snoo - Hello Poetry

I have my dad's frown lines on my forehead but I've never seen him cry. I hear my mother weep for the days gone by wails in the bathroom echo on the hollow walls the house they built together He said it's over I replied, "Alright" as if it would ever be alright again as if I'd ever figure out how to trust a man Last night I dreamt of Dad showing Mom his new house watched them like old friends I woke up and laughed wishful thinking frown lines

0

Feb 24, 2016

Feb 24, 2016 at 4:04 AM UTC

snoo

Frown Lines

I have my dad's frown lines on my forehead but I've never seen him cry. I hear my mother weep for the days gone by wails in the bathroom echo on the hollow walls the house they built together He said it's over I replied, "Alright" as if it would ever be alright again as if I'd ever figure out how to trust a man Last night I dreamt of Dad showing Mom his new house watched them like old friends I woke up and laughed wishful thinking frown lines

14

full circle I'm laying here with the window open listening to the rain for secrets or something or waiting for you to tell me what you haven't been telling me like maybe there really is a girl out there with love in her eyes and flowers in her hair and her eyes are the kind of blue that is never mistaken for grey she touches your chin before she kisses you, real softly or maybe she traces the spot above your lip where we all know angels rested their fingers before we were sent down here to rot or thrive maybe you talk about gardens with her, how you'd never ever own an orchid cause that ***** ex of yours demanded one every hospital visit how flowers aren't for boys but you'll pretend to watch football while you're really watching her bend down to touch the dirt like she used to smooth her baby brothers hair out of his little eyes before their parents decided that it was more convenient to buy them a little apartment and keep money in the safe while they spent their pensions in Florida watching alligators and Dolphins and toucan ******* Sam but never at the same time you see, I don't drink earl grey cause it tastes like fruit loops and I don't eat fruit loops cause it tastes like the childhood I erased from my memory by forcing myself to dissociate maybe this, is something else altogether maybe this... is not true, another delusion, maybe your hands are busy counting change out for cardboard signs maybe your feet move a little bit faster, not because you're in a rush to see someone who isn't me but because you're so scared of ending up back where you started

0

snoo

Sep 16, 2015

Sep 16, 2015 at 1:22 AM UTC

blankpoems

tell me a secret

full circle I'm laying here with the window open listening to the rain for secrets or something or waiting for you to tell me what you haven't been telling me like maybe there really is a girl out there with love in her eyes and flowers in her hair and her eyes are the kind of blue that is never mistaken for grey she touches your chin before she kisses you, real softly or maybe she traces the spot above your lip where we all know angels rested their fingers before we were sent down here to rot or thrive maybe you talk about gardens with her, how you'd never ever own an orchid cause that ***** ex of yours demanded one every hospital visit how flowers aren't for boys but you'll pretend to watch football while you're really watching her bend down to touch the dirt like she used to smooth her baby brothers hair out of his little eyes before their parents decided that it was more convenient to buy them a little apartment and keep money in the safe while they spent their pensions in Florida watching alligators and Dolphins and toucan ******* Sam but never at the same time you see, I don't drink earl grey cause it tastes like fruit loops and I don't eat fruit loops cause it tastes like the childhood I erased from my memory by forcing myself to dissociate maybe this, is something else altogether maybe this... is not true, another delusion, maybe your hands are busy counting change out for cardboard signs maybe your feet move a little bit faster, not because you're in a rush to see someone who isn't me but because you're so scared of ending up back where you started

12

**** culture is when I was six, and my brother punched my two front teeth out. Instead of reprimanding him, my mother said “What did you do to provoke him?” When my only defense was my mother whispering in my ear, *“Honey, ignore him. Don’t rile him up. He just wants a reaction.”* As if it was my sole purpose, the reason six-year-old me existed, was to not rile up my brother. It’s starts when we’re six, and ends when we grow up assuming the natural state of a man is a predator, and I must walk on eggshells, as to not “rile him up.” Right, mom? **** culture is when through casual dinner conversation, my father says that women who get ***** are asking for it. He says, *“I see them on the streets of New York City, with their short skirts and heavy makeup. Asking for it.”* When I used to be my father’s hero but will he think I was asking for it? Will he think I deserved it? Will he hold me accountable or will he hold me, even though the touch of a man - especially my father’s - burns as if I were holding the sun in the palm of my hand. **** culture is you were so ashamed, you thought it would be easier for your parents to find you dead, than to say, “Hey mom and dad,” It was not my fault. I did not ask for it. I never asked for this attention, I never asked to be a target, to be weak because I was born with two X chromosomes, to walk in fear, to always look behind me, in front of me, next to me, I never asked to be the prey. I never wanted to spend my life being something someone feasts upon, a meal for the eternally starved. I do not want to hear about the way I taste anymore. I will not let you eat me alive. **** culture is I should not defend my friend when an overaggressive frat boy has his hand on her *** because standing up for her body “makes me a target.” Women are afraid to speak up, because they fear their own lives - but I’d rather take the hit than live in a culture of silence. I am told that I will always be the victim, pre-determined by the DNA in my weaker, softer body. I have birthing hips, not a fighter’s stance. I am genetically pre-dispositioned to lose every time. **** culture is he was probably abused as a child. When he even has some form of a justification and all I have are the things that provoked him, and the scars from his touch are woven of the darkest and toughest strings, underneath the layer of my skin. **** culture leaves me finding pieces of him left inside of me. A bone of his elbow. The cap of his knee. There is something so daunting in the way that I know it will take me years to methodically extract him from my body. And that twinge I will get sometimes in my arm years later? Proof of the past. Like a tattoo I did not ask for. Somehow I am permanently inked. **** culture is you can’t wear that outfit anymore without feeling ***** without feeling like you somehow earned it. You will feel like you are walking on knives, every time you wear the shoes you smashed his nose in with. Imaginary blood on the bottom of your heels, thinking, maybe this will heal me. Those shoes are your freedom, But the remains of a life long fight. You will always carry your heart, your passion, your absolute will to live, but also the shame and the guilt and the pain. I saved myself but I still feel like I’m walking on knives. **** culture is *“You were not really ***** you were one of the lucky ones.”* Because my body was not penetrated by a ***** but fingers instead, that I should feel lucky. I should get on my hands and knees and say, thank you. Thank you for being so kind. **** culture is “things could have been worse.” “It’s been a month. Get out of bed.” “You’ll have to get over this eventually.” “Don’t let it ruin your life.” **** culture is he told you that after he touched you, no one would ever want you again. And you believed him. **** culture is telling your daughters not to get ***** instead of teaching your sons how to treat all women. That *** is not a right. You are not entitled to this. The worst possible thing you can call a woman is a **** a ***** a ***** The worst possible thing you can call a man is a ***** a ***** a girl. The worst thing you can call a girl is a girl. The worst thing you can call a guy is a girl. **Being a woman is the ultimate rejection, the ultimate dismissal of strength and power, the absolute insult.** When I have a daughter, I will tell her that she is not an insult. When I have a daughter, she will know how to fight. I will look at her like the sun when she comes home with anger in her fists. Because we are human beings and we do not always have to take what we are given. They all tell her not to fight fire with fire, but that is only because they are afraid of her flames. I will teach her the value of the word “no” so that when she hears it, she will not question it. Don’t you dare apologize for the fierce love you have for yourself and the lengths you go to preserve it. I am alive because of the fierce love I have for myself, and because my father taught me to protect that. He taught me that sometimes, I have to do my own bit of saving, pick myself off the ground and wipe the dirt off my face, because at the end of the day, there is only me. I am alive because my mother taught me to love myself. She taught me that I am an enigma - a mystery, a paradox, an unfinished masterpiece and I must love myself enough to see how I turn out. I am alive because even beaten, voiceless, and back against the wall, I knew there was an ounce of me worth fighting for. And for that, I thank my parents. Instead of teaching my daughter to cover herself up, I will show her how to be exposed. Because no is not “convince me”. No is not “I want it”. You call me, “Little lady, pretty girl, beautiful woman.” But I am not any of these things for you. **I am exploding light, my daughter will be exploding light, and you, better cover your eyes.**

0

snoo

Aug 16, 2015

Aug 16, 2015 at 11:39 PM UTC

kayla-hood

**** Culture

**** culture is when I was six, and my brother punched my two front teeth out. Instead of reprimanding him, my mother said “What did you do to provoke him?” When my only defense was my mother whispering in my ear, *“Honey, ignore him. Don’t rile him up. He just wants a reaction.”* As if it was my sole purpose, the reason six-year-old me existed, was to not rile up my brother. It’s starts when we’re six, and ends when we grow up assuming the natural state of a man is a predator, and I must walk on eggshells, as to not “rile him up.” Right, mom? **** culture is when through casual dinner conversation, my father says that women who get ***** are asking for it. He says, *“I see them on the streets of New York City, with their short skirts and heavy makeup. Asking for it.”* When I used to be my father’s hero but will he think I was asking for it? Will he think I deserved it? Will he hold me accountable or will he hold me, even though the touch of a man - especially my father’s - burns as if I were holding the sun in the palm of my hand. **** culture is you were so ashamed, you thought it would be easier for your parents to find you dead, than to say, “Hey mom and dad,” It was not my fault. I did not ask for it. I never asked for this attention, I never asked to be a target, to be weak because I was born with two X chromosomes, to walk in fear, to always look behind me, in front of me, next to me, I never asked to be the prey. I never wanted to spend my life being something someone feasts upon, a meal for the eternally starved. I do not want to hear about the way I taste anymore. I will not let you eat me alive. **** culture is I should not defend my friend when an overaggressive frat boy has his hand on her *** because standing up for her body “makes me a target.” Women are afraid to speak up, because they fear their own lives - but I’d rather take the hit than live in a culture of silence. I am told that I will always be the victim, pre-determined by the DNA in my weaker, softer body. I have birthing hips, not a fighter’s stance. I am genetically pre-dispositioned to lose every time. **** culture is he was probably abused as a child. When he even has some form of a justification and all I have are the things that provoked him, and the scars from his touch are woven of the darkest and toughest strings, underneath the layer of my skin. **** culture leaves me finding pieces of him left inside of me. A bone of his elbow. The cap of his knee. There is something so daunting in the way that I know it will take me years to methodically extract him from my body. And that twinge I will get sometimes in my arm years later? Proof of the past. Like a tattoo I did not ask for. Somehow I am permanently inked. **** culture is you can’t wear that outfit anymore without feeling ***** without feeling like you somehow earned it. You will feel like you are walking on knives, every time you wear the shoes you smashed his nose in with. Imaginary blood on the bottom of your heels, thinking, maybe this will heal me. Those shoes are your freedom, But the remains of a life long fight. You will always carry your heart, your passion, your absolute will to live, but also the shame and the guilt and the pain. I saved myself but I still feel like I’m walking on knives. **** culture is *“You were not really ***** you were one of the lucky ones.”* Because my body was not penetrated by a ***** but fingers instead, that I should feel lucky. I should get on my hands and knees and say, thank you. Thank you for being so kind. **** culture is “things could have been worse.” “It’s been a month. Get out of bed.” “You’ll have to get over this eventually.” “Don’t let it ruin your life.” **** culture is he told you that after he touched you, no one would ever want you again. And you believed him. **** culture is telling your daughters not to get ***** instead of teaching your sons how to treat all women. That *** is not a right. You are not entitled to this. The worst possible thing you can call a woman is a **** a ***** a ***** The worst possible thing you can call a man is a ***** a ***** a girl. The worst thing you can call a girl is a girl. The worst thing you can call a guy is a girl. **Being a woman is the ultimate rejection, the ultimate dismissal of strength and power, the absolute insult.** When I have a daughter, I will tell her that she is not an insult. When I have a daughter, she will know how to fight. I will look at her like the sun when she comes home with anger in her fists. Because we are human beings and we do not always have to take what we are given. They all tell her not to fight fire with fire, but that is only because they are afraid of her flames. I will teach her the value of the word “no” so that when she hears it, she will not question it. Don’t you dare apologize for the fierce love you have for yourself and the lengths you go to preserve it. I am alive because of the fierce love I have for myself, and because my father taught me to protect that. He taught me that sometimes, I have to do my own bit of saving, pick myself off the ground and wipe the dirt off my face, because at the end of the day, there is only me. I am alive because my mother taught me to love myself. She taught me that I am an enigma - a mystery, a paradox, an unfinished masterpiece and I must love myself enough to see how I turn out. I am alive because even beaten, voiceless, and back against the wall, I knew there was an ounce of me worth fighting for. And for that, I thank my parents. Instead of teaching my daughter to cover herself up, I will show her how to be exposed. Because no is not “convince me”. No is not “I want it”. You call me, “Little lady, pretty girl, beautiful woman.” But I am not any of these things for you. **I am exploding light, my daughter will be exploding light, and you, better cover your eyes.**

141

I keep telling myself that if I lay here long enough something's gonna swallow me and it's not because my heads been somewhere else lately it's because I sleep on the floor. Even when I don't. I sleep on the floor. The mattress has holes because mattresses get holes sometimes when you don't have blankets to cover them and you're too cold to put the cigarette out on anything other than yourself or what you have to sleep on now. Last year I'd spend every day in bed with a little bag full of drugs and a map to the bathtub just in case I forget what I took two seconds ago because I think it happened yesterday and I take more. And then I'm shaking, not because I'm cold this time. I'm seizing and nobody is home because everybody leaves me for preachers or church or a campfire or someone prettier. This part is foggy. I remember again a bathtub, an empty hotel bathtub and my mother and I say mama did you leave the door open on purpose and she says I went to church. She went to church. She went to church. Bathtub. I sleep there. Even though we are in a hotel I sleep in the bathtub because I like the way my anxiety sounds when it echoes. I like to hear it. Play it back. Memory. Back to the only house I've ever lived in alone. I'm seizing. I stop. I hear you. I somehow forget that it's 4 in the morning. It's my birthday now, nobody knows but it's my birthday now, teen years behind me but still a teen year drug addiction and you tell me to look out the window so I do. And the sky's on fire. I don't fall asleep again for three days but the sky's on fire. And so am I. And so are you. And I don't want to go back to the place I go to when I see the faces but I put myself here. I push and push and push and then I act surprised when something falls off the edge. I'm alone now. Even when I'm not. I'm alone.

0

snoo

May 31, 2015

May 31, 2015 at 11:54 PM UTC

blankpoems

even when we're not

I keep telling myself that if I lay here long enough something's gonna swallow me and it's not because my heads been somewhere else lately it's because I sleep on the floor. Even when I don't. I sleep on the floor. The mattress has holes because mattresses get holes sometimes when you don't have blankets to cover them and you're too cold to put the cigarette out on anything other than yourself or what you have to sleep on now. Last year I'd spend every day in bed with a little bag full of drugs and a map to the bathtub just in case I forget what I took two seconds ago because I think it happened yesterday and I take more. And then I'm shaking, not because I'm cold this time. I'm seizing and nobody is home because everybody leaves me for preachers or church or a campfire or someone prettier. This part is foggy. I remember again a bathtub, an empty hotel bathtub and my mother and I say mama did you leave the door open on purpose and she says I went to church. She went to church. She went to church. Bathtub. I sleep there. Even though we are in a hotel I sleep in the bathtub because I like the way my anxiety sounds when it echoes. I like to hear it. Play it back. Memory. Back to the only house I've ever lived in alone. I'm seizing. I stop. I hear you. I somehow forget that it's 4 in the morning. It's my birthday now, nobody knows but it's my birthday now, teen years behind me but still a teen year drug addiction and you tell me to look out the window so I do. And the sky's on fire. I don't fall asleep again for three days but the sky's on fire. And so am I. And so are you. And I don't want to go back to the place I go to when I see the faces but I put myself here. I push and push and push and then I act surprised when something falls off the edge. I'm alone now. Even when I'm not. I'm alone.

1

If I had to will my heart to beat it would have stopped.

0

Mar 18, 2015

Mar 18, 2015 at 8:19 PM UTC

snoo

Tired

If I had to will my heart to beat it would have stopped.

1

I don't like him as much as he likes me, but it's comfortable and I haven't had that in so long. It's been years and he's loved me since he met me. I've always known but would never admit it. The first time he kissed me he said, "I have wanted to do that for so long!" and I hailed a cab alone. I sleep in his bed on Wednesdays and Saturdays, but we act like it's not routine. I still haven't invited him to my house. He hasn't met my best friend. I talk about her all the time, but I never mention him. I wonder what his friends know about me. If they tell him to leave me. I skipped his birthday and he wasn't mad. He can't help but kiss my head, my back, my ears, my toes, my... He's patient. I met his family when we were friends. He always smells my hair and cooks me dinner. I miss him most when I'm on the train. He remembers all my stories that no one ever listens to. He wants to keep me warm--my hands, my feet, even though they rarely are, and I barely notice. Except when my feet are touching his and I don't want to turn his warmth into my cold. I have poor circulation. And isn't that how it's always been? Poor circulation. His warmth, my cold.

0

Feb 11, 2015

Feb 11, 2015 at 4:42 AM UTC

snoo

Poor Circulation

I don't like him as much as he likes me, but it's comfortable and I haven't had that in so long. It's been years and he's loved me since he met me. I've always known but would never admit it. The first time he kissed me he said, "I have wanted to do that for so long!" and I hailed a cab alone. I sleep in his bed on Wednesdays and Saturdays, but we act like it's not routine. I still haven't invited him to my house. He hasn't met my best friend. I talk about her all the time, but I never mention him. I wonder what his friends know about me. If they tell him to leave me. I skipped his birthday and he wasn't mad. He can't help but kiss my head, my back, my ears, my toes, my... He's patient. I met his family when we were friends. He always smells my hair and cooks me dinner. I miss him most when I'm on the train. He remembers all my stories that no one ever listens to. He wants to keep me warm--my hands, my feet, even though they rarely are, and I barely notice. Except when my feet are touching his and I don't want to turn his warmth into my cold. I have poor circulation. And isn't that how it's always been? Poor circulation. His warmth, my cold.

3

Wait! You knew me when I went crazy. Come back. Haven't you heard? I'm me again.

0

Feb 4, 2015

Feb 4, 2015 at 9:34 PM UTC

snoo

Untitled

Wait! You knew me when I went crazy. Come back. Haven't you heard? I'm me again.

4

Dreamt of driving down that old back road in summertime looked like a country song I smell the warm air I said, "This looks just like home." Insisted, "This is just like home." Even in my dreams I know I need to come home.

0

Jan 21, 2015

Jan 21, 2015 at 2:05 AM UTC

snoo

Back Road

Dreamt of driving down that old back road in summertime looked like a country song I smell the warm air I said, "This looks just like home." Insisted, "This is just like home." Even in my dreams I know I need to come home.

9

Dementia took Grandma's mind She complimented my pie And she didn't even have to.

0

Jan 21, 2015

Jan 21, 2015 at 2:02 AM UTC