I never wanted to be pretty.
But I've wanted to be loved.
I never wanted to be ****
But I've wanted to be important.
I never wanted to be hot.
But I've wanted to be happy.
I never asked to be beautiful.
But I remember asking to be smart.
I never asked to be a female.
But I remember asking for respect.
I never asked for stranger’s opinions.
But I have asked for equality.
I never asked for ****** pictures.
But I have asked for understanding.
I never knew my gender meant ‘object’.
But I know what it feels like to be objectified.
I never knew that being female made me weak.
But I know I was always told I “hit like a man.”
I never knew ** somehow meant stupid.
But I know that ‘gender role’ for me, means submit.
I never liked not being heard by the guys when debating.
But I know how it feels to rarely be taken seriously.
I never enjoyed getting razor burn when shaving.
But I know what it's like to wear pants during summer.
I never wanted to hear what you'd do to my body.
But I remember my ex ignoring me when I said it hurt.
I never wanted to be sexualized.
But I remember being told I wasn't **** enough to be confident.
I never wanted to be a man’s property.
But I know I never wanted to change my last name.
I never wanted to be treated like I'm not worth basic rights.
Honestly, I only ever wanted to be treated like I'm human.
Nov 15, 2017
Nov 15, 2017 at 4:15 AM UTC
He had told me that my body was beautiful...
He said that his favorite part about me was my stomach...
As I sat before him, bare skin, one hand covering my midsection.
He then proceeded to joke about the way my lower stomach 'jiggles'...
As if I wasn't already aware.
And I know he was just trying to encourage "body confidence".
But in my mind I heard the words of ex-boyfriends
And concerned family members echoing his comments.
So, even though he never said it, or even came close...
All I heard was the same thing that had been drilled into my esteem for 19 years;
"Well, maybe if she'd lose a little weight..."
At 13, My grandmother smacked my stomach.
While laughing, she said to me,
"You're getting fat."
As a freshman, my grandfather placed a hand on my shoulder,
Looked at my stomach in disapproval, and said,
"Ky, you know, you're getting pretty big."
I could wear my dad's pants by age 12,
And then grew into my mom's by the time I turned 14.
Somewhere around the time I was 15,
My depression swallowed me, and my waistline grew.
I weighed 185lbs by my 17th birthday.
That was the first time a guy I was talking to,
Pulled up to my house, took one look at me,
Called me a "Pig", and left my sight.
Online, A guy commented on my picture,
"Who let the dogs out?"
I gradually sunk even deeper into depression...
In turn - I had slowly gained more weight...
And took fewer body pictures.
Freshly 18, and I thought I had found love.
I thought the size of my waist was finally overlooked...
But then the man I had almost gave my name for,
Began to tell me to put my clothes on after I showered...
Or after we had ***
I was 5'9", 215lbs, and had just turned 19 years old.
And when that same man broke my heart...
I was devastated, destroyed,
And had been left feeling unattractive.
I went on a search to be wanted...
But it wasn't until I was finally wanted,
that I realized I didn't want it...
I wanted to be hurt.
I wanted someone I wanted to destroy me.
I needed to feel some sort of pain.
It was all I knew.
So I chased after men that i knew would hurt me,
But I always ran away if it didn't hurt just right,
And then blamed them when I ran, for hurting me.
That was when I smoked crystals...
They made me numb to my emotions,
And in turn, made me lax on my ideals.
Still... Those crystals quickly tore away my weight...
I fell from 215lbs to 150lbs in as few as 5 months;
And convinced myself that my thinner waistline
Is ultimately what had defined my happiness.
I told myself, 'I am finally pretty',
And began to take pictures of my body.
I fed off the flattery on social sites to build my ego.
I had expected to finally stay happy...
I was no longer 'fat' and I had thought,
"I'm finally pretty enough to be loved."
All growing up...
Visiting my grandparents had meant:
Being ashamed of the numbers on the scale.
I'd be reminded of my growing waistline...
Or how pretty I would be if it shrunk.
I just wanted them to say I was pretty enough.
I needed them to, so I could justify my new diet...
While blowing smoke and inhaling diamonds;
It was like I had been breathing out the pounds and ounces in each cloud of smoke -
Or putting sharpened rocks into my nostrils...
Until they fell to my waist and shredded away every inch.
When my grandfather lost his memories,
I made the 3 hours drive to care for my grandparents...
I was feeding my Grandfather,
And I was called on by his wife.
You can imagine my surprise,
When my grandmother snapped my attention from her husband -
Despite Alzheimer's always causing her to forget my name -
She looked into my eyes and said to me:
"Kyla, You need to gain some more weight."
You know...
Now I think I understand
What Melanie Martinez meant,
When she asked the question,
"Is it true that pain is beauty?"
Nov 15, 2017
Nov 15, 2017 at 4:04 AM UTC
Remember when I loved the holidays?
Two years ago, I was wasting so much of our precious time
fighting with you.
Fighting over how important it was to celebrate with family...
Stressing to you the ways that made it important, and
How it was you, that had made it mean so much more to me.
Because, at the time,
we had been planning to become a family.
I can't stand the holidays, anymore.
It’s around this time of year when I remember opening up to you
about how happy it had made me to have you there,
and seeing you with my family,
had somehow felt like home to me.
Tonight, those same memories
are wreaking havoc within my skeleton;
shattering all the parts of me
that surgery could never piece back together.
Now I’m Hollow;
And Homeless.
Family used to be home,
but my family is no longer a sanctuary
or hopeful detour;
Like when your rings still weighed on my hands
and your dog tags around my neck.
With no monetary claims to prove my worth,
They see only shame -
In how I remedied my own temporance.
Their all too familiar absence,
Has yet to silence the unspoken questions
asked through eyes of disinterest
and judgement.
They think I won't see,
what they don’t want to show,
if nobody tells me.
But I notice every rehearsed attempt they make
to try to fix me…
To fix the person I’ve become
since I tried to erase your memory with self-destruction.
It makes sense, doesn’t it?
You killed us by becoming history,
so I killed us by becoming an addict.
Recovering from crystals
that melted into the air in my lungs
whenever I managed to speak your name again.
Recovering from every promise you made
and the all too familiar feeling of nostalgia
that’s both painful and pleasurable…
bittersweet.
Recovering from my true addiction
- You.
The holidays meant catching up with cousins
while you sat with my grandma.
You always listened as she shared her life...
A life that Alzheimers had slowly taken from her.
Like they did her memories of me.
My Grandmother never remembers who I am
when I visit or call…
So why, then, does the woman that raised me,
STILL ask for you by NAME?
Each visit results in telling her that you left me.
She asks me why I messed up, again…
what I did wrong, this time…
and if you found something better in this new woman.
Reminding me that I failed to be enough to stay…
For once.
Trust me… if I knew why nobody ever stays in my life, I’d tell her.
I’d be able to explain to myself why everyone that I grow to love
- LEAVES.
I grew to hate the holidays but maybe you’ll grow out of it.
I hope you got the family you wanted…
and I hope they help you love the holiday season;
like I thought you loved me.
I hope you manage to make so many happy memories
that your happiness surpasses my emptiness
at what I remember.
I hope she’s worth more to you
than the money you spend on her -
like I never could be.
When people ask me why I hate the Holidays,
I hope I think back to when I almost married my father,
sharing more than just his narcissism,
hidden intelligence,
or his love of alcohol…
and how much that boy
-like my father-
hated the holidays…
and tell them about you.
Whenever people ask you why you love the holidays,
I hope you think about when you almost married your mother,
sharing more than just her middle name,
her love for you & her home,
or her love of astrology…
and how much she
-like your mother-
loved the holidays…
and tell them about me.
Nov 15, 2017
Nov 15, 2017 at 3:39 AM UTC
I think it's just something about this time of year.
When the weather echoes warm memories,
family vacations, and
nights that never saw sleep -
into neighborhoods blanketed in fallen leaves,
cold - sharp winds that show little mercy to suffering cheeks,
and silent nights throughout city streets.
Something about the change of seasons always brings out the memories that I avoid the most.
I wish this type of nostalgia wasn't so bittersweet.
It's the type of "throwback"
that throws me back into a state of feeling nothing…
a state being nothing.
If I knew anything more
than the depression
that my parents handed down to me
through genetics;
then maybe these memories
wouldn't radiate so thoroughly
throughout my being.
Maybe each night wouldn't be spent
going back and forth between
feeling every emotion in such severity
and
wishing I could feel anything at all.
Maybe I'd know more about myself
than the history I've suffered.
It's always around this time of year
when I try my hardest to recall the laughter;
but my mind has a sick sense of humor
and can only produce images of my dad
laughing at me
and the pain he'd caused
and later,
joking about my attempts at suicide -
he called me a FAILURE.
When I go outside to clear my mind -
the cold, bitter air against my skin
emulates the bitterness in my voice
when I let my anger lie to my mom and say
that she didn't deserve another child
because she already ******* up my brother and I...
out of hurt,
I told her that I hoped she lost my unborn baby sister.
A few weeks later,
my mother gave birth
to her third child
and my second younger sibling…
Still Born.
Irony is a *****
If the cinema in my head
were to feature anywhere else,
I imagine I'd be charged
with attempted ******
Because this time of year
resonates with memoirs
that prove strong enough to **** me…
but it's a new season.
Nov 15, 2017
Nov 15, 2017 at 12:46 AM UTC
You know,
I thought about writing about you today...
Even though you don't deserve the art
that my words could turn you into.
I cannot even lie to myself and turn anything about you
into something poetic.
You see, my vocabulary can depict dying, pain, abuse,
and self-destruction into something beautiful.
But this is the first time that my descriptions
depicted someone as nonsense or nonexistent.
I may be able to lie to myself...
but my pen is incapable of such deception.
Poetry is clarity and yet,
even my poetry couldn't make you clear...
Maybe because...
you were never here in the first place.
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 12:08 AM UTC
I've been living in a constant
and catastrophic mental state.
I'm trying to silence my memories.
I need to forget the emotions
That I'm forced to relive.
I've yet to eliminate
Their presence in all I do.
There isn't a single moment
That isn't embraced in nostalgia.
The lyrics in songs I'm unable to delete,
Reanimates it all.
I've used a million different words
To explain what I couldn't.
In the end, I am faced with the reality
That I can't just run.
I can't escape through objectivity and pencil lead,
This time.
All of my unspoken secrets remain,
Slowly clawing away at my sanity.
In remembering where I've been,
I'm killing myself from the inside, out.
I know,
You can't empathize or understand.
And…
I've always known this,
So, it's okay.
Nobody ever really wanted to.
Nobody ever really could.
However...
There exists a deep loneliness
that's rooted in my own deception.
I'm always fighting to be listened to.
Spent weeks painting pictures nobody saw.
I wish someone had just proved me wrong.
Which sounds odd, to anyone else.
I don't want to write
what's never gonna be read.
Why write out the details
of a story nobody wants?
I often wonder -
Even if I am finally opened and read -
Would their understanding
change my story's end?
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 9:57 PM UTC
The first man I loved,
was intelligent...
he read, cooked, and cleaned.
But as a severe alcoholic -
he was 2 people -
also cold, ruthless, and mean.
My father was an abuser with a heart...
it was so hard to hate him
when he always had so much love to give.
All that love,
and he gave his daughter hate.
I'm a daddy's girl
who's 'daddy'
taught his girl to love abuse.
At 12 years old,
my first of many things,
was a 16 year old skater.
He was artistic, charming, and ambitious:
My first was also my dad's dealer.
Despite knowing this,
I still believed that he was my Prince charming.
There is no fairy tale
that mentions the Prince
being schizophrenic, volitile, controlling, or manipulative…
but I was young
and my heart was naive enough
to fall for his games.
My first molded an addiction into me
by teaching me,
in my 12th year,
to love manipulation.
I almost gave away my last name
to a man I fell for at 18 years old.
He loved history,
was a hard worker,
and he always knew what to say and do
when it mattered most.
Happily-ever-after doesn't always look like perfection,
but I almost married a perfect fabrication
of "true love".
Once the facade became too much -
I met PTSD, displeasure, neglect, and misery.
In chasing after the lies he painted,
I sacrificed all of myself
by keeping his truth
as permanent company.
I had wanted to save him so badly,
that I was willing to lose my identity
if it meant he found his.
After almost 2 years
of mental and emotional abuse,
the last man I loved sober,
taught me to love self sacrifice.
The men in my life
showed me what it means
to be the woman
who can never truly let go.
I have always retained the lessons
I learned from life,
and applied them.
After 21 years,
what I learned to love was
abuse,
manipulation,
and self sacrifice.
What I Learned To Love...
Was Destroying Myself.
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 9:49 PM UTC