So Here Goes Nothing;
I Am A Senior In High School, In Des Moines Iowa. I Love Pottery And Spoken Word Poetry. I'm A Member Of Movement515, And I'm One Of Six Children. I'm Not Sure What I Want To Be When I Grow Up. Yet.
But I Sure Hope That Somehow Writing Will Lead Me There.
When We Fuck
You Won't Hear The Sound
Of A Coffin Opening
I'm Dead Inside Anymore.
I... Wanna wrap my hands around a thick pole
of a carousel ride on our first date at the carnival.
I wanna swirl my tongue swiftly around
an ice cream cone when we take a trip to the ice cream parlor.
I wanna ride hard and bareback
when we go horseback riding at your cousin's ranch...
I wanna feel it pounding into me,
your heart when we dance close.
I wanna feel it on my face,
I'm talking about sunlight!
Why are you laughing?!
If you're too uncomfortable to hear
and I'm equally uncomfortable to say,
then why are we here, this is poetry, isn't it?
If I was a boy talking about banging chicks would that make this easier to swallow?
Does femininity have to keep me bound & gagged, I've heard my mother tell me enough times to act like a lady
But what does that mean?
Legs crossed, eyes open, voice low, mascara stenciled eyelids with crimson scarlet lips,
They'd say she tastes like innocence- isn't that why we dress up like school girls?
Pigtails and short skirts.
Call me naughty one more god damn time
Every video labeled with triple x's is marketed to the opposite sex, but we deserve to feel good too.
Even if that means inviting men into the hotel rooms of our bodies, ill scale the sheets to find myself between them if I have to.
The pursuit of happiness belongs to us too,
and if that means screwing a couple of dudes, what's it to you?
It all comes down to what we keep between our thighs:
All I know is that we turn against each other, each article of our unclothed bodies is like at crime scene wrapped in yellow tape, call me a massacre because I've been killing boys since the day they tasted my breath and called me pretty.
Carved from silicon, I'm developing cancerous distractions, the world painting my body and it's actions side show attractions. They were ring leaders in this carnival of distortion. Grotesque and picturesque. All they wanted from this was a contortionist.
They asked for this
And It was always them,
Obsessed and hell bent.
They asked to see us naked, stripped down, hollow eyes, expected innocence, pretty mouths and closed lips, didn't want to hear the echo of their screams in our own voice, dignity they told us to have,
Didn't mention the stacks of playboys they kept beneath their beds.
Just the images, never the women inside the pages.
They always want a girl who's good with her mouth
But they want lips sealed when it come to where she got the practice.
Shattering their images of their impossibly perfect
bubble gum pink and baby blue eyes.
We must be a commodity
Carved up like a good piece of meat and subservient served up for your judgement. Size me up like I haven't memorized the contours and calculated the curvatures; the kind of scrutiny to make your heart weep.
A masterpiece, but Mona Lisa kept all her clothes on, I think? Shallow but we stretch miles in all directions, I keep seeing mirror reflections, in every store window, if manikins can't stand up on their own, how can we?
I have to tell myself we don't have to stand up to stand for something.
And don't demean others with the word pussy, because what I keep between my thighs is nothing weak.
Keep trying to maintain my innocence. Shame anything that might just be our liberation:
bare knees, shoulder blades, and bra straps.
Written in the composition lines of our stretch marks it will tell us what provocative really means, but we haven't found it yet.
So how could you attempt to define what parts of us are too distracting?
I will paint my body honey harlot, summertime scarlet, and streak in the streets. A stark nude liberty.
I wanna be the type of women who is comfortable enough to take her clothes off.
Dance on stage if it means feeding a family, if it means taking money out of the hands of those who don't deserve it, if it means paying for an education I can't breath without.
I want to be the type of woman who opens the temple of her body, for tours if she has to
To resort and regain the kind of dignity they write stories about,
I want to be the type of woman who lays down her life, for her own children when their mouths are empty,
I'll take it like a whore.
No, daddy won't be ashamed because how could he be?
He bred a warrior, a fighter,
and he always said, it's not how big your muscles are, tough is how much you can take and get back up.
And women always get back up.
I'm A Suicide Bomb.
A Nuclear Explosion Of Unexplainable Inadequate Ambition.
A Hand Granade, Pull My Pin And Watch Me Self Destruct.
A Land Mine Beneath Seven Inches Of Soil, Tensed Like Piano Wire, Ready To Sing Under Pressure. Ready To Scream.
Genocide Of My Own Veins. Pull Them One By One, Out Of Their Homes And Send Them Off To Interment Camps, Built To Hold The Blood Of A Body That Only Betrays Me.
I'm Holding Each Limb Hostage, Each Finger A Prisoner Of War, Every Fingertip A Monument Where Everyone I Have Ever Loved Will Mourn The Tragedy Of My Own Destruction.
Gas Masked And Gagging, They Will Always Ask Why I Did It.
A Post Traumatic Stress Disorder Diagnoses To Give Them Some Closure. I
Know They Didn't Understand The War I Was Waging Beneath My Ribs.
Waking Every Morning, Clawing My Way Through The Wreckage, With Knees And Palms Painted Filthy Black, Ears Ringing, Like The Sound Of A Thousand Dead Voices Vibrating,
I Have To Tell Myself It Must Be Happening For A Reason.
I've Been Wearing A Kevlar Vest Made Of Lies, White Ones, Stained Red.
A Purpose Born Inside Me, I Have To Ask How Much Longer Must I Keep Running?
I Have To Believe The God You Pray To, Prays To Someone Like Me, Because Who Else Would Declare War On This Kind Of Humanity.
Every Day Is A Battle, Every Aching Moment Is A Last Attempt At Redemption,
Every Bone In This Body Is A Bayonet Aimed To Splint Apart My Skeleton.
This Isn't A War Anymore.
This Is Terrorism.
Terrorized My Paper Thin Skin,
Handed Me Black & Blue ink, and Told Me To Write Out My Surrender On My Skin, Like Bruises
Wrapped In Kelodial Bandages.
I Am Damage.
I Am Destruction.
I Am Savage.
I Am. Terrified.
My Home Is A War Zone, Scabbed Over And Still Bleeding, No Where Is Safe, Not Even Inside My Own Skull.
I Am Eyelid Explosions And Neplam, Burning One Hundred Thousand Degrees Above My Own Boiling Point.
An Open Wound. Bullet Bomb Shell, Left With More Holes Than Whole.
Had Spent 6 Years On This Planet, 2,190 Days Too Short To Understand What It Meant To Watch Twin Towers Fall.
They Said The Word Attack.
Lived Eleven More Years In This Body, In An Existence That Seems To Only Be Fighting Against It's Own Skin, Cutting It Into Pieces, Cutting Corners, Cutting Edges, Looking For Answers Beneath Whatever Remains Of Me.
How Can You Win A Battle When The Only One You Are Fighting Is Yourself?
I Think My Violet Eyes And Indigo Insides Believed In A Peace Treaty, But I Have Shrapnel Wedged So Deeply Inside Me, That It's Become Difficult To Understand Existing Without It.
How Do I Fight An Invisible Enemy, With Kerosene Lips And Matches For Fingertips?
I Am A Solider.
There Was A Draft And It Consisted Of A Single Six Digit Number That Matched My Birthday,
Like A Bad Joke,
I Can't Remember When It Began, All I Know Is That I Haven't Lived in A Time Without Bloodshed.
Mental Illness Runs In My Family,
A Weapon Of Mass Destruction,
Built Into This Blood,
Yet AB Negative
Of Where It Will Take Me,
Except To Live A Life Wondering If I'll Catch The Family Flu,
They Call This Biological Ware fare.
How Do We Wash The Blood Out Of Our Own Genes?
Us. The Sick Of Soul, The Diseases And Dying, The Psychosomatic, Sociopathic, Undiagnosed And Overmedicated,
Must Tell Ourselves
That Atleast Suicide Bombers..
Die For Something.
If You Were To Ask Her..
She Would Tell You It Wasn’t A Suicide Attempt .
She’d Say Her Blue Lips And Limp Limbs Were Just A Side Effect Of The Pills.
Like An Entire Bottle Of Oxy-Cotton Would Make Her Chase That High Even Higher,
It Was Hard Enough Learning To Walk On Shattered Souls.
She Was Trying To Levitate.
Hover Above The Ground, She Was Begging The Sunrise To Call Her Skyward.
Body Wrapped In Shades Of Ultra-Violet,
The Perfect Skylight Shade,
The Taste of Ocean Waters,
She Was Trying To Drowning All Her Those Scars Inside Of It.
Some Beautiful Disaster.
She’ll Tell You It Was An Accident.
That Her Body Had Laid Down Beside Me.
Heavy Hearted And Empty.
Between One And Two AM, Sixty Minutes Of Silence Between Us, I’ll Promise You
I Was Just A Child Then.
All I Knew Was That I Couldn't Sleep Without Her, She Had Fed Me Plates Full Of Co-Dependency, Curled Tight Around Me, Told Me It Was Her And I Against This World.
I Believed This.
Her Addiction Was Chasing Her.
Like A Storm.
She Was Self Medicating, Hiding Under Box springs, And Bed Sheets, Inside The Basement Of Her Own Depression. She Had Pulled Me Through Rooms Filled With Lost Eyes, Laced Fingers With Enough Hands,
Repeated The Serenity Prayer So Many Times, It Was Stitched Into My Cerebellum.
I Was Raised in The Play Rooms Of Churches, On Sunday Night, Narcotics Anonymous Meetings, A Novocain Numbness To The Same Voices, On Burnt Coffee And Stale Oatmeal Cookies, Sponsors And Sobriety Chips, Seven Days Sober, With Some Applause.
They Told Us To Always Keep Coming Back.
That It Works If You Work It,
If You Pulverize It, Break it Down, Devour It. And Destroy It.
And To Always Destroy What Destroys You.
So She Was Tearing Her Own Body Limb From Limb, Separated Skin And Bone, Shedding Her Skeleton.
My Mother Would Tell You She Had Wrapped Her Body Around Me.
Half Human, And Almost Gone.
I’d Tell You He Had Woken Us Up Too Early In The Morning, Somewhere Between The Bleakness Of Dusk And Dawn, And They Had Taken Us To The Hospital.
The Smell Of Bleach And Newborn Babies,
Pumped Her Stomach, Pulling Out Every Ounce Of Self Depravity She Had Tucked Inside Of Herself.
If You Were To Ask Her, She Would Tell You It Wasn’t What It Looked Like.
But I’d Tell You She Had Overdosed On Self Destruction, Smothered By The Box She Had Trapped Herself In.
And I’d Tell You She Had Laid Down Beside Me.
Allowing Herself To Leave Me, Always So Alone.
So Know This Destruction By Name, Press It Against My Palms, And Wrap Me In This Honesty. Baptize Me In This Salt Water, Sting My Open Wounds, My Burned Flesh, Like Branded Skin,
Scared For The Rest Of This Eternity.
I’d Tell You She Hadn’t Left A Suicide Note.
Didn’t Need To.
Just Remember What Kind Of Depravity She Had Written Out, Spelled Each Stanza On The Bed sheets Between Us, When Mommy Fell Asleep Beside Me That Night.
I’d Tell You That I Could Have Woken Up Beside Her The Next Morning. And She Wouldn’t Have Been There.
Taken, Savagely, In The Middle Of The Night.
At Six Years Young, Could Have Threaded My Fingers Into Her Hair, And Begged Her To Wake Up.
I’d Tell You She Wouldn't Have Been Able To.
She’d Tell You, Atleast She Had.
The Warning Label On This Brand Of Poetry,
“Keep Out Of The Reach Of Children”
Because It Seems Like An Age Requirement Is Required To Open My Mouth Here.
You See, I Was Born And Raised In The Hallways Of This Body,
Theres A Recollection Of Every Year Of My Growth, On Each Edge Of This Skin, Like A Story Book, Read Me Like A Map,
And Tell Me
In My Short Seventeen Years Of Life, If I've Seen Enough Lifetimes Yet.
If I Don’t Speak With Enough Dignity, Or Grit, Or Sometimes - Just Bared Jawed, Teeth Snapping, Hell Fire.
Tell Me, If My Lips Can’t Curl Into The Same Kind Of Snarl Yours Can,
Or If My Blood Stream Isn't Pumping The Same Mixture Of Insalvageable Sudden Sacrificial Suicidal Need.
I've Gotten Welcomed Into Enough Rooms, Warmed Up Mics Until They Were Hot Enough To Burn My Lips, And I Keep Coming Back.
If I Wasn't Addicted To This Stage, Like Some Sort Of Divinity Gone Wrong, If I Can’t Remember What It Feels Like To Not Need Anymore.
Tell Me I’m Not A Poet.
I’m Less Than Six Months Away From My Eighteenth Birthday.
As If Something Inside My Bones Will Change Between Then, And Now, As if The Home Of My Body Will Suddenly Be Capable Of Carrying More, If Now That I Can Smoke My Lungs Black, Marlboro Cigarette Shaped Scar Burns, Onto The Backs Of My Hands, If The Ability To Buy Porn, Or Tattoo Every Inch Of Exposed Skin,
Would Make Me Any More Of An Adult.
You Better Hope I Never Become One.
It’ll Be A Day I Will Chase In The Opposite Direction,
Don’t Say I’m Running From It.
So No, I Don’t Want To Grow Up.
This Peter Pan, Neverland, Is More Honest Than You Will Ever Realize.
Catch This If You Can.
I Won’t Write Poetry About Every Ounce of My Undiscovered Tragedy,
I’ll Remind You
That My Seventeen Years Have Gifted Me With Sweet Suffering, Like a Character Building Beauty,
But I’ll Be The First To Tell You That
And This World Don’t Know One Another Too Well Yet.
So I’ve Got A Long Time, To Write Out My Best Stories, Pull Them, From Inside The Depths Of This Monstrosity, And Give Them Life.
One For Mother’s Meth Addiction.
Two For Her No Note Suicide Attempt,
Three For Her Blue Lips When I Woke Up Beside Her,
Four For The Way My Father Has Never Given Up On Me,
Five For Scars I Shouldn't Have Given Myself,
Six For The Way I’m Still Here In Front Of You,
Seven For The Story I Haven’t Told Yet.
So Know I Am Seen, And Also Heard.
I've Got A Lot Of More Speaking To Do.
This Must Mean,
I’m Not Finished Yet.
Pop Off The Cap Of This Prescription Bottle,
Side Effects Include
Peel Back The Warning Label,
When They Said “Keep Out Of The Reach of Children”
They Must Have Been Talking About You.
Shes been waking me up in the middle of the night lately.
She pulls my hair in the early hours of the morning, beats the sleep out of me, like an angry sibling, all elbows and knees, a halo of messy hair, all because she needs to thread her fingers into mine, and tell me the stars are calling her home, calling her skyward.
And I laugh at her.
Because she doesn't understand the science of astrology or how the atoms that make up her being, are that of stars, and all she has to do is close her eyes to be home.
She hates when I laugh at her.
She waits restlessly, with hands bent tight around pens with black and blue ink, she begs me to give the paper bruises.
But I tell her I'm too busy.
Push her away, out of me, and back into herself.
She hates being alone.
She smiles at me, and brings me indigo flower beds and lilacs to rest my head on.
Shes been bending over backwards, writing our initials in the sand for so long now, fingers tripping over one another in the beaches of sand,
sand once held in hour glasses,
measuring out how many seconds and hours, days and weeks we have left with one another.
She tells me I am wasting this youth that I have, on dollar bills and proper sleeping habits.
She says artists don't need sleep.
She pulls me, sideways out of myself and tells me that she's leaving.
She wears red lipstick and climbs into the back of a big yellow cab, and writes a song about it. Sings it to me, when she slams the door.
She says I didn't appreciate her.
She just doesn't understand that the dust in my skeleton is shuddering, quaking, breathing and breaking.
Begging to be stirred up, swallowed down, and to devour something new.
She doesn't understand that I am in love with her, and the thousands of intricate patterns her fingertips could trace on blank canvases.
She has no idea that I will be irrevocably lost without her, with no map to guide me, or guide to find me.
She doesn't know that without her, I am nothing.
She doesn't know that I need her.
There Is Something Impossibly Impulsive About The Body We Wore.
Like A Costume On Stage, Every Change Felt Like A Quick One.
We Were Ripping Layers Of Cotton and Silk, Away.
Never Naked, Just Feeling Like Maybe You Might Of Left With A Little Less Than What You Came With.
We Stood Back-lit, Like Stage Props.
Held Frozen By Spot Lights, Unable To Reach Out And Touch Each Other.
Like We Might Break One Another.
The Ridged Lines, Hard Pallor Skeleton, Like Road maps, Through Broadway, And The Whites Of Our Eyes.
We Were A Balcony Away, Dusty Velvet And Aged Satin.
Palms Prints, Like Sheer Silk Gloves, Elbow Deep In Our Own Self Obsession, A Hallway Of Mirrors, One Thousand Watt Bulbs.
A Cast And Crew of Only You.
We’d Turn Down The House Lights, Dim The Emptiness Behind Our Eyelids, A Box Office Value, Of The Number Of Souls You Couldn't Keep Captive.
Always Realizing You Were Alone, An Underage Tragedy, Ad Libbing Our Way Through The Only Auditions That Mattered, The Ones We Needed To Make Something More Of The Masks We Wore.
There’d Be A Black Out, Long Enough For You To Get Your Bearings.
Realize This All Didn't Have To Be An Act.
There Would Always Be Red Glowing Exit Signs, Easy Outs.
But We’d Learn That You Can’t Be The Understudy In Your Own Life.
There Would Be The Curtain, A Dozen Gold Tassels, To Raise.
Break The Fourth Wall, And Divide Your Insides Apart.
Draw A Line, A Call For Places, A Dress Rehearsal, A Last Chance To Get This Right.
You’d Come To The Sound Stage Reaction.
You’re More Than A Performance.
A No Longer Tried And True Type Cast.
Please Take A Bow, Darling.
Make This Stage Worthy, Standing Ovation,
Side Scripted Lines,
Welcome To The Masquerade.
I Have This New Problem.
This New Self Crippling.
Slithering It's Way Inside Me.
You See I Have This New Problem.
This New Something - Standing Sidewise In The Back Of My Mind, That Makes Me Insane.
Instability Like Crumbling Cinderblocks.
Convinced That My Muse Will Leave Me.
Get Fed Up With My Messy Bedroom And 5 Hour A Night Sleep Schedule. Decide I Don't Appreciate Her Enough. She'd Write A Love Song About Leaving Me. The Red Lipstick She'd Wear And Yellow Cab That Would Take Her Away.
Like Sick To My Stomach.
Like Dizzyingly Drowsy, Like Taking Four Hour Naps Between Work, School, Homework,
And This Thing Called Obligation,
This Thing Called Obligation,
This Thing Called Obligation.
Obligated To Myself.
Redefined By A Number On A Score Sheet, Let it Tell Me I Wasn't Worth The Effort Anymore.
Let It Tell Me To Give Up.
Let It Wake Me Up At 3 am To Write This.
Sanity, Like The Thing I'm Sure I Must Have Misplaced.
Like This Inability To Stop Eating Myself Alive, Separating Fingertip From Skin, Biting Down To The Quick, So Everything I Touch, Hurts Me.
Like Telling Myself No.
Like Staying Awake Seventeen Hours, And Seventeen Assignments Later, Like Seventeen Years Of This.
Like Enough Already.
* I Said Enough.*
There Is A Reason ihop Is Open 24 Hours A Day.
It's Like A MmMmMm. Pancakes!
Like A Mouth Watering & The Sound Of Fork Scraping Plate, Kind Of Morning, Isn't It?
Sunny Saturday Morning In April, With NPR Playing Over The Radio, And The Sound Of Bacon Sizzling, Kind Of Morning.
Take It From Me.
Watched A Heavy Hearted Seventeen Year Old Sister, Ask For Breakfast Ar Midnight, And The Hours Spent Talking Away Her Heart Ache With Mom Was Just A Side Effect Of The Full Stomach.
Stumble Into This.
With Bloodshot Eyes, And Ripped Up Jeans, 5am And Hung Over.
The Waitress Will Always Take Care Of You.
It's Like Her Duty, Along Side Taking Orders And Refilling Empty Coke Glasses, She'll Serve You
And Whip Cream Shaped Like A Smiley Face,
Without Any Questions Asked.
Pancakes Are The Breakfast Of Champions. So You Remember This. Your Fork And Knife Battle Weapon, Ready To Turn This 15 Minute Meal Into A Valiant Reawakening.
And Remember You Are King Today.
Staff And Stone, And No One Can Destroy You.
Eat Up, And Be Strong.
I Dare You.
Lick Your Fingers, And Ask For Seconds.
This Is Life, And Asking For Another Helping Has Never Been A Bad Thing.
Bite Your Tongue, Drink Back This Moment. I'd Ask You To Taste It, If Your Mouths Weren't Already Full.
I Know, There Will Be Tequila &Wine Bottles You'll Try To Drown Yourself In.
But I've Learned Something Sticky Sweet Seems To Heal The Broken Edges Just A Little Better.
Daddy Always Said There Was A Reason The Light On The 'Waffle House' Sign Never Went Out. A Warm Plate & A Smile Is Sometimes All You Need To Make A Place Home.
The Next Time You Get Offered Pancakes, Consider It A Token Of Appreciation.
Always Say Yes.
Even If You're Not Hungry.
Take A Bite. You Won't Regret It.
I Met God This Morning.
He Was Sitting At A Bus Stop. I Sat Down Beside Him. I Was Convinced He Was Was Part Of Some Devine Intervention, Thinking If He Could Find Silence So Close To The Street, He'd Finally Be Able To Say He'd Seen A Miracle.
But I Wasn't So Sure i Had Seen Anything Because I Wasn't Raised On A Diet Of Bread And Wine, Oh Excuse Me, Body And Blood, Wasn't Cannibalized By The Holy Spirt. Now Don't Get Me Wrong, I'm Not The Sanctimonious Sacrilegious Type. But I've Placed My Hand, To Enough HeartBeats To Know We're Placed Here For A Reason.
And Then I Met Him Again, In A Convenience Store On The Corner Of Locust. He Kissed The Palm Of My Hand, And Told Me To Pray More Often.
But I Wasn't Prone To Midnight Awakenings, My Tongue Didn't Speak The Same Language The Almighty Savior Did. Everyone Called Him Father, But I Was Told We Were Better Off Without Daddy Around. Hadn't Learned The Right Hymns, My Lungs Not Strong Enough To Hold A Breath Deep Enough For The Two Of Us.
And Then I Saw Him Again. Working A 100 Hour Week, On No Sleep. This Time He Was A Single Mother Of Three, Whose Hands Had Stitched More Wounds Then They Could Care To Count. They Didn't Call It An Emergency Room, For Nothing. Two Hundred Thousand Dollars In Debt Over School Loans, And Still Had The Capacity To Smile. Thats How I Knew It Was Him.
I Wasn't Baptized In Anything Except For Maybe Hell Fire And Brimstone, Seven Shades Of Sin, Out Of Wedlock, With No Shot Gun Wedding Procession. I Didn't Have A Pastor To Preach Me Into Submission. Wasn't Thumbing Any Bibles, No Prequel To My Older Than New Testament. They Called It Faith, But I Wasn't Prepared To Walk Down Any Pitch Black Hallways In Hopes Of A Light Switch.
And Then We, He And I, Crossed Paths, For What Seemed Like Should Have Been The Last Time, He Was Quiet And Collected This Time. Made Weak From His Seventh Round Of Chemotherapy. His Body Was Decaying Around Him. His Spirt Was Practically Screaming To Be Let Out Of The Cage That Was His Ribs. He Passed Me A Note, & All It Said Was “I'll Remember You.”
No One Ever Fed Me A Concoction Of Deity, And Diet. Religion Wasn't A Silver Spoon In My Mouth. Afterlife Sounded Like A Bad Daytime Soap Opera.
But I Know The Creator. She Left Hearts On Notes In New York City Subway Stations. She Tattooed Your Name Onto The Bottom Of Her Foot, So Wherever They Took Her, You'd Be There Too. She Wore Her Heart On Her Sleeve, And Thats Why She Forgot It In So Many Places. She Was Obsessed With Shorelines, And Sunshine. And Shes Convinced We're All Natural Disasters, Happening Naturally, Falling Into Each Other, Against One Another, Like Dry Lightening Storms, Recklessly Stupid, And Always Too Young.
I Know God.
He Was Holding The Umbrella, And Told Me That No One Can Tell The Difference Between Tears And Rain Drops Anyway. He Was There The Day I Almost Drowned, He Pulled Me Out Of The Lake, And Held My Hand Until My Mother Came.
So Maybe I Wasn't The Church Pew Type, Hadn't Spent Hours At Sunday Service, Passing Around Empty Collection Plates, While Plates Else Where In The World Sat Empty. Didn't Know Scripture Like The Back Of My Hand, Two Freckles, Like Constellations, And Five Knuckles Hungry To Be Broken,
But I Know God.
I Know Him Like An Old Friend.
He Kisses My Forehead, When The Monsters Inside The Contours Of My Skull Got Too Loud.
He Holds My Skeleton, In The Early Hours Of The Morning, When I Was Desperate To Leave It Behind.
I Think Some People Might Have Called All Of These A Religious Experience.
But All I Know Is He Was There When I Was Born.
In The Room.
And I Swear His Voice Was The First One I Heard.
I'm Stripping Myself Bare For This One. Every Layer That I Meant To Impress, Down To My Bones. The Collection I've Come To Keep Is Now Not My Own.
I Am Now Pages.
And Pencil Lead.
This Is About What It Means To Give Up,
To Give In,
To Be Empty,
To Be Lonely,
To Be Fragile,
Every Story A Letter Carved In Your Skin, Something To Take With You, The Lyrics You Wrote Down On Bar Napkins, Book Quotes In The Margins Of Notebook Assignments, Love Letters Folded Into Hearts And Stashed Behind Your Eyelids,
It Isn't Just One Story, Its Every Single One Of Them.
Its Why Daddy Is Never Coming Back, And Why We Run Ourselves Bleeding Into A Tissue Paper'd Sky, Wondering When We'll Hit Home.
Chapter 103, Third Paragraph, Sentence 4
She Uses Rusted Razor Blades To Part The Lines Of Her Skin, Open Up Her Veins, Call It A Donation, But It Wasn't For The Collection Plate On Sunday. She Was Trying To Trace Deep Enough Into Herself, To The Point Where She Could Differentiate Between The Surface, And What Part Of Her Makes Her Human.
She Never Got An Answer.
Chapter 1, First Paragraph, Sentence 3
He Can't Pull His Body Out Of Bed In The Morning. No Matter How Many Hours He Sleeps, Its Never Enough. He's Spent Too Many Hours Connecting The Constellation Patterns In The Ceiling Above His Bed, Now He Can't Remember What The Real Stars Look Like, And He's Not Sure We Wants To Any More. Every Morning It's Like Gravity Is Working A Double Shift Making It Next To Impossible To Lift Himself Off The Mattress, He's Tired Of All This Pillow Talk, His Vocal Cords, Folded Line Over Line, And Left Out To Dry.
Hes Always So Tired.
Chapter 214, Last Paragraph, Last Sentence,
She's Bent Over Porcelain Coffins, Emptying Herself Out, Setting Her Esophagus On Fire. Someone Once Told Her Beauty Is Pain, So She's Hell Bent On Smiling Until It Hurts. Determining Her Self Worth In Calories And Pages Of Magazines Stapled Into Her Skin, She'll Only Be Happy When- She'll Only Be Happy If – She'll Only Be Happy When – It's A Never Ending List Of Self Proclaimed Requirements, And She's Never Been Good At Following Any Rules, Except For This One.
She Hates Herself.
Chapter 48, 4th Paragraph, Sentence 6
He Keeps A Bottle Of Absolute Under His Bed, And It's Why Everything Else Means Absolutely Nothing. He's An Engagement Ring Resting At The Bottom Of A Lake For One Too Many Sleepless Summers. Worthlessly Drunk On His Own Sorrow. Some Days Its The Only Thing He Thinks About, Pushing Himself Into The Only Kind Of Darkness He Can Dream In Anymore.
He Can't Remember If Its Worth It.
Chapter 17, 7th Paragraph, Sentence 2
She Can't Stop Giving Herself Away. So Many Hands To Hold Her Already Bruised Flesh, They Call Her Baby, Sweetie, Honey, Love, But None Of Them Stay Around Long Enough For Any Of Those To Stick. She's A Notch In The Bedpost, Face Down In The Mattress, And Sometimes She Doesn't Even Know Their Names. She's The Raven Haired Beauty From The Wrong Side Of The Tracks, And She's Told Herself Its Worth It, Because It's Twenty Minutes Someone's Arms Are Around Her.
She Lets Them Use Her.
This Is The End To Every Book You've Ever Read.
This Is Our Body's Last Stand To A War We've Been Fighting In Our Bones.
We're Asking Every Part Ourselves Why We're Here.
We're Running Out Into The Storm. One Made Of Words, And Weapons, And Sorry Stained Goodbyes. Paperback Regret, Prolog Pretenses, Epilog Broke Back Empathy.
We've Got Jaws Bared Tight. Asking The God Our Parents Pray To, To Give Us All The Answers To All The Questions That Keep Us Awake At Night.
So Here We Are. So Here I Am, Afraid of My Shadow At Seven, Afraid Of Myself At Seventeen.
Afraid Of What I Could Do To Myself.
Afraid Of What My Fingertips Might Feel Like, Turning The Last Page.
But I Always Do, Don't I?
We Always Do, Don't We?
Because We're All Just A Bunch of Self-Destructive Mother-Fuckers, Aren't We?
So This Is Why.
She, He, We & I Are Why.
This Story Is Why.
If Someone Ever Wrote Us into A Support Group, We'd Heal Her Wounds. Not With Bandages Or Stitches, But With Soft Words And Ribbons Around All Her Old Scars. We'd Shake The Dust Off Of His Bones, And Pull Him So Far Out Of Himself, He'd Be New Again, More Alive, More Awake Than He Had Ever Been, We'd Tell Her She Was Pretty, Beautiful, Stunning, Cover Her in Copper And Sunlight, Tell Her She Didn't Need Anything Except The Skin She Was In, And That Would Be Enough. We'd Empty His Veins Of The Alcohol Poisoning His Blood, And Tell Him Life Is So Much Better When You Can Remember It, We'd Hold Her, How We Should, And Promise Not To Let Go, Hold Her So Tightly It Hurts, And Remind Her How To Love The Right Way.
And There Would Be That Storm. Brewing Inside All Of Us.
And We'd Go Back.
Go Back To The Pressed Flowers We Had Kept Between Encyclopedia Pages.
And We'd Feel The Thunder.
And See The Lightning.
We'd Be Held Tight In Book Jackets, And Leather Bound Binding,
And We'd Promise Each Other Not To Let Go.
My mother would have told you I came in the dead of winter, on the coldest night of the year, and hit like a storm, if she had remembered it.
But she hadn't.
Asleep for several more months before my heartbeat would wake her from her deep sleep, I was born screaming.
Overwhelmingly solitary they called us. But your voice sounded like raspberries and honey, you smelled like summertime and love, I couldn't tell the difference between the two anymore.
Our cousins in Asia tell us this kind of infatuation is unheard of, say I must be going mad. The Northern family say I need someone to keep me warm at night, and I knew it had to be you. Mother said I was a late bloomer, six years into my life until I could love you the right way, I was tired of destroying all the things I touched, with more claw then palm.
I would swim oceans for you, over the coldest currents, paw over paw until my body sand. I would eat a diet of creatures one' one thousandth my size for you, all year long if it meant making you mine. When I thought I couldn't have you, I waded, restlessly to my stone swaddled basin and slept for so long when I awoke I swore months had past.
I would shed every inch of skin, every single hair follicle, 9,677 per square inch, make myself naked, for you.
But you left. Almost as soon as you came. Like a thief in the night, far away for far too long. But you said you wern't the type to mate for life. But I've expanded my rage, a 60 mile radius around the length of my home, and I'm waiting for you.
You'll be mine again.
I Decided That I'm Going To Write A Love Poem About You.
Something I've Been Battling With For A Long Time, Like A Empty War In My Chest.
I'm Not Sure Who Brought The Trojan Horse Into My Heart And Defiled Me From The Inside Out,
But I Know That I've Decided On The Final Solution..
Some Nuclear Weaponry To End This Once And For All.
I Had This Idea In My Head That Writing A Love Poem About You Would Somehow Make Me Less Of A Poet. Instead Two Quarters Sell-Out, One Half Wannabe, One Seventh Cop-Out, And Now You're Probably Laughing At Me Because There Is No Way That Adds Up To One Whole Of Anything.
But This Is What You've Made Me Into.
We Used To Make Fun of The Girls With Their Boyfriend's Name Tattooed Across Their Collarbones, But Now I'm Sketching Out Your Initials On The Cover Of Every One Of My Notebooks, Wishing It Was My Skin.
And When I Can't Answer The Next Question In Class Because Of You, I Can't Help But Laugh, Because Suddenly I'm The Ridiculous One Now.
And That Makes Me Love You Like I Love Concerts. Being Smashed Against Seven Hundred Screaming Bodies, To Get A Glimpse At The Heartbroken Hero Who Is Singing Just For Me. The Next Morning, Every Single Part Of My Body Is On Fire, And I'd Tell Myself It Was Somehow All Worth It.
Because You See, You're Somehow All Worth It.
Worth Being Called Every Single Cliche I've Been Battling.
I Pledged When I Was Twelve Years Old That I Would Never Cry Over A Boy. But I've Shed More Tears Between Us Then I'm Capable Of Counting. And Even Openly In Front Of You, Which Is Something I've Never Been Very Good At.
And I've Written Apologies Letters To The Both Of Us, For Not Being Everything I Could Be.
And You've Made Me Want To Make A List Of Our Every Occurrence, July Seventh, 2010, August 14th 7:53pm, January 19th, October 29th 3:14pm, March 10th, Like A Date Book Of Every Important Moment Because I'm Afraid I Might File Them Away In The Back Of My Mind
And Then Forget Where I Put Them.
And By Now You've Probably Noticed That I Haven't Been Able To Stick With One Single Metaphor During This Entire Poem And I'm Several Shades Of Scarlet, Because Somehow You Make It Impossible To Be Anything Except A Mess.
And That's Coming From The Girl Who Color Coordinates Her Underwear Drawer.
You've Also Probably Noticed That My Usual Over Emotional, Polished And Perfect Poetry Of Pretty Words Has Completely Gone Missing In This Piece. And Instead All I'm Left With Is This Awkward Imagery Of Something Much Less Honorable Then What I'm Usually Referencing.
But Somehow I'm Still Smiling.
And I've Been Wearing My Heart On My Sleeve For So Long Now That I Can't Remember What Part Of My Body It Belongs In Anymore. I've Been Listening To Your Voice On Repeat So Often That It Has Became My Soundtrack.
I've Decided To Give My Empty Parts, My Fingertips, My Shoulder Blades To You As Gifts, Make-Shift Wrapped In Newspaper, Because I Didn't Have Anything Else Left.
You Took Them As Yours
Took Me As Yours
Now I Spend Every Night Connecting The Constellations In The Spackle Patterns Of The Ceiling Above My Bed, Wondering What Stars You're Staring At.
And Suddenly This Love Poem Doesn't Feel So Terrifying Anymore.
Because You've Scared Away The Sorrow, Put Hello-Kitty Band-Aids On All My Old Scars.
You Make Me Want To Make You Chocolate Chip Pancakes In Bed And, And, Read Shakespeare For Fun!
Because If I'm Sally, Then You're Jack, Rodger To My Mimi, Princess Buttercup And Wesley, Hermione Granger And Ron Weasley, Allie And Noah..
And Now I'm Rambling.
And You're Probably Smiling Again.
What I'm Trying To Say Is That I Want You To Know That I Will Spend The Rest Of The Forever You Give Me Listening To Your Voice.
Singing In The Shower, Humming In The Back Of My Mind, Whispering It To Me Late At Night, All Those Songs Of Longing.
I'll Lay Wide Awake And Listen, Repeating It Myself How Incredibly Deep You Are.
So Deep I Could Throw Myself Into You And Drown Inside You, Before I Ever Have The Chance To Come Up For Air.
And That Aching In My Chest Would Somehow Make Me Feel Like I Was Finally Home.
I Am Eleven Different Shades Of Regret Tonight.
One For The Way I Left You. Hand Prints In The Quick Sand Of Our Last Memory.
Two For The Way I Was Too Afraid To Love You The Right Way, Blade In Left Hand, Afraid Of What I Was Capable Of Doing To Myself, And To You.
Three For The Heart Break You Wore On Your Sleeve, Unafraid To Tell Me How Deeply I Hurt You.
Four For The Emptiness I Left, The Broken Promises, Picking Up Your Prices, Scarlet White Lies, Written Up The Length Of My Skin.
Five For The Way I Waited For You To Tell Me You Needed Me. Over. And Over. And Over Again.
Six For All Phone Calls I Never Retuned, The Facebook Messages I Never Received, The Text Messages I Didn't Said Because It Was Easier For Me Not To.
Seven For The Self Hate
Eight For The Way We Turned Out, Afraid Of Our Own Shadows, Empty Handed And Worthless.
Nine For The Way I Missed You
Ten For The Empty Jaws We Held All Of Our Resentment Inside, Bared Tight Until They Bled.
Eleven Because I Never Said It.
I Guess She Must Have Been Starving.
Wasn't Well Fed Enough To Keep Her Skin And Bones, Her Silk And Gold, More Than Just Skin And Bones.
Momma Said She Was Hungry For Heart Ache.
It Was The Echo Of Her Own Voice, The Empty Callouses On Her Palms And The Way She Had Written Hell Bent Across Her Knuckles, Loved By So Many She Was Worn Out, Worn Down, Like On Old Pair Of Shoes.
She Cleaned Her Plate Every Night, Her Mouth Full Of More Teeth Than Her Jaw Could Hold.
She Told Me, After Supper, She'd Find Palm Prints That Match Her Own, But She Was Always Too Tired To Go Out Looking
There Were Street Corners, And Fish Nets, She Told Me That Were Meant For Catching Men, She Always Wore Her Skin Too Tightly, Like It Didn't Fit Her Right, Like It Had Been Handed Down To Her, From An Older Sister With Broader Shoulders, And A Thousand Watt Smile, That Her Teeth Could Never Generate.
She Told Me She Had Tasted So Many Flavors.
Said That Her Tongue Could Contort, To The Taste Of Memory. The Lavender Eyelashes Who Kept Saying Sorry, The Butterscotch Fingertips That Wouldn't Look Her In The Eyes, The Honeycomb Heart Break Whose Lips Felt Like Regret, The Cherry Tart Knuckles Who Painted Her Flesh Purple Under His Palms, The Cotton Candy Wrists Who Wouldn't Stop Swearing, The Elderberry Shoulder Blades That Were Always Shaking.
I Think They Called Her Man Eater.
Capable Of Unhinging Her Jaw Like A Python, Swallowing Her Subjects Whole, It Wasn't That She Was So Hungry, It Was That She Had To.
I Think Someone Printed Prey Across Her Hip Bones, Made Her Feel Like Where Ever She Was Going, She Had To Run To, Eyes Too Big, Too Bright, Too Empty For The Planes Of Her Face, She Was Use To Being Hollow, Her Stomach, Wound Tight Around What Was Left Of Her Insides.
She Had Regurgitated Every Ounce Of Herself Back Up To Them, Stripped Down, Every Layer Of Her Skin, Until She Was Naked. Bare Like The Back She Had Carried Me On.
Her Bedroom Didn't Have A Lock On The Door. I Could Find Her Bent Over Porcelain Coffins, Emptying Out The Fill She Had Eaten That Night.
Said It Never Tasted As Good The Second Time Around.
I'd Hold Her Hair, With Small Hands That We're Always Grabbing Things They Shouldn’t, And Listen To Her Body Betray Her.
She Was Cellophane And Cheap Lip Gloss, Born Screaming, Ravenous For Rejected Remembrance, I Was Always Trying To Be Enough For Her, Shoving Home Cooked Meals Under The Bathroom Door, Said Soul Food Could Save Her, Said Sunlight Could Unshackle Her, But The Lines Of Her Body, The Road Maps Behind Her Eyelids, Said She Needed More Then Empty Calories, More Than The Taste Of Her Own Sweat.
Love Wasn't A Flavor Anyone Had Ever Fed Her.
All She Knew Was An Appetizer Of Angry Words, A Dessert Of Bad Goodbyes.
In The Morning, She'd Hold The Small Hands That Were Always Grabbing Things They Shouldn't, And Tell Me “Baby Doll.”
“A Girl Has To Eat.”
They Are Lost Love Letters. Written & Sculpted, Imprinted On The Palms Of Praying Children.
They Are Hauntingly Beautiful.
They Are The Silence Of The Storm, They Are The Emptiness Of Shallow Graves.
All She Left Was “I'm Sorry” On The Bathroom Mirror In Red Lipstick, She's Said It So Many Times Her Body Is Now Bent Into A Permanent Benediction Of Regret.
He Wrote Five Drafts Of His Suicide Note Crossed Every T, Dotted Every I.
Now They Wear Self Inflicted Scars, Like Road Maps To Their Own Insanity.
It Was Her Palm Across The Diner Table At 3am. Her Skin Like Rose Petals Pressed In Submission, Smiling, Teeth Pulled Taunt Across Her Chapped Lips, Smiling, Telling Me She Hasn't Eaten In Three Days, Says The Sounds Of Her Body Eating Her Alive Helps Her Sleep At Night.
His Eyes, Angry And Blue, Told Me He Put A Down Payment On His Coffin Today. He'd Been Saving His Pennies For Five Years Now, Don't Tell Me This Wasn't Premeditated.
It Was The Way Her Body Vibrated Aching In Every Joint, Throbbing, Screaming Into Herself So Loudly Her Palms Shook. On The Way To Work In The Morning, Says Sometimes She Can Hear The Wind Whispering To Step In Front Of That Train, Says She Can Lick Her Lips And Taste Heaven.
The Way He Wore A Crooked Half Smile, Pouring GunShot After Gunshot Down His Throat. The Sting Reminded Him Of Wintertime In The Midwest, Told Me Could Feel The Tubes Clawing Their Way Down His Throat. Someday He'll Met A Heart Monitor With The Guts To Tell His Mother Sorry For Him, Because He Never Could.
She Filled Her Bathtub With Ice, She Fantasizes About The Layers Of Flesh Shes Been Suffocating In For So Long, Finally Being Numb.
The Way He Begged The Stars To Call Him Home, Closed His Eyes, As His Right Foot Craved The Gas Pedal, Screaming Through This Red Light, So He Can Finally Come Face To Face With The Angry God So Many People Pray To.
She Wanted To Trace The Lineage Of Her Family Tree Deep Into Her Veins, Up The Length Of Her Riverbed Skin, Until She Can Kiss The Underside Of Her Own Touch.
In The Early Hours Of The Morning, He Finds Himself Crawling On Bruised Hands & Scraped Knees, Cradled Against Train Tracks, He Liked The Constant Thunder In His Ribcage, The Promise Of Something So Much Bigger Than Him Dwelling Inside The Body He Has Been Calling Home.
She Wanted To Wrap The Tether Of Regret Around Her Throat, Ring Her Lungs Breathless, Tighter, Tighter, Until The Time Between The Rise And Fall Of Her Chest Felt Like Centuries.
He Stood Face To Face With A Motionless Sky, A Shade Of Grey So Empty He Could Feel It Ache Inside Of Him. It Begged Him To Step Forward, Just Inches, The Call Of The Void, Bridge Jumper, Harlequin Lost Lover, So Close, So Close.
She Held The Barrel Of Life Between Her Lips, A Fine Line Between Here And There. Shes Walking A Boundary Built In Her Blood. It Doesn't Hurt Yet. A Trigger Happy Hand, Palms Sweating, Shes Counting Down In Her Head, 3, 2, 1,
He's Got “Wide Awake” Written All Over Him, The Bottle Says Take One, But He's Got 53 In The Palm Of His Hand, She's Got Gasoline Seeping Into Her Skin, The Smell Of Smoke Has Never Been This Strong.
They've Been Journaling Their Lives Deep Into Leather-bound Notebooks For Someone To Remember, They've Swallowed Their Own Self Pity, Call It Poison.
She Never Knew I Would Have Used My Fingertips As Windshield Wipers For Her Tears. I Would Have Placed My Open Palms Against His Chest, And Told Him He Mattered, At Least To Me, In This Moment, Brash And Reckless Healing,
They Told Me They Found A Muse In The Lost. Hopeless Melodies, Kurt Cobain. Sylvia Path With Stones In Her Pockets. Hitler With Cyanide Tablets And Silver Born Bullets. Anne Sexton With Carbon-Monoxide Lungs And A Padlocked Volkswagen. Marilyn Monroe Silver Studded In Sedatives, Pulled Down Deep, Until There Was Nothing Left. Hemingway With Shotgun Shells Littering His Skull.
To Them It Seemed Like A Right Of Passage. A Last Attempt To Leave This Planet Screaming. A Better Than Goodbye. Something Poetic To Carve Into Your Skin, Or Flip Top Wooden Desk, So Someone Somewhere Would Remember The Name, Because They Were Told Legends Never Die.
I Am The New Age Villain. No Masked Maccasurer, I Carry My Blades On The Inside.
More Terrifying Than Any Clown, Or Ghost Faced Monster With A Butcher Knife. I Am The Teenage Girl With Daddy Issues.
I Will Swallow Your Sons Whole. I Will Pull Them Under The Covers Until All They Can See Is Black And Blue. I Will Carve My Name Above Their Still Beating Heart, And Turn Them Ugly. I Am Their First And Last Love, Wrapped Up In Old Christmas Bows That My Mother Could Never Bring Herself To Get Rid Of.
With A Tongue Piercing And A Bad Tattoo Of A Rose On My Ankle, I've Got Problems With My Identity, Seems To Me I've Lost It On The Assembly Line Of You What You're Supposed To See On MTV , I've Never Been Given Anything To Really Stand For.
So This Means I Fall In Love Easily.
I Fall Into Bed Easily, Between Layers Of Needing To Be Needed, And A Bottomless Appetite For Hands Across My Flesh. Bruises Make It That More Much Worth The While, Because Hours Later The Marks Will Still Be There To Remind Me Of Just How Badly You Never Wanted To Let Me Go.
He Places His Palm To My Chest, Mine To His, Says "Baby We're Making Love." But How Do You Make Love When You Hate Yourself?
I Have Learned The Hard Way That Your Mother Doesn't Want You To Bring Girls Like Me To Christmas Dinners. I've Felt My Stomach Curl Up Around My Insides, Chewing Me Apart, From The Inside Out, I Am Empty.
So I Beg Them To Fill Me.
Pour Promise Between My Sheets, And Breathe Into Me. I Am Broken.
I Know You're All Afraid Of Me, And Thats Why You Hate Me. I've Seen The Sneer Across Your Lips, Spark Starving And Growling. You Want To See Me Fail. You Probably Don't Know How Often I Cry Myself To Sleep At Night. I Was Bred, Not Built, I Am Human Too. But So Much Less Real Than You, Because This Hollowness Is Like A New Anesthetic.
But Like Every Good Comic, The Villain Was Not Always The Villain. Some Sick And Twisted Past Has Ripped Him Apart At The Seams, Left Him Begging Desperate, Lonely And Fragile, Chasing Down The Kind Of Sweet Revenge That Rots Your Teeth.
I Wasn't Always This Way. I Was Delivered Into The Mouth Of Temptation, And Damn Did The Bite Hurt.
Like Any Good Story, It Had A Begging Middle, And End, But Not Necessarily In That Order, Because My Beginning Was My Mothers End, And My Father's Story Seemed To Happen Without My Existence. Without My Permission
Because He Walked Out. Like Backlit Silhouette Of Shadows Against My Bedroom Walls, He Was Always Leaving In My Dreams.
He Met A Girl With A College Degree, Called Her 'Babydoll' And 'Lover', And She Gave Him The Gift Of Three Sons, Who Search For The Thread Of Meaning In Their Father's Speech When He Kisses The Tops Of Their Heads At Night.
He Made This Way. He Tore Our The Seems Of My Storybook And Left Me Screaming In My Sleep. This Lost And Angry Abandonment Couldn't Rest Any Longer, I Now How Streets To Chase Away And Hours To Destroy, And This Would Be The Time For Our Rib cages to Meet, In Hot Heat, And Spark Into Something Bigger Than Me,
So Yes, Call Me Your Villain.
Because Like A Villain, I Am Chasing A Revenge Deep Into Myself, Down Highways Called Veins, Where I Once Wrote The Word 'Happiness' In Blue Ink For An Older Me To Find Someday. I Am Waiting For A Redemption To Thread Its Fingers Into My Hair, And Tell Me I'm Literally Worth Fighting For. I Am Exhausted, Because I've Got Blooded Knuckles, And Broken Battle Hymns.
The Only Hero I'm Fighting Is Myself.
I’m Writing An Apology Letter To Myself. Its Been A Long Time In The Making, Cause You See I’m Not Good At Saying Sorry To Anyone.
So.. Dear You, I’m Sorry For How I Dressed You In 6th Grade. I Know, I Know, We Both Regret The Knee High Socks.
I Hope You Still Smile As Much As You Used To.
I Can’t Believe Some Of The Things I Said, I Know I Shouldn’t Have.
You’ve Been Tearing At Those Stitches Long Enough, Haven’t You? Where Did You Leave Your Fingertips This Time? I Know You’ve Been Destroying Yourself From The Inside Out, And Watching Saturday Night Skylines Vanish Into Darkness.
I Heard You Like Keeping Yourself Busy. Are You Sleeping Enough These Days?
I Saw You Downtown A Few Weeks Ago, You Had Your Head Down, I Think You Saw Me, But I Was Too Afraid To Ask.
I Still Have Your Number, You Know. I Still Think About You Sometimes, Between Dusk And Dawn When The Sun Is Calling Me Skyward.
In My Imagination I’ll Greet You With A Fistful Of Black-Eyed Tulips, Butterflies In My Stomach & Two Tickets To Tomorrows Sunrise. We’d Hold Hands The Way We Used To, With Fingertips Laced Together, And Our Mouths Stuffed Full With Swallowed Pride.
We’d Wait For It To Rain, And We’d Strip Off All The Layers That At Meant To Impress, And Beg The God Our Parents Prayed To, To Take Us Home.
I Picture You Tangled In Christmas Lights, Bought With Intent To Make A House A Home. You’d Smile At Me, Across A Broken Abyss And Remind Me Of All The Things That Don’t Belong, Like The Way Babies Are Born In Prisons, Or That There Are Christmas Trees In Homeless Shelters.
You’d Place Your Open Palms Against Stained Glass Windows, And Look Away From Me, Afraid Of What I Might Say In The Wake Of The Silence, Kissing The Walls.
I’d Finally Tell You I Was Sorry. Sorry That I Had Left You, Curled Up Most Nights, Crying Yourself To Sleep, Chocking On Swallowed Phrases, Hollowing Yourself Out Until There Was Nothing Left.
I’d Tell You I Was Sorry That I Hadn’t Been There To Kiss Your Forehead, And Tell You Just This Once How Proud Of You I Was.
In My Memories I Try To Convince Myself That All Of This, All Of Us, Had Happened For A Reason. But That Excuse Is So Cheap, It Leaves The Taste Of Awful Rotting Regret On My Tongue.
It Would Be The Moment When Fingertips Would Could Reach Out And Meet Across A Spot Light, And I Promise You I’m Not Romanticizing This Devastated Conjugation Of Where Past Meets Present, But Only The Taste It Left In My Mouth.
I’d Hold You, And Take You As An Empty Canvas. I’d Promise You That I Meant It, When I Said I Loved You.
I’d Grab You By Your Broken Wrists, And Say “You’re Damn Beautiful”, The Way People Say It In Your Dreams.
I’d Let My Knees Go Weak, And Find Tangible Forgiveness In This Gravity, And Put My Monsters To Rest.
I’d Heal The Heartbroken Hero, I’d Sew Shut The Gabbing Wounds, And Swear My Promise Into Eternity.
I’d Tape My Eyes Open For The Oncoming Storm, And Finally Say It.
Baby, I Am So, So Sorry.
The Scalding Openness Of An Open Palm. Cradling The Broken Syllabubs Of A First Name, Between Flesh And Bone, Between Thumb And Forefinger, The 'E' And The 'A' Estranged Lovers. The 'L' And The 'H' A Mangled Broken Record Of "I'm Sorry"s. The Letters Falling Apart As If They Are Afraid, Embarrassed Almost To Be Seen Together. Someone Closes The Fist, And Silences Them.
I Am Sure They Weren't Aware That The Anciently Intimate Lines Of My Mother's Face Had Pulled A Loud Smile Across Her Lips, Traced Fingertip To Wrist Across The Swollen Plains Of Her Stomach And Imagined This Name, Written In Silver, Traced Across My Flesh Like A Second Skin. I Am Sure They Hadn't Known This When They Held My Name In The Palm Of Their Hand, Opened Up To Its Delicate Petals, Something So Easy To Slaughter, Hello My Dear Hero.
It's The Sick Stick Of Death On Your Tongue Before You Even Have The Chance To Speak It, Removing Each Individual Petal, Plucking Them Their Center
One The Absence Of Any Hue In My Skin, Dark Enough To Add An Identity That My Clawed Fingertips Could Hold On To, Although Guilt Has Turned Me Several Shades Of Scarlet Once Before.
Two The Brittle Backwash Of Rocks Against The Bared Molars Of My Back Teeth. How Do You Say It Again?Where Does It Come From? What Human Vessel Carried It, Clinging To His Chest For Me To Wear Like Both A Battle Scar, And A Metal Of Honor? This Unpronounceable Character Building Beauty Laces My Fingers With Regret, So That I May Whisper One Day "I Am So Sorry For Not Knowing Your Name" When I Do Finally Meet Him.
Three The Crucible Of Color Found Behind Closed Eyelids, Like A War Was Happening Inside Myself Before I Even Had The Opportunity To Open My Eyes
Four The Way The Word Poet Seems Too Open To Me, Like A Dirty Word In Different Language, Yet To Be Defined, I Want It To Be Mine, But I Know That It Can't Be.
Five My Father Will Tell You That When I Was Little I Talked A Lot. He Says That I Liked To Fix Things. But These Days I Spend My Time Mending Things That Don't Consider Themselves Broken Until After I Am Through With Them.
Six I Cried When They Cut Down The Tree In Our Backyard. Watched It's Bowed Limbs, Hit The Ground, Like Dream Catchers, Felt The Trunk Of Its Spine Splinter, Under The Weight Of A Thousand Gravity's. The Earth Quaked, As If Saying Goodbye To An Old Friend. She Tells Me That I Am Overly, And Excessively Attached To Strange Things.
Seven The Primal Wet Hot Heat Between Bone And Brain At The Base Of My Skull, Whispering That The Sweet Siren Call To Depravity Is Not Too Far Behind. Meant To Bring You To Bowed Knees, Step One Foot Closer. There Is A Ten Story Drop Between Me, And Heaven. And Tonight I Think I Willing To Take It.
Eight I Hold A Hundred Years Of Waged Weaponry Between My Ribs. Built A Body Out Of Bullet Shells And Have Learned That It's About The Honesty, And The Warmth Of Human Connection. Because We Are Solar Systems, And Grains Of Sand, Revolving Around One Another Like The Two Sides Of A Coin, Ready To Be Kissed By A Shoreline, And Pulled Back Out To Sea To Begin Again.
Nine Tonight I Will Be A Classic Work, Like Edgar Allen Poe. So For This One Moment I Will Worthy Of Literary Merit, Of Scholars, And That Place In The Center Of My Chest Will Be Glowing. Throbbing At All Hours Of The Morning, So This Once I Will Be Enough To Be Quoted, Worthy Enough To Be Remembered.
Ten It's Voice Is So Weak. Tender Almost, It's Name Has Been Carved Into The Meadow Of It's Velvet Valley. I Pull Down The Collar Of My Shirt, To Press The Petal To My Bare Skin. It Speaks Half English, And Half God. It Tells Me That I Am Weeping To Be Made Real. It Says That I Am A Fragile, Starry Eyed, Empty Handed, Soft Spoken Work Of Art. It Whispers That I Have Sunsets In My Skeleton, And That The Molecules Of My Form Had Never Before Existed Before This Moment. The Curve Of My Spine, The Updraft Of My Eyelashes, The Slope Of My Cheek Bone, It Says "Close Your Eyes, Love, You Are Swelling And Swallowing Yourself Whole, You Are Immortal, And You Aren't Going Anywhere."
Hi I'm Leah Waughtal. Yeah, The GH Makes An F Sound, Its Kind Of Weird. What Do You Mean I'm Not On The Class List? So There Are Two Freshman Biology's? And The Rooms Are Side By Side? Both First Block? And There Is A Typo On My Schedule... So I Have To Go All The Way Down To The Counseling Office, But What If I Miss The Bus To Central, And All My Friends Are In This Class, And I-
I Know That Look. I've Been There. That Scared Shit-less Smile. That Cocky Half Step Into Adolescence. You Were Just A Big Fish, In A Small Pond, But This. This Is An Ocean, And You Feel So, So Little Again. I Know 'Freshman Advice' Is Trending On Twitter, And You've Seen Every Jab At "Knowing Your Place", And "Staying Out Of The Way". We Act Like We Run This School, But We Really Don't. And You Can Thank Our Administrators For Teaching Us That. We're Still Learning. And You Have Every Right To Remind Us Of That. Like The Human Body That Recycles Itself, Every Skin Cell, And Drop Of Blood, Regenerated, A High School Does The Exact Same Thing. Every Four Years, We Are Recycled. After We Graduated As Seniors, There Will Be No Evidence Of Our Existence, So You, Yes You, Are Our Legacy.
Maybe You Don't Want All To Be Doctors, Or Lawyers, But I Can Meet Eyes Out There, And Say Its Safe. We All Wanna Make A Lot Of Money Someday. So Make It Easy On Yourself, Put The Effort In Now. The Path Starts Here, Inside This Room. You Were Built For Both Beauty, And Greatness. Give The Seam & Stitch Of Your DNA Something To Hold On To. You've Got Wonder Tattooed Into Your Skin, You've Got Valor In Your Fingertips, You've Got Power Lining The Insides Of Your Pockets. You've Got It In You. Don't Let Anyone Tell You That You Don't.
We, You&i, Are The Middle Children Of History, Raised By Television Sets To Believe We Will Be Rock-stars, And Millionaires Someday. So No One Better Mess With Us, Because There Aren't Enough Hours In The Day To Finish All The Dreams We Will Accomplish. So Look Up, & Remember These Stars, Because Sparks Meet Inside You, And They Died To Become You.
And Yes, There Will Be Times When You'll Swell With Self Made Pressure. But Believe Me, There Won't Be Any Popping. You Were Made To Bend Without Breaking. Stop Being Terrified Of Your Own Potential, You've Got Undiscovered Talents Waiting Inside Yourself. Don't Bite Your Tongue Too Many Times, Or You Might Swallow Yourself Whole. Speak Up For What You Believe In. Don't Be Afraid Of Being Noticed. There Is A Place For You Here.
& Any Time That You Feel Like There Isn't, I'm Here. Find Me In A Hallway, If You Need Someone To Tell You That Everything Will Be Okay. Or If You Just Want Somebody To Hold Your Hand For A Second. Or Even If You Just Need Help With Your Physics Assignment.
This Isn't The End. No, This Is Something Else Entirely.
This Is Just The Beginning.