won’t even mourn her father. She barely knew him.

She’ll try to help her brother but it’s too late, and she’ll always remember the blood on their family portrait and he said, “I can’t do this anymore.” She’ll remember her mother screaming and hitting the ground, clutching her brother’s body.

She’ll end up going to the school counselor and pouring her heart out. Her father’s drinking. The fights between him and her mother. Her brother’s crime record and suicide. She’ll slowly heal, telling her story to group therapy sessions and then eventually to a crowd of teenagers at her old high school, with her wife by her side and her children in the crowd.

She’ll visit her mother every weekend, take care of her and talk about the good days. Only the good days though.

She’ll place flowers and baseball cards on the grave and tell her brother that she’s okay, that she still loves candy canes and making snow angels with her children. She’ll tell him that it wasn’t perfect but at least they had each other. She’ll tell him that now she counsels children who came from homes like theirs so maybe there won’t be another him. Maybe she can save another snow boy when she couldn’t save him. She’ll tell him she loves him and that he was right. It will get better. Maybe not at first but it will.

Then she’ll set a blue ornament on the grave that their mother kept all these years, little lines of white glue visible where the silver and gold glitter had flaked off. She’ll remember how she took a glitter pen to hide the glue and how her brother said “That’s a great idea!

Then she’ll walk away, taking the hand of her snow wife, their daughter in her arms as they walk away. Money is tight. Stress is high. Their daughter is sick. Her snow wife lost her job. But the snow girl will remember.

It will get better.


I Don’t Think About You (A Poem)

I thought I would miss you.

Instead, I don’t. And I think that’s what hurts the most. The fact that I don’t miss you. The fact that our friendship is over and it doesn’t hurt like it should.

Shouldn’t it hurt more? Shouldn’t I feel your loss like a phantom limb? But I don’t. I barely feel it at all.

Maybe the reason it doesn’t hurt, why I barely feel your absence, is because you weren’t there. You stopped being present a long time ago. It’s like you were there when you wanted to be. When it was convenient to you. You were like a ghost, fading in and out and only showing up when you wanted to haunt me.

I don’t know when we grew apart. Could it be when I moved here? No. I’ve had friends who kept in touch more than you did.

It can’t be that.

Maybe it began before that. Before we graduated high school. When I needed you in tenth grade, when there were rumors running around about me and I was alone with no one on my side. With no one to turn to. No friendly ear to listen to me.

You would pass by and let me suffer alone, when what I needed back then was a friend. Someone to have my back. Like I had always had yours no matter what.

You would call me and I answered like a best friend does. Immediately. I dropped everything. And it wasn’t until you had cut me off. Told me that I was selfish that I realized. . .

It wasn’t me.

It was you.

I thought it would hurt more. But I don’t feel a thing. Maybe that makes me cold. I don’t know. All I know is that I don’t think about you. Not really. Maybe for a fleeting moment but then that’s it.

After all, you can’t really miss someone who wasn’t there in the first place.

I don’t wish you any ill will. I hope that you are happy and safe. I hope you find everything that you are looking for and even more.

I don’t regret our good times.

Going to the park and spending hours swinging and enjoying the sun.

Late-night talks as we discussed the stories in our heads.

Your passion equaled mine and a part of me, might miss having that. But I don’t need you to have that passion. I don’t need you to be who I am. To be a writer. To be an artist.

I don’t think about you. Maybe I should. Maybe it’s cruel. Or maybe it’s the cold stone truth. That I don’t miss you.

You are not a thought. You are barely a memory. You are nothing to me.

You were long gone before we ever said goodbye.


Prompt 1: Message in a Bottle

“While at the beach you decide to write a message in a bottle. What would it say. Who would you like to find it?”

To a stranger:

If you are reading this – hell, if you can read this – then this message in a bottle actually worked. I don’t know who you are nor do you know me. But I hope whoever you are, you find some comfort in these words. Or you could find them meaningless. I want you to know that you are not alone. You might be going through a rough time right now. You might want to say fuck the world because you keep getting knocked down. But don’t. It will be better. It will. I promise. And yes, I sound like a Hallmark card but I mean it. It will get better. This right here, whatever you are going through is just a bump in the road. Things will get better. You’ll see. So just hang in there. Just breathe. Just live. Take it one step at a time and see what happens. it might surprise you. And another thing, I know that you are a stranger but even though I don’t know you, I love you.


Keely Reeves

I Wish (A Poem)

I wish you knew how every time I hear that song, I die a little more.

I wish you knew that there are movies that I can’t watch anymore because we watched them together.

I wish you knew that sometimes I catch myself thinking about you and it takes me hours to forget you again.

I wish you knew that sometimes I see that black velvet box with the diamond ring and haunts me.

I wish I knew that I hear your voice everytime someone calls me “sweetie.” But then I look and it’s never you.

I wish you knew how hard it is sometimes to not dial your number. I still have it memorized even now.

I wish you knew that breathing is hard when I see photos of you on social media and you seem so happy.

I wish you knew that I finally made it to London and saw Big Ben. I took a picture to send to you and then remembered. . .

I wish you knee that I donated the dishes we bought together. You know the ones with the blue flowers.

I wish you knew I changed my hair color back to brown because I couldn’t stand to see the red hair you said always looked like flames.

I wish you knew how much I have grown and changed in the years since you left.

I wish you knew that I still think about you every day but I have to move on.

I wish you knew that my dreams are slowly coming true. Without you.

I wish I knew if you missed me.


Starry-Eyed (A Poem)

She comes in

like a heavy fog

over green,

green hills,

slow and steady

as the sun rises

in the east,

breaking into

blues and oranges.

She walks like

A cheetah,

Each step placed

With purpose,

Graceful and poised

But ready at a

Moment’s notice

To speed off

And save the day.

Her voice is

Like water,

Calm and cool,

Soothing all hurts

And easing

all sorrows,

But ready to rage

And rush like a


In her eyes she

Holds the universe,

Eyes sparkling with

The stars

Like diamonds

And with the

Knowledge of all

Those who came

Before her.


Love Is. . . (A Poem)

Love is

Slipping on a bottle

And then right as

You regain your balance,

Slipping on a rug,

Crashing to the hard,

Cold ground.

Love is

When you fall,

Sometimes there is

That cold hard ground

And you end up bruised

And broken

And maybe sometimes

A little bloody.

Love is

When there is no fall

Instead there is a warm hand

Yanking you back up

And a soft encouraging smile

Telling you

“Get back up. You can do it.

I believe in you.”

Love is

When you ride on

A rollercoaster

And you rush up the hill

To the very top

And you feel as though

You can touch the sun

And moon and stars.

Then you go rushing down

And down

And down

And you scream,

You are both afraid and happy.

Love is

That fuzzy butterfly feeling

In your stomach

Right after the hill

Of the rollercoaster,

That you enjoy and hate.

Love is


And nothing

All at once.

Love is





Love is

Like a rollercoaster

It has it’s ups and downs

But sometimes

Love can be amazing.


Apple (A Poem)

They ask me why

I bite into the apple

They believe the lies

That the snake seduced me

That I was tricked

And then banished

My lover and I out of


The truth is

There was no snake

It was him

My lover

He wanted the apple

But the moment

He was caught

He blamed me

He forced my mouth open

And shoved a piece

Of the apple inside

I did not want it

I only wanted

To gaze upon

The beauty the gods

Had bestowed upon

Us lowly humans

But my lover was greedy

He wanted the knowledge,

The power

So he took the apple

But I was the one

Who was punished

By the great thunder god

But the wife of the god

Let me keep all the knowledge

And that is why

I will no longer

Trust man

For he bite into

The apple

And I was blamed



And history

Repeats itself


Man blames woman

But fear not, my sisters

For I am Eve

And we may have

Not wanted the apple

But it’s power

We have



If Life Was A Comic Book

Sometimes I wish life was like a comic book. I look around and the while world is a bloody mess. We have a president who has a government shut down for 35 days over a wall. We have clubs, concerts, newspapers and schools being shot up. We have people afraid of cops. We have women whose rights over their body’s is being threatened. We have this fear of a terrorist attack. We act like a another shooting is normal. That all the death and despair is normal. I look around and it’s just so much horribleness. It’s sad. It makes me angry.

But it life was a comic book. . . .

Captain America would have our president gone, shielding us and showing us and the world what the United States really is. He and Superman would team up and raise everyone’s spirits, uncovering all the corruption. Tell the world that this is not who we are. We are better than the people you see in our government.

Batman would end all the gun violence with one single Batarang. Or perhaps the Punisher would show the criminals how to really use a gun.

Spiderman and Daredevil would stop muggings and robberies while little boys and girls look on with wonder.

The Runaways would come to classes and show that sometimes family is more than blood. That sometimes you have to stand up to your family.

Teen Titans and Young Avengers would show all the awkward teenagers that hey, they can change the world too.

Wonder Woman and Black Widow would fight not for women’s rights, but for everyone’s rights, with their team right beside them.

The LGBTQ community wouldn’t have to worry about being persecuted because heroes like Batwoman, Midnighter, Northstar, Wiccan, Hulking, The Question, Thunder and Constantine would proudly stand up with their respective partners, proudly showing their rainbow colors. With no shame. Teenagers all around would see these heroes being out and proud and they wouldn’t be afraid anymore of being gay, lesbian, queer or transgender.

If life was a comic book, sure there would a Darkseid or Thanos but at the end, we would know that the Justice League and the Avengers have our backs. They will protect us.

Life isn’t a comic book but sometimes that’s what we need to believe. Sometimes we need to step out of reality and into fiction and see that there is a happy ending. It might take a few issues and cliffhangers but we’ll get there.

We need that hope in a world like ours. We need to know that there are heroes doing their best to help us. And sometimes, we need to realize that there’s a little bit of a hero inside all of us.