Before I take one last bow
Plunge it hard deep it go
When history writes its page
Mark me not a savage
But one who loved his girl well
Till to the trap he fell
Of being too fussy
In love’s jealousy
A trait that breed
Pay reasons no heed
In love blind and mean
Doubt the virgin
And end up
Spilling misery’s cup
Realizing too late
An act badly done
Killing the beloved one
To see her innocence
And then beg
The history’s page
Not to mark him a savage
On the first day I noticed nothing but your hair.
How it caught the sunlight and reflected it tenfold.
How it swayed around your neck.
On the second day I noticed nothing but your lips.
How they individually felt between my teeth.
How they left marks upon my neck and thighs.
On the third day I noticed nothing but your mouth.
How the words flowed out, powerful as an ocean.
How your teeth would bite me ear, drawing blood.
On the fourth day I noticed nothing but your hands.
How they held mine, always eager to calm them.
How they pulled the needle out of your arm, quivering.
On the fifth day I noticed nothing but your legs.
How they powerfully allowed you to stride great lengths.
How they were ever in motion, even in your deepest parts of sleep.
On the day sixth I noticed nothing but collarbones.
How I wanted nothing more but to crawl in to them and rest.
How I could gently suck on them, causing your whole body to palpitate.
On the seventh day and for years since I have noticed nothing but each individual hair on your body.
They each have a name, Kassandra, Jared, Peter, Ryan, Falyn, Jacob, Hammed, Caroline, Audrey, Yo-Landi, Diane, Khajjitt, Daralyn, forever and ever and ever.
On the last day I noticed how I never noticed your eyes.
But you were gone,
and I could not tell you what color they are.
Life is but a song,
A different kind of song,
It marches to its own drum beat,
Yet repeats the chorus
to idealize the past.
It begins with a story,
And ends with a solution,
I can see what life is like
When each lyric stripes a memory,
And each memory plays a chord.
Years and years can even pass
For the final thought
In that special song,
But when the time comes,
You know you have
Passed right through.
Completing your song
Into a world class masterpiece,
One where history will never
Forget your inspiring words,
As you keep in tune
Writing about all your struggles,
Until one day,
For when the time comes,
You have created the worlds most
10.00 p.m - 12.8.13: my parents have told me to go to sleep and end up giving me a few more hours
12.00 a.m - 12.9.19: lying awake on the floor; thinking of you
4.00 a.m - 12.9.13: contemplating getting on my laptop and wait until the crack of dawn
6.00 a.m - 12.9.13: still thinking of you; still internally crying
7.00 a.m - 12.9.13: I have to pretend to be asleep, this is when my father wakes up
7.30 a.m - 12.9.13: "wake up" and get ready for school
8.00 a.m/8.41 a.m - 12.9.13: gym class, namely, missing you
8.42 a.m/9.24 a.m - 12.9.13: homeroom, still missing you
9.24 a.m/10.50 - 12.9.13: history and thinking of what would happen if I punch the teacher in her bitch ass face and leaving, as well as missing you
10.50 a.m /12.10 p.m - 12.9.13: math, seriously pondering if I should set myself on fire, I'd achieve the same feeling
12.40 p.m/2.05 p.m: literature and language arts so reading a Christmas Carol, so more time to miss you
they were in the corner
of the library again this morning.
not here to look for books,
but just a quiet place to look,
deeply into to one another
with eyes smoked
and fingers blind
feeling, touching, questing,
reading familar nooks.
not caring of watchers,
seeking only each other
with silent need bordering
they read each others bodies
history, philosophy, tradgedy both greek and modern.
they braile like fondle, word,
verse, and chapter whole.
eyes feasting the depth of
one final look, one lingering embrace and they part
with shakespearean sorrow
they close the lovers book,
you suddenly realize our bodies are so temporary like trees that age
the only difference is that the carvings in my trees are painful scars
the carvings in your tree is full of hope while despair fills my gaps
and through the cracks are dynamite so don't use an axe or saw
your love is enough for me, maybe i'll grow fruit someday
maybe my roots will intertwine with yours across the forest
maybe beautiful fawns will notice me and prance my way
but what does it even matter, we will all die anyway
the trees die, the prettiest of flowers die, vines and grass take over
castles will disintegrate, houses will disintegrate, and i will be forgotten
what's the point when history won't remember my existence?
A Self Portrait
I Stayed Honest
“I am a creature of grief and dust and bitter longings.”
-George R.R. Martin
I’m the explosion and throwing things when I fight with my mom about money or what is or is not appropriate to bring up in front of her parents.
“You’re not the only who misses him!” Screaming was the only way to get through to my mother when my dad was deployed. It was like she entered this other world that was nearly impossible to pierce, even by the people who needed her most—her three children. She was a strong woman when she left the house, but being in her living room without her best friend, sleeping every night without her husband, it took a toll on her as a human. When my dad was gone there was no music allowed in the house, because it made her cry; same with movies and TV, even board games. Joy of that nature had to be hidden away in our bedrooms. Having friends over was almost always out of the question. That held true even when my dad was home, because he finally was, it was ridiculous to want to interrupt the little time we had with him. I remember distinctly a night toward the end of my freshman year of high school. My mother, two sisters and I were sitting in the living room talking. As it often did, the conversation turned to my dad. Mom’s eyes started getting watery; she talked about how difficult things were with him being gone, and with money being tight because of the move and the new house and school uniforms and supplies and Amber starting college. I’m still not sure why I was so upset by it, her concerns were legitimate. Maybe I was angry that she was telling us this in the first place. I was fifteen, I wanted to worry about military ball and boys and school, not having to eat stir fry and beans and rice for the next seven months because it was the only thing we could afford. I didn’t want to consider the hours Amber worked at Johnny’s or the pizzas she purposely messed up so she could take them home to feed us. I threw down the pillow I’d been clutching and yelled viciously through my sobs the only thing that made sense at the time, “Would you just shut up?! You’re not the only one that misses him you know!” I didn’t take the time to look at their faces, I just went to my room, locked the door, and laid face down in my bed to cry. She came by later, knocked, but let herself in with a barbecue skewer. I think she apologized the way a parent always does when a child lashes out wrongly, but with understandable or even pitiable emotion.
A few years ago I realized my sexuality was not what my parents considered normal. I never really told them, figured I’d just leave it be until I started a serious relationship with a girl. Then, a few weeks ago, I was telling my mom a story about how my (female) best friend and I pretend to be dating to ward off annoyingly persistent boys.
My mother warned me, “You should be careful Emily; people are going to think wrongly of you.”
I was taken aback, “Mom, you know I don’t care what people think about me right? And… what’s wrong with dating a girl?”
She sighed. She knows I’m a huge advocate for equal rights, “Not everyone is as liberal as you are Emily. People aren’t always kind and accepting. I’d hate for them to think you were something you’re not and do something.”
I wanted to lose my mind. “Mom… you know I’m not straight right?” The silence on the other end was deafening.
She said something about her phone beeping and not hearing what I had said. I repeated myself. “You know I’m not straight right?”
“What are you then?” She asked, confused. I’d been with guys all through high school.
“Well, I identify mostly with pansexuality. It means I’m gender blind, I experience attraction based on looks, intelligence, whether a person makes me laugh or not as opposed to being limited to one gender.”
“So you’re bi?” She asked.
I recited my well rehearsed explanation. “No. I’m pan. Bi means two, pan means all. There are more than two genders.”
My dad said something in the background and my mother responded, “Oh just the fact that your daughter likes boys and girls.”
I remember putting my head in my hands at this point, just silently waiting for her to say something to me so I could end the conversation.
“Emily, could you just not bring this up ever again, especially in front of my parents?”
I’m the falling for someone who seems to want me too, when I’m already committed to another.
The distance between the Francis townhouses and the rest of campus may not seem like much, but combined with the distance between a second year undergrad and a graduate student, a long distance relationship of sorts is created. Said grad student may be absolutely perfect in every way you’ve thought of, but if he cannot grant you the attention during the week that a new relationship requires, you start to feel like a booty call. Before you clarify your exclusivity, you flirt like mad with the people who can grant you the attention you seek, because what’s the harm? But, even after you clarify if, you flirt like mad with those around you because, how will he ever find out and it’s not like you’re actually doing anything? You’re just trying to get the attention you require as a needy human being, that’s not a sin. But… another person comes along and they’re wonderful. They’re just as fantastic and understanding as the grad student, except they’re a senior and their townhouse is open to you during the week and the attention they give you is innocent but overflowing. What more could you want? When you start falling for the senior… what can you say to the grad student? Then, when the attention from the senior grows less innocent and you think less and less of the grad student when the senior is looking at you from across the table or helping you with your poetry, you realize you and the grad student were doomed from the start. Are you a terrible person? You tell your roommate you are every single week night you come home from “harmless” cuddling with the senior and every single weekend morning you come home from snogging the grad student. She tells you you’re just human.
I’m the two ales, three shots and half a bottle of wine later, declaring my love and sobbing about my past into a shoulder.
This past midterm break was the most story-book-like episode I’ve ever lived. I had met someone almost exactly a month before. Everything about him was perfect. We got along so freakishly well and were compatible in every way we had had time to discover. He was fiercely passionate and book smart, he cared about what I had to say. He was everything I’d been looking for in a companion. All his housemates were leaving for break, but he and I were staying. We spent the weekend in a hundred cliché romantic ways. We walked the river trail holding hands and talking about our lives, sat on benches cuddling and listening to the wind and the ducks. We stayed up all night watching movies and kissing. We also did a lot of not so cliché, but romantic things like eating pizza and watching cartoons naked. We ordered AJ’s and ate while drinking ales then finished the last few shots of someone’s liquor and then, because I had mentioned never having it before, he let me drink nearly an entire bottle of wine. We ended up on his couch, cuddling, but then I started talking. The alcohol had stolen my ability to shut up. I kept going on about my freshman year here at Bonas, about how terrible it was, how depressed I was, how many times I tried to off myself, and how I have a history of self harm. I started sobbing, he cried too, shared his secrets. Then I told him not to worry because he was loved, he said, “I love you too.” I had only meant it in a way like, God loves you, your parents, your friends, but I went with it. Why not?
I’m the stillness of not knowing what to do next.
This past weekend was the strangest I’ve ever lived. A boy at school, in my year, went missing Saturday morning after midnight. Found dead Sunday evening. The explosions death drops in our world have never landed so close to me before. I feel shell shocked. I wrote about it. I want to keep writing about it, but I feel like I’m not allowed to, like it isn’t my place. I don’t know. I’m sick with what I can only guess is grief, but it feels more like a poisonous concoction of many painful things locked in my intestines. I’m heavy with the news of him. I feel like I’m going to sink away at any minute. Everything feels like needles in the wound. The snow and the cold (loved parts of this time of year) make me wonder why he didn’t wear more than a sweatshirt, but how do I know if it would have mattered? I was out that night, well morning, Saturday, before two a.m. I was on the exact opposite side of campus though. We were walking to Walmart; I was beyond drunk and so elated. We rolled down the hill with the ST. BONAVENTURE bushes, got ourselves covered in mud. We sat at the bottom and laughed and laughed. We walked and discussed sex and books and plans for when we got back to campus within the hour. …He never made it back. And I wonder if he had plans. I wonder if his girlfriend had stayed in that night, if she was waiting for his return so they could screw, or cuddle, I didn’t know him, at least not well enough to know that. I wonder if he liked the cold and that’s why he was in a place where people couldn’t see him. The snow didn’t start until much later so others returning from parties would have seen if he was closer. Or maybe they did, maybe they thought nothing of a passed out drunk guy, isn’t that a normal thing in college? Maybe their veins were tricked warm from their strong drinks and they couldn’t imagine he was cold, they didn’t feel it, and there wasn’t even snow on the ground. Not yet. Maybe they thought it would be funny if he woke up outside. Or maybe the rumors are true. Maybe there was a fight earlier that night. Maybe he wasn’t even that drunk. Maybe some boy-men, foolishly angry, were trying to prove their false superiority. Maybe they didn’t know they’d hurt him so bad and that someone else would come along to help him. How can we ever know? I see nothing when I close my eyes except his. Looking, but not alive, his lids frozen open, his lips slightly parted, the cold paling his skin, fashioning him to look more ghost than human. I suffer in the fear that he died knowing he was going to, knowing he was alone. How afraid he must have been. How could he have known what was coming next? How can we go on living knowing his life was meaninglessly extinguished? He was undeserving of an end so lonely. I’m haunted by the image of him being trapped in that loneliness forever. I’m haunted by his face, he always seemed so happy, but don’t the dead always seem more shiny in our memories? Will he be remembered fairly or only as a good who died young? And the guilt of feeling that hurts me, eats at me, but the doubts are trying to kill me. What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to feel about this? I hardly knew him, am I allowed to feel so blindsided? Is this allowed to send me into the tailspin I feel I’m already lost in? If I fall back into the bad habits because of the weight of what’s in my head will anyone understand or will they shame me for “wanting attention?” If I cry often, because I will think of this often, will anyone be there to comfort me? Is it selfish to ask for these things? Is it wrong to have partied Friday and Saturday because I didn’t know Sunday would pack such a punch? Is it valid to be distraught by the death of someone less than even an acquaintance? It’s just that… he was nineteen.
Assignment: Six page self portrait.
"I don't act this way to change the world. I act this way so that the world won't change me."-- Patricia Charbonneau in 'Desert Hearts'
as The Act
is but an act.
Intangible at that.
She may be silent,
but She is strident
She is given a voice.
The Lady thespian,
as the objected
by the subjected
and the objected.
Greta Garbo dominates
Betty Davis hesitates
but follows the new ones.
the ideal hoe,
erases Her history,
creating a new toxic one:
"Look and touch
as you please,
"Blame the woman for everything"
say 'Ordinary People'
and the Academy
shoot to 'Kill Bill'
for a manly thrill
Still waiting for change...
a Blonde has brains, too.
But who knew
All from Her:
on the big screen.
“This is the kind of Friend
You are -
Without making me realize
My soul's anguished history,
You slip into my house at night,
And while I am sleeping,
You silently carry off
All my suffering and sordid past
In Your beautiful
Khwāja Shamsu d-Dīn Muhammad Hāfez-e Shīrāzī
Reading poetry on a rainy Monday.
What a treat!
No more than swine
in the eyes of angels.
No more than graceless rats
to the hypocrites who ignore
their own history.
We are the lost generation
We are the crying children.
Faces pressed into our knees
as we fight society’s shadows
All the while swallowing our own bitter tears.
We are the warriors
with nothing but our naked flesh
to shield us from the ignorance of adults
who deny that it’s them that is the problem.
we are worthless.
We are wasted space.
At one point prodigies
we are apparently blind.