College is over
For most of the kids I grew up with,
And now everyone’s getting married
And having babies.
“It’s that time of life”
That’s what I keep hearing,
I’m supposed to feel behind,
And that’s supposed to feel comforting.

Peace
In the laughter
Of my sister’s daughter.
The ringing singing
Of playtime.

Peace
In the squealing
of my sister pushing her son
In his wheelchair
As they play tag
With his siblings.

Peace
In the scolding
In the fussing
As my niece has her hair brushed,
In the tears as bedtime is declared.

Peace
In my brother-in-law
Racing his two oldest
Down the sidewalk
To the playground.

There is peace
In this home.
Safety in the discipline,
Kindness in the scolding,
Love in the story time.

Peace
In the home
My sister built.

People are like shampoo brands.

They have flashy labels,
And colorful packaging,
They list their qualities upfront,
And what they're really made of
Where they hope
No one
Will see.

Shampoo says it goes best
With its matching conditioner,
And we all like to think
Someone else will make us better,
Make us sexier.
Hair products give instructions,
And we're all conditioned
To believe them.

I've never payed attention
To ingredients,
Only read the positive label,
But now I'm finding out what people
Are really made of,
And I'm now looking
For something more natural.

But what about me?
When you leave out the dye
And the bubbles
What am I made of?
I feel like an unknown trade secret,
And you don't even
Want
To know what they put in those.

I've found myself
Comparing brands lately
And I feel like my own falls short.
I feel like a cheap knock off
Masked as main brand...

But am I really fooling anyone?

“Honey, you can’t keep living your life to please people.”
But that’s how I survive.

Someday
I won’t be quiet
When I want to scream about injustice.
I won’t hold myself and cry,
I’ll cry in plain sight
And show that what someone said wasn’t okay.

I’ll leave when I want to,
I won’t talk to those who hurt me.
I’ll tell people when they’re rude,
I’ll speak up
When I want to.

But now...
I’m at the mercy of others.
I live to please
Or I don’t get to live.

This is the time of my life
Where I raise my hand
And ask permission.
When I nod politely
At unfairness,
Where my knuckles are clenched white
Behind my back
As I accept whatever treatment I receive.

I do dream of being free,
Make no mistake,
I’m not happy this way.
But this is how I must stay
To survive.

It’s a cruel mistress.

It airbrushes our stomachs
And our thigh.

It becomes friendly between our legs,
Under our arms,
And I’m our heads.

I found a piece of you
Stuck to me
Today.
Like a bee sting,
With the poison still inside.
Throbbing and itchy.

A gold lamp sat on his desk.
The paint had been rubbed off
on the angles and various edges.
When left on for too long,
it became hot,
untouchable.

There are things my mother
kept around,
I don't know why she did,
Such as the cracks in the walls
from being kicked too hard,
her bed frame
she claimed to have been
pushed onto
and then hit by his fists.
Or a lamp
that got too hot,
and needed a firm hand to twist the ****
that turned it off
and on
again.

There are memories of him
I don’t know why
I keep around.
His messy work desk,
His big powerful hands,
His booming voice.

I allow my mother room
To keep pieces of him
Because it’s hard to forget
A husband of over twenty years.

I allow myself room
To not forget him,
Because it’s hard to hate your father
Forever.

They can prescribe
Pills to make you sleep,
Pills to make you happy,
Pills to stop the anxiety,
Pills to make you
Walk around
In a drunken haze
So that you can't connect
With the world enough
For it to hurt anymore.

They could give me pills
To help me get through work,
To make me smile at strangers,
They could give me pills
To fix my insomnia,
They could give me pills
To drown out the loop
Of anxiety
I'm constantly
Trapped in.

But could someone give me pills
To stop me from hurting him,
Him,
The thing I love most.
I'm like a white hot iron,
Sinking into his flesh,
Making it sizzle and
Bubble,
Making smoke curl up
In curvy pictures.
Can they give me pills
To stop that?

They can prescribe pills,
To stop your sneezing,
So help make your second
Personality
Shut up,
To stop your mood swings.

But can they give me pills
To stop me
From being so tired
From fighting every instinct
Of dysfunction I have?
I'm an artist of self destruction,
My brush strokes are skillful,
And aged with experience,
The colors make it stand out,
When you focus on it long enough.
Can they drug me until I forget
I can't even tell I'm hurting
The man I love
Until it's too late?
Can they give me pills to tune out
The reality that my own father
Molested me,
And that it will haunt my actions
For the rest of my life?


Can they give me pills to stop that?

CAN THEY GIVE ME PILLS TO ******* STOP THAT?

It's a whip that stings across my back,
And face,
Constantly,
It thrashes at my body,
It will always be there,
And if you get too close
You get hit too,
And I have to watch you,
Praying you'll leave me.
Why do they think I don't let people in?

Because they can't prescribe me pills
To stop that.

I know the sound of your breathing
When you’re about to have a panic attack.
And that’s the breathing I heard
The last time I will ever step foot
In the house.

Jordan came with me,
Because I didn’t want to do it alone,
And he
Just knows how to take things in stride...
I don’t.

I didn’t want to lose our friendship,
But I also did.

When I moved out,
A lot of things happened.
I started sleeping through the night again.
I stopped having secret panic attacks.
I stopped talking to Rob.
I started praying again.
I stopped reading tarot cards.
I started to just
Enjoy things
Like I hadn’t in months.
And I slept,
I practically slept for three days.

I wanted you to hold me
In the way I used to hold you
When you cut,
Or you threatened to **** your self
When I actually
Tried
To **** myself.
Suddenly I was naked
Without your pinky
Holding mine.

But something else happened
When I let you go,
Suddenly my thoughts
Didn’t revolve
Around keeping you safe,
Keeping you sane,
Keeping you calm.
I just existed.

No mother to quiet,
No friend to babysit.
My god,
I could breathe.
I could just ******* breathe.

Maybe that’s why I was so angry.
His actions weren’t your fault after all...
But I was still so angry with you.

Because our friendship was only about
What you wanted.
What you needed.
Sure,
You listened to me rant and rave,
But it was never about me
Even then.
It was about you.

And McKenna?
He’s what you dreamed of
Since forever.
Do you think I don’t know
That he always came before me?
How could we
Possibly
Be friends with him at your side?

I would never make you choose
Between him and me.
Which is why I chose me
Instead of you.

I’m sorry it’s this way.
I’m sorry I can’t save you anymore.

But now we’re both free.

The worst I can get
Is no where,
And I’m already here.

I'm tangled
In a mess of cables,
Winding around my neck
And my wrists,
Tightening around my chest.

I'm a living power strip
That grew a personality,
Sparks burn my ears
As they encircle my head,
The result of too many plugs.
No one even asks anymore,
They come up behind me,
grab me around the throat,
And sink their plug in.

I supply your power,
When you're drained you
Take up my battery.
I look like some creature
Of the night,
with plugs running up my back,
Like spines.
And I can't breathe
With the chords pressing against
My ribs.

I'm watching myself
Slowly die,
Everyone's need for power,
Is draining me.
I want to rip out
Every
Single
Plug.
But I'm afraid you'll leave with them.

Being perceived as normal is an art.
  My PTSD Atypical brain
is accidentally obvious,
and so I must be practiced and calculated
to stay hidden.

It isn't the cute eccentricities
that give us all mildly embarrassing quirks
that keep me up at night
obsessing over my behavior.
It's the trickle of trauma that seeps out of me
and marinates in with conversations
that should be normal.

It isn't random shoulder shaking sobs
or public screaming matches,
or anything obvious enough
to merit the stares of passerbys.
It's more
a bump in the road,
a single tight knot
in a strand of yarn,
or a piece of eggshell in pancake batter.
Not terrible enough to upset the balance completely,
but your thumb runs over it repeatedly a few times
in annoyance
because you can feel it just enough
to know it shouldn't be there.

It shouldn't be there.

I'm trying to practice
being average.
Practice being quiet when I should,
and learn the pieces of my life
that were traumatic
so I can hide them enough
to get by in a daily vanilla life.

But it's exhausting.

It’s easy for me
To forget the severity,
Until the tunnel vision,
The shaking,
And the vomiting
Start happening.

It’s easy to brush it off
And call it an old problem,
Just because the triggers
Are becoming fewer and farther
Between.

But they still happen.
They still hurt.
I’m strong,
And I’m fighting to gain control,
But losing it feels like failure sometimes.

Flipping through men
Like a deck of elaborately
Designed
Playing cards.

Blowing cotton seeds
Of “I love you”
Into the wind.

I’m not ready.

I keep saying that,
And it keeps getting disregarded
Because I’m a woman.
All women are waiting to be loved,
After all.

But I’m waiting for my own love
To wrap around my imperfect body,
Grow into my trauma fueled mind
And give me the chance
To build myself around it.
To cling to it
As if I am a vine,
And it a supporting tree.

But still,
“I care for you.”
“I want you to be mine.”
“We have a connection.”
“You’re special to me.”
“We’re together.”

And no one listens
To my protests.
My discouragement
Makes them believe they can change me.
Makes them believe
The reward will be so much better.

But I’m not ready.

I finally figured it out.
Put my finger on the rotting tooth
That’s been causing me pain.
I’m all cut up inside
Because I’ll never be enough for them.

I used to be able
To drag my hand down your back
And count your bones,
Feel every bump in your spine.
I would hold your delicate frame
To protect you from the world
But here we are,
Your shoulders are strong,
From carrying the weight of your own
World,
And you're somehow protecting me.
The strangeness of recovery
is unnatural
When we grow while broken,
Like a tree bent into awkward
shapes
And twisted around it's oppressor.
But my love,
Let's regrow together.

You paid more attention
To your red letters
Than to the colored words of
Jesus.
I guess accessibility is what it takes
To name our identity.

Mean words were accessible to you,
Easier to come by than scripture.
Already imprinted in your head
From childhood,
No need for memorization
Or word for word quotation,
Or chapter and verse
References.
It didn’t matter who said what.

Cruelty is easy.

Cruelty’s simplicity made it easy
To write your own red letter verses
On your body.
After all,
All you had to do to find the right tool
Was to open a drawer and find a razor blade,
Not leaf through thousands of strangely thin pages
And tiny columned sentences.

So now in this new era
Of adulthood,
I try to make love
Accessible to you,
I try to make it accessible to myself.
No more red letters in pale skin,
Just glowing love
Held in the palms of our hands
Well past midnight,
Made of pixelated letters
Typed by nail-bitten thumbs.

Something inside of me
Caught fire
And now I can’t breathe

Naked felt good
When my consciousness
Was just a kite
I flew far
Above my head.

The feeling
Of revealing
My darkest secrets
To a crowd of people
In a dimly lit pagan bar
Used to be the things
Fantasies were made of.
Because they didn’t matter.

The darkest parts of myself didn’t matter for a moment
Because I was so far away from the world,
So detached from myself,
That the adrenaline
Almost roused me to wake up
From my daze,
And the feeling was addicting.

I fell down from the sky.
I fell hard.
I came back,
Hardly able to walk
For a few days
It was such an impact,
And suddenly things matter again.

Strangers kissing me in the dark
Doesn’t sooth me,
It hurts to even consider it.
Because I was so lonely,
And it was just a glaring reminder
That I was so
Lonely and dissatisfied.

But you carefully unwrapped me,
Gently tugged at the folds
So not to rip the paper,
And you looked at the bare body inside.
I’m raw.
My skin is pink and burned,
I feel pain even at soft touches.
I left my body behind
For so long
I didn’t even know
The damage that had been done.

You run your hand
Along the curves,
The cuts,
And the bruises.
You kiss the dry
Cracking skin,
And I feel truly
Naked,
Vulnerable,
And released.

Today I needed to remember her,
The wild parts of who I used to be.

I needed to remember the self destructive taste
Of cigarettes and chocolate bars,
The feeling of body positivity,
Sexuality,
And funky fashion.

I needed to remember that I am angry,
Because I needed to remember why I am moving forward.

I let myself remember her today,
The wild parts
Of who I used to be.

I want to fly away
On wings of disassociation.

Dunk my head under sunlit water,
With my eyes wide open,
Breathe in the perfect blue water
And watch the shimmering colorful fish
As I lose consciousness.

I want to float into the sky,
Have the sun turn my skin pink
As I float higher
And higher
And
Higher
Up into the stars,
Until I reach the blank black space beyond,
And can no longer fill my lungs.

I want to lay on the mossy
Forest floor
And feel vines wrap around me,
Plants take root inside my carcass,
And moss cover my skin,
As the plants claim me.

Most of all,
I want to tell someone,
But I don’t want to admit it.

Bottled
Boxed
Shrink wrapped
Flash frozen
Angst
And grunge.
Spray on depth
And emotions,
Advertised
To children.
Individually packaged
Insomnia,
Because something
Needs to be wrong with you
For people to care.

In our pre ripped,
Pre faded jeans,
Music
About drugs
And drink,
Sung
By children
Who've never come close
To either,
At the top of their lungs
Into the night.

Because pain is deep,
Pain is real.

We're dumping paint cans
Full of black paint
Over our heads,
Clumping our hair together,
Covering our sunshine
Yellow bodies.
Just to demonstrate
Some contrast
Against the summer
Blue sky,
So we get to be
A little different.

Sabotage
Sabotage
Sabotage
Sabotage

Marketed,
Advertised,
Sabotage.

Do you feel it in the air?
Family value sized
Self destruction?

And pointing it out
Is pointless,
Because my fake nose piercing,
And brand new
First tattoo
Sting still,
You could say I'm the worst.

-----WARNING, EXPLICIT CONTENT, MAY BE TRIGGERING----

My stomach makes me feel disgusting.

I’ve always been short,
Had thick thighs that puberty blessed me
With,
And mostly even *******,
And then there are the stretch marks,
That have only bothered me a little bit
Because they were on the inside of my legs,
And not hard to hide.

When I was nine years old,
My older sister pasted makeup
Across my face
For fun,
I don’t remember the fun.
I remember when she told me my lips were too plump,
And said she could shrink them
With the wave
Of a magic
Red
Crayon.
And here I am.
Plump lips,
Round cheeks,
Small deep-set eyes.
A complexion marred by freckles
And tiny acne scars.

And I took that small portion of body shame
Through puberty
With me,
Wondered why the boys
Didn’t objectify me,
Because in our world,
In a woman’s world,
We’re breastfed from birth
To know that if we aren’t
Objectified
We aren’t
Pretty,
And if we aren’t pretty
We aren’t
Worth
Anything.

So the first boy who wanted my body
In the summer of my youth,
My half-baked adulthood,
Seemed like a Godsend.
And I followed him
Like God himself.
It took me over three years
To figure out
That kisses weren’t supposed to hurt.

I protected him
Like he was a child,
Forgave him like a final hope I had set all my dreams on,
Ignored his lies like a slave bows to a master’s blows.
And he knew
That everything I said no to,
All it required to make me give in
Was the threat of no longer
Wanting me.

He ignored me for only a week to touch me again.
And I let him.

He kept me
As a pocket lover,
One he could take out
And put away on a whim.
Made me comfortable enough with him
To be naked,
And naked enough to remember that I ate more than him.

And after months of pushing the line,
Doing little things
And then apologizing,
Or claiming he was just kidding.
He waited until I was primed,
I watched him think about it.
I saw the thought
In those cold blue eyes.
Saw them storm into the waters of blue,
And crash grey,
As he bit his lip and decided.

He held my wrists,
After lulling me into a sense of safety and playfulness
Whenever he did anything of the kind,
And then...

Most people don’t think of an abusive man performing oral *** as his first choice of attack.
I always thought they’d forcefully take
Instead of forcefully give.

But he ignored our safe word,
And kept my wrists pinned.
I was too stunned to fight harder than that.
I was too stunned.
Too confused.
Wasn’t this love?
He wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t love...
He fought through my protests
And I gave in.
He knew I would,
He was too sure of himself as he pushed through my argument.

I went home and cried that night.
I told him I didn’t want to do it again.
He reassured me he didn’t mind.
But after a few days of his cold shoulder,
I realized again,
Just how much I was willing to do
For his attention.

He always loved leaving little bruises on my skin,
Little places he’d kissed more aggressively.
At first,
As a teenager
Who barely knew anything about such things,
I didn’t mind at all,
I thought this was all so
Very
****.
And maybe it was in the beginning.

But then he got harsher.
I’d moan harder just so he would stop,
Because he wouldn’t listen when I said it hurt.
I’d look in the mirror at my purple and blue
Ty dyed skin,
And pull my clothes on
In a hurry
So I didn’t have to look at me.

As time went on it hurt more.

How can I explain what it was like
To have little things
Like that,
Things I used to enjoy,
Suddenly cause so much pain
I’d count the seconds until he stopped.

My conservative Christian upbringing
Made me feel disgusting and shameful
When I thought of talking about how
When he used to playfully slap my **** it was just fun and games,
And then suddenly he slapped me so hard he’d leave a throbbing red hand mark on my body.

It was a violent
Terrifying
Thirst for ***
And strength.

Screams of pleasure turned to screams of pain.

And in the moment where he had his **** in my mouth,
Moving in and out in a sick rhythm,
As I stared blankly at his pleasure,
I realized that was all I was anymore...
His pleasure.
I felt an emptiness I can’t explain.

The only thought in my mind,
Was “I’m just a toy.”
A toy he could break,
And then patch up
Just enough
To use again,
And break,
And place a piece of tape,
Over
And
Over
And
Over
Again.
And if I said no,
All he had to do was not answer a few texts for a couple weeks.

But that wasn’t the final straw.
That wasn’t the last of it.

“Let’s just stick it in and see how it feels.”
He’d said it at least eight times and told me
He was joking every time I said no.
That was the last piece of my dignity and boundaries
I had held onto.

The last time I saw him he said it again.
After he had “accidentally” partially penetrated five times.
What if he got bored of me saying no?
What if he got bored of me?
I played along with the idea for a moment,
And he pushed for a yes.
I was saved by my ride
Pulling into the driveway.

I went home and cried again.
Sobbed bitterly.

I wish I had kicked him off
Instead of humored him,
Even if it had only been considering it for a few minutes.

And bare in mind
I still thought
That I was the crazy one.
That he hadn’t done anything wrong.

That was the last few months of winter.
Come late summer,
I was dating the best friend he had always hated.
And that best friend’s kisses were soft.
Soft as a gentle bit of sunshine
Kissing my face through a canopy of green leaves.
And his touches waited for permission,
His hands waited for invitation,
His lips waited to be welcomed,
And his tenderness was there from the beginning.

In a moment of his sunshine beauty,
I had flashbacks,
And knew something
Had been very
Very
Wrong,
With the last boy.
Because this one was loving
Before he claimed he loved me,
This one would stop at the word “no”,
And kiss my forehead,
And hug me close,
And never made a sign
He minded.
He was safe.

And then I knew what the bruises meant.
What holding my wrists meant.
What ignoring me meant.

I thought the world would be fundamentally different,
But it kept going.
My brain was an orchestra
Of sirens,
And a kaleidoscope
Of red flags.
And yet
Everything outside of my body
Was still the same.
And my body became even more disgusting to me,
A monument
To the pain
He inflicted on me.

That’s why I’m only eating 1,560 calories a day,
That’s why my stomach makes me feel disgusting,
That’s why I accidentally gained
15 pounds,
Because I can’t look at myself.

And I don’t want the truest love I’ve ever known,
To see the same body he saw.
The same body I had to watch abused.

I can't stand to exist in this shape anymore,
yet here I am.
I'm sitting in dangerous anger
in my dispised skin.
I woke up today,
and I will wake up again tomorrow.
Eventually, my body will have new memories,
my fingers are slowly learning
the familiarity of a safe hand,
and my voice is learning
happy sounds.

But it takes time to relearn
how to keep living.

Short bottle blonde hair
that catches the light,
tan skin that glows in the evening air.
Enough emotional baggage
to fill a train,
but I guess you have a type.

Jordan it isn't fair.

I shouldn't have let you win me
so easily,
but that doesn't mean I'm not worth anything.

So maybe she's beautiful,
and maybe she needs you,
but you said you wanted me,
I don't need to be broken again.

You found me lying on my kitchen floor
covered in my own *****,
with all the pills in the house
collected in a decorative
plastic basket.
Do you think
I need to be taken for granted
one
more
time?

I'll be fine if you're gone,
I will.
But I don't want you to be.

If you want me
to stop
worrying,
to stop being angry,
stop
talking
to her.

Stop checking her social media
constantly,
stop caring more if you talk to her
than if you talk to me.
You're almost still obsessed with her
and that was okay
when we were first together
and I was trying to give you space to heal,
but it's quickly becoming not okay.

I was your second choice,
regardless of how you argue with me,
I'm not stupid Jordan,
I know.

If you want her
you can't want me too.
I won't let you.

She used to be the one
who was by my side
through all of my potentially
bad decisions,
but now it's you.

She was there through
bad haircuts,
tattoos.
piercings,
and daring outfits.

But she always held me back,
****** back the chain
and reminded me
that I can't just do things,
I have to be afraid first.

Now you
cheer me on,
and hold me
when it doesn't go to plan.
The decisions I'm making are better,
and I'm less afraid.

is freedom.
*** is a demonstration
of my victory,
my liberation
from my oppressive youth.
*** is a moment
when no judgemental eyes
scrutinize my body,
just loving
tender looks,
drinking up my essence

I moved my bed
To the other side of my room
To help my sleep,
To help me feel
Like that wasn’t where
I was violated.

You would think that in the months
That followed
After I truly understood
What he had done to me,
I would’ve run from the bed
It happened in.

But no.

I spent most of my time there.

I quit my job,
And slipped in and out of sleep
All day, every day.
I shut down.
I spent almost all of my time
In bed,
Letting my life
Pass me by,
Because I couldn’t stand
Participating anymore.

That corner of my room
Across from where I sleep
Still haunts me.

Thinking of what happened there,
Talking
About what happened there,
Makes me want to
Burn the sheets,
And peel off my skin,
Rip off the face he kissed,
And staple my legs closed.
So that no one,
No one,
Can ever do that to me again.

Thinking about what
He did to me
Makes me feel like I have to throw up,
And perhaps that would exile
The fear in my belly,
And banish the memories.

When I was a girl,
I tried very hard
To fill this room up
With love for myself,
I painting the walls
With kind words,
I tried to turn it into
A sanctuary.

He tore down the walls
Of my boundaries,
My privacy,
My safety,
And my dignity.
He stole it from me.

I spent over a year rebuilding
And taking it back,
I was doing fine.
I want you to understand,
I was doing fine.

I bought new sheets,
And new underwear,
I moved my bed,
I got new clothes,
I got new medication,
And a new job,
And someone who loves me.

I was doing ******* fine.

And now it’s all crashing down again.
It’s fresh
All over again.

It hurts all over again,
And hurt isn’t a strong enough word.

I want you to understand
How horrible this is for me,
But I know you won’t.

‘...You were the only choice.
She was something
I had to get out of the way
First.”

The hot water
Wrinkles my fingertips
And stretches my hair
Down my back
In a red waterfall.

My knees are tucked
Up against
My chest.
The water
Turned to the hottest setting
So it’s still warm
When it reaches me
Down on the floor.

I close my eyes
And pretend
It’s washing off
Everything.

Every painful bruise
From my high school sweetheart.

Every time Dillon
Pushed my head down his body.

The hard grip
On my hand
That Matt had
As he placed my hand
On his *******.

The sloppy kisses
Eddy gave me
On his sunshine soaked
Bed.

The kiss on my neck
James left
Without warning
In a public place
Where I felt like I couldn’t
Be angry.

Rob’s hands
Never
Leaving
Me
Alone.

But most off all,
The body
Of the love of my life.
If that
Could wash off
I could pretend
I never
Risked him
For a moment of release.

The water
Drips down my forehead,
And my closed eyes,
Catching in my eyelashes.

I want to be clean.

Unroll me
Like a bolt of fabric
Inspect the weave of my pores.
I am a tapestry
Of tattoos
Freckles
And scars.

I used to walk
Down the street
With a smile on my face,
When I was young,
And foolish.
When the world
Felt safe.

I built the dam holding back my crazy
With the only thing I could find at the time.
There’s a wall of twigs holding back the storming ocean inside me,
And they’re snapping in two.

***, when I wanted to wait.
SNAP.

“How can you eat that?”
SNAP.

“I cut you off because you don’t always have the best views, and I didn’t want you giving him the wrong idea...”
SNAP.

“Well the problem is black people...”
SNAP. SNAP. SNAP.

“It’ll be good for us to be apart more.”
SNAP.

“That’s you, shouting at the world because no one is listening.”
SNAP.

“I don’t know how you two are supposed to have kids when neither of you can accomplish more than one thing in a day.”
SNAP.

“I rearranged your bathroom counter.”
SNAP.

“Well I don’t want you to think this is okay when we’re married someday...”
SNAP.

I’m barely holding on.

Summer solstice in a dark
Basement kava bar.
An army of drums
Rolling my brain around
In an intoxicated blur.

There are things no one understands
Hiding in me.

Things
Made of a foreign Fiji beverage
That makes your tongue numb.
Hanging glass tubes
Filled with feathers and herbs.
A bar,
A traditional toast,
A friendly conversation.

I hide myself
In the blue walls,
Mimic the gold designs
Until I disappear.
It’s hard to be anywhere,
Hard to forget,
But I’m here.

I am gradually falling in love
with the concept of us.
Us together.
Two poets in love,
sipping our fancy tea.

Come hammock with me,
on a beach of
star-studded
lake softened
pebbles,
I'll paint pictures
from sun-baked colors,
while you paint
images with light
and glass lenses.

Sailing while freckles
pop up on our shoulders,
your strong hands on the helm.
We'd be wind pirates,
lake waves
would spray
our laughing faces.

You and I
both crave human contact,
like we crave crisp cold air.
Old movies would sprinkle our skin
with black and white,
and our arms would intertwine.

We could cook together,
try spicy things.
The music of popping butter
would feed our souls.
We'd kiss our cats,
and walk our dogs,
side by side,
if you were mine.

I know it's strange,
and as I write,
I'm helping you win another girl,
and we're miles apart...
But if this were one
of those eighties
romantic comedies,
we'd be the best friends
who saw each other with new eyes
before the credits rolled.
And it'd be some kind of wonderful.

My vision was blurry
From the water falling onto my face,
His hands pulling me close to him
A soft
Absent minded kiss on the neck.

Sometimes we’re more capable of a deeper love
For one person
In only a month
Than we are for another in two years.

Beer can in hand,
I walked up behind him and folded my arms
Around his waist
Letting the aroma of his cooking engulf me,
I pressed my face into his back
And smelled that busy kitchen smell
In his work clothes.

I’d never been with someone
Who’s fire matched mine.
Someone who encouraged me
To be emotional,
Instead of being afraid of me.
Who held me in dark moments,
But knew when to let go.
In three years Seth didn’t know.
Two years, and Dillon didn’t understand.
But in three and a half weeks
Rob could always tell
When I needed him,
When I needed space,
What was on my mind,
And whether or not
I was lying.

Driving around
In his car after midnight,
Smoking an illegal herb,
And talking about
What keeps us up at night,
And what helps us sleep.
His hand
On my leg,
His fingers locking with mine,
I played with his hair
And we sang along
To old songs
That sad teenagers listen to.

But we aren’t always
Supposed
To end up with someone
Who fits so perfectly into our souls.
Somehow we fit a lifetime of love
In a matter of weeks
And it was complete.

I woke up
To his perfect touches.
It wasn’t that he was gentle,
Or rough,
But perfect.
He knew when to be firm,
And when to be soft,
And I never had to tell him.
Making love in the morning,
And holding each other,
Playing with his hair
As if I’d done so for years,
And he kissed the top of my head
Every few minutes.

We don’t always end up
With our soul mates,
Because we aren’t always their soul mates.

Laughing in the car,
Watching TV,
Getting dinner,
Making dinner,
Him pressing the back of my hand
To his lips.

It can be so perfect,
And burn out
So fast.

I’m trying not to take up space
In your life.
Trying to plaster myself to the wall
As only and observer
An art piece.
Occasionally admired,
Taken out
And shown to people,
But mostly just
To decorate an empty room.

I’m trying to be satisfied as that,
But you keep apologizing,
And that keeps reminding me
That I should be allowed more.

I have a workshop,
With a circus of colors
To preform and entertain.
Sheets of stained glass
In every color
Only limited by my imagination.

I cut the pieces in curly shapes
And faces,
Into smiles and frowns,
Into leaves or flowers.
Slowly
Arrange
The perfect picture,
Then stand back to look at my masterpiece.

I can never take my eyes away...
Sunlight bringing it to life,
Lighting the reds
On fire,
The blue turns to water,
The faces are are angelically glowing,
And I can’t stop looking,
I’m so lost in the picture...

I can’t see the world through it...
I forget there’s a world through
It,
It’s so beautiful,
Everything I ever wanted...

CRASH.

A hailstorm crashes through,
Shattering the glass,
And the hell storm
Out side blows where the beautiful
Manufactured image once stood.

I find myself a home,
And I fill it with stained glass.
I refuse to see anything around me
Except the picture I’ve dreamed into my reality.

And then the true reality crashes through,
It always does
Eventually.
Destroying almost, if not all, the wonderful things I’ve been so focused on.

I’ve found myself a home,
And I don’t remember building windows,
But the real world outside
Looks beautiful.
It’s full of flowers and leaves,
Sunshine and rain,
Faces with smiles,
And tears,
But no hell storm.

I know in the pit of my stomach,
That it’s going to be shattered,
And I don’t want to be caught off guard this time...
I want to catch it in my hands,
All the awful things,
And hold them like a struggling scared animal
So they can’t surprise me this time,
So I don’t feel like the stupid one
This time.

I’m wandering around
With a rock in my hand,
Going from beautiful thing,
To beautiful thing,
And trying to hit it with the rock,
Trying to break the illusion
Before I love it too much.
I may not remember,
But I must have built the image
In my wondrous workshop,
And tricked myself again.

But no windows are breaking,
And I’m shaking.

What’s wrong?
Why can’t I escape the illusion?

Because I haven’t realized,
Maybe it’s just a plain old boring window,
Not stained glass,
But reality.

His little fingers are sticky
In the mysterious way
That a toddler’s always are,
But I still hold his hand
In the parking lot.

I started to love
The grass stained
Everyday
Life
In your family.
Suddenly I
Was at home
In a child
Holding me close,
Singing along to songs
In the car,
Shoulder rides,
And trips to the bathroom
Where I helped him wash his hands.

“I’m not going to lie,
I got a call from my ex wife
Yesterday.
The guy she was living with is gone.
I told her I might be interested in something in the future...”
He held my hand
And watched my face for reaction.
“But I want to see this through first.”

I’m a placeholder for her.
A hand to hold
When she’s not there,
Lips to kiss
When she turns away.

“I think there’s more to get out of this. I want to get everything out of this.”
You want to get everything out of me.

I warned him,
I was getting attached.
I never should’ve
Gotten attached.

I’m just a stand in Mommy.

You don’t belong
In old photographs.

You weren’t meant to exist
On paper
Trapped in a frame.

You belong in a garden.

Your pristine
Manicure nails
Belong in the dirt,
Digging for bulbs
And roots.

You’re too colorful
For a scene
Of black and white,
Too intricate
To be a memory.

I watched
As your body became
An object.
I saw you stop being you
In a hospital bed.

You looked delicate.

You’ve never,
Never,
Been delicate.

You’ve been feminine
And beautiful,
But always along side
Strength.

New York farm girl,
With a touch of
Glamour,
An elegant survivor.

You told my sister
And I
You would still sneak out to the garden,
And not to tell.
We never told.

You were never meant to be
Less than yourself.

Your blood
Runs through my veins,
Your fortitude in every step.
Your cheer in my smile,
Your movie star beauty
In all of our faces.

You were never
Meant to be
An old photograph.

To help myself
See past my sensible cardigans
And dull colors
I wear superhero socks.
To help myself
Keep from forgetting
The person I fought
so hard to become,
I stay alive in my tattoos.

I keep a secret me
underneath
the sensible adult.
Just to remind myself
while a customer is complaining,
or a manager is scolding,
or my bills are too big,
that I'm still me.

It’s time to stop
Pressing my face against mirrors
And judging each and every pore.

It’s time to stop
******* in my pulpy cheeks
Like I did when I was a young teen
To see what my round face would look like
If they shrank.

It’s time to stop
Doing exercises I find
On the Internet
That falsely promise to make
My ******* the same size.

It’s time to stop
Holding my stomach fat
In my hands
And picturing my body without it.

It’s time to stop
Sitting on the edge of my bed
And looking down at my thighs,
And moving them
To watch the disappointing jiggle.

It’s time to stop
Wearing men’s clothes
In order to hide as many curves
In my body
As I can.

It’s time to stop
Trying to change
Because I want to earn love.

It’s time to stop
Hurting myself
Trying to become beautiful,
Because I’m the only person
Who I can count on
To be truly kind to my body.

It’s time to stop
Doing things
I know are bad for me.

A tin of fine herbs
Opened, perfuming the air
Sprinkled into a metal cage
Of weaving wires.
Steaming water
Scalding over me,
Embracing my intense flavor,
Becoming one.

We created a soothing taste
For a while,
But we steeped too long,
He stirred too hard,
And we were made bitter.
The steaming liquid
Was drained from me,
I was no longer left by its heat,
I was left cold.

Then you picked me up,
Swirled these dulled dregs
Around in the cup.
I must ask,
What is it you see in me?
This once potent scent,
Now wasted.

What do you see in the tea leaves?

I'm having tea with Life,
And his band of Disappointments.
They dine at my expense,
And they're a hungry bunch of guests.

Tea turned into Supper,
Where the Disappointments drank
My finest wine,
And Life wiped his cruel mouth
On my tablecloth.

You can't have supper without dessert,
So they ate up more of my
Food for thought.
And if you stay for dessert,
You may as well spend the night.
So they did
And burgled my pantry of hopes
For a midnight snack.

One night was lovely,
So Life cackled, "Why not stay two?"
And two turned to a week,
And a week turned into
My sickeningly merry guests
Moving into my dreams,
And inviting in Doubt,
To live with them too,
And of course
Pay no rent.

So I watch my chaotic household
Of a skull,
Where Life has made himself at home
And brought all of his friends.
I stare dully at my ruined
Dining room of thought,
Which they have dominated.
And look wearily for a spare idea
In my raided cupboards.

I've never been one
To evict friends,
So I suppose they're here to stay.
But learn a lesson from me,
And don't ever
Have Life over for tea.

I'm a tight rope walker
Accross telephone wire.
I hear phrases,
Anger,
Love,
Grief,
Happiness,
And they've all bled together.

Our future and our past
Stand as two poles,
More wires than I can count
On my fingers
Webbed between them.
And I'm tangled up in the mess.

There are lies blazing through
The wire around my neck,
Love traveling back and forth
Around my chest,
Happiness
Buzzing around my head,
And fear
Encasing
My stomach.

I'm alone on my tight rope,
I don't know where you are,
All I hear are your words,
Jumbled together
In a rainstorm signals.

We were all forged in fire,
some of us cooked longer than others
sizzling away in a *******
cast iron skillet,
popping and steaming.
It's sounds like the beginning of a gory old
Grimm's fairy tale, doesn't it?

We all cooked until
we were hard,
and cracked.
Stones,
dull in appearance
harsh in action.
But you,
you are soft.

You must have been born
with a map of the stars
printed on your eyelids,
and silver snowflakes
on the tip of your nose,
the smallest brother.

The air is thick with expectation.
The words people utter into
the atmosphere
all hang in the air like smoke.
We all live and breathe it.
Masculinity,
femininity,
not enough,
too much.
The expectation is in our blood.

But you,
you're laying on the ground,
below the smoke and toxins
on your back looking up at the sky,
and deciding for yourself
who it is you want to be.

Kitchen conversations
in the late weekend afternoon,
my hand pressing a damp washcloth
to your arm.
The summer  had baked your cheeks
into a freckled pink,
we giggled together.

Off the washcloth came with a flourish
to reveal a pink
floral
scented temporary tattoo,
our forearms matched
in colorful decoration.
We wore them with pride
for a week,
until they faded.

You make me better, somehow.

The little things we do together,
my smallest brother
and I,
they make me better.
You've got a healing magic
in your lack of expectation,
your blind acceptance.
I think that's what the world needs,
Temporary tattoos
and magic.

That summer
you were jealous
That I had found a yellow sun dress
with tiny blue and white flowers.
Yellow,
your favorite color.
They didn't have one left
in your size,
and you were angry.
Like,
actually angry,
and mostly at me.

I'm folding my laundry,
and a shirt I bought
a few months ago,
back when I still
cared
about your opinion
landed in my hands like a gold finch.
A gold finch
with bright white polka dots.

"I saw her a few weeks ago,
she said she thinks about reaching out
to you
sometimes,
and that you don't seem as if
you're in a good place..."
My old roommate shifted uncomfortably
in his chair across from me
as he said it.

"I'm good."

I am good.

And thinking about it
isn't good enough.
Doing it wouldn't be good enough either.
Because I like myself without you.

The color yellow
used to make me think
of your bubblegum pink hair,
and your taste in music
when you were having a good day.

Now it makes me think
of how seldom
the good days were.
How you picked yourself a part,
as well as anyone who got close to you.

Yellow once made me think
of sunsets and evening dog walks.
Of converse sneakers
and paper cranes.
Yellow made me think of the
best parts
of you.

Now my face falls
as I remember
how angry with me you were
because I had a pretty dress.
The poor girl
who never got anything
she didn't pay for
got a pretty new dress,
and you were angry.

You've lost the privilege
of knowing me enough
to talk about me,
but I know you're still doing it.

Eventually I'll stop writing
brokenhearted poetry,
and maybe you'll stop talking,
but I doubt it.

All talk and no action,
it was one of your worst qualities.
But now I'm grateful for it.

If you think
of sending a glowing text
my way,
remind yourself
of when I told you
I tried to **** myself,
and you hid from my face
behind your phone.
Why change now?

I like myself better
without you.

A flick of his baton,
And hate fills the room.
Wafting under the doors
Into bystanders,
And passersby,
Ears.

My father was our conductor.

A sweeping gesture,
So well rehearsed...
And love and admiration,
Make the room quiver with sound.

He held his audience in a grip as hard as a scared child's, he'd perfected every move he made.

The stage is set,
The orchestra is ready to play,
Not for the audience,
For the conductor.

He trained us, his family, as a traveling show
All to boost his needy ego.

He raises his hands,
And the pity raises it's volume.
You can taste the salty,
Bitter melody
On your tongue.
You could almost swallow the tune.

If he couldn't use you in some way, he'd leave you,
Whether you were a friend or his blood.
  
A sweet undertone of hate,
So easily made,
And so tempting.
Now a brief solo...
And the admiration blasts full,
And loud,
And bright.

He'd use those who loathed him in his orchestra,
Use them to make his admirers defend him.

The conductor,
And his orchestra.
Like the sun and the planets.
The music revolving around him,
His curled moustache,
And retreating hairline.

He was a puppet master, gaining something from any
Attention thrown his way.
  
Now a solo for the fear,
Clear,
And high.
His hands go down low,
For the base sound of anger.

He was a walking explosion, when he entered the room in our home, it silenced.

Bitterness fills the room,
It's strings
Singing.
And pity again,
Perhaps his favorite instrument.

I hated him for not loving me, and he used my bitterness to hold my sisters closer to him

The conductor,
The abuser,
Conducting all the attention,
Upon himself.
Not any type is unwanted,
All instruments have a place
On his stage.

The only way to escape, was to let him go.

I've dropped my instrument.
Left bitterness on the floor.
The last one I've played,
I've tried my hand at all the others,
But I could never find one
I wanted to keep.
The life of a musician,
Just isn't for me.

I used to be afraid
Of being honest.
I used to let people’s reactions
Completely rule me.
If it upset someone I loved,
Then I rearranged myself
To fit their needs.

But no more.

You, my love,
Taught me the difference
Between consideration
And fear.
You taught me how to see
The logical fallacies.
You gave me room to breath,
And you never accept,
Anything less than
Brutal
Truth.

I see the difference.
I’ve become the difference.
You showed me love
In a way
I never knew existed.

And the best part?
I get to share it
With you.