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 Oct 9 Destiny
manlin
purple
 Oct 9 Destiny
manlin
cw: ****** assault and suicidal thoughts

I want to combust.
Not into the traditionally red flames.
Red is my mother’s color; because, it’s
the one that suits her the best.

But the reason why I hate it, is that in a deeper shade,
it is the same color that runs between her thighs
and stains the bedsheets we clean
when men decide that they’re more worthy.

I want my flames to be purple,
the same shade I have been fixed on since I was little.
Purple like the heroine I always dreamed of becoming,
and the edges of my vision when I

swallow the cleaning products,
count out the pills,
pull the belt tight around my neck,
grow so furious with myself that I wish I was just dead.

When I told my mother I wanted to die,
she screamed at me,
“How dare you think you’ve gone through so much,
when I’ve gone through so much worse!”

That is why
I want to explode
into flames
that dare to justify my own right to pain.

But purple is the same color
I see around my little sister’s face,
concern in her gaze
as she whispers, “I love you."

How could the world be so cruel?
Locking a man in our home,
a man who tries to take away every piece that makes us whole,
and forcing my little sister to witness me in such a state.

I can’t live up to being a
college student
daughter
big sister,

yet
I can’t bear forcing my little sister
to witness her big sister
lifeless in the room next to hers.

When I go out,
I want to combust into purple flames
because I’m so
terrified, furious, disappointed.

Unlike the men who built the college,
I want to die
without a trace,
and my ashes to disappear.

I guess
nothing would change after I die,
except there would be more
purple little bruises on my sister’s heart.

But would I become
greedy, disgusting, memorable
because I would
leave her?

Leave her like our father
who forgot our birthdays
or when it was his time for child custody,
but could never forget his favorite beer?

When my mother’s boyfriend tries to break into my room at night,
I beg the flames to take me.
I’m too tired, hungry, and weak
to believe I have a right to my own body anymore.

“Traitors,” I whisper to the flames,
hoping my emotions would be strong enough
to ignite myself
and disappear.

But the following morning,
my little sister would knock at my bedroom door,
greeting me with a sleepy smile,
and sitting on my bed to chat.

How could the world be so cruel
to my little sister by making me,
the girl who can’t even protect herself,
her protector?

“I missed you.”
She says, and I can’t help but laugh.
“I just saw you before you went to sleep.”
I reply.

Suddenly
the purple flames that I once called traitors
remind me they were with me the whole time,
burning resiliently.
i'm sorry if i post this incorrectly or it uploads strangely as this is my first time posting on this site. thank you for your time reading.
 Oct 9 Destiny
manlin
cw: ****** assault, assault, abuse, slurs, chronic pain

It began with
you doing his laundry,
shouting back at him,
“Not an ounce of romanticism!”

Swears follow after
beneath your breath.
I stand
in the same hallway

watching your shadow
stretch through the doorframe
of the laundry room,
water gushing from the machine

into a
cacophonous
roar.
I wait,

but I remain
unnoticed
as you turn, legs bare,
and go into the bedroom.

I return to my own bedroom,
separated by the
war zones of the
empty pantry and cluttered den—

unpaid bills lay
strewn around,
the stuff he brought in from
when he first ruined our lives

sitting,
watching,
collecting
dust.

Lottery tickets
with their surfaces scratched away
and forgotten, just like
your dreamscapes.

I pause,
thirsty.
I dare to
step outside,

but I stop
when I hear your moans.
I’ve had enough experience to
after a few seconds

deduce if
the moans
are from
forced *** or chronic pain.

He laughs.
It’s the former this time.
I pause,
shaking.

Does it not
infuriate you
like how it does
to me?

You’re my mother,
and I’m your daughter.
He’s your boyfriend,
and he’s both of our assaulters, abusers.

When you first asked me
if I was okay with you
finding me a “new dad,”
you never asked me if it was okay if he

It’s just been
“One more month,
one more month,”
for years.

I’m so tired of your
performative screams
because we both know from experience
if you don’t scream well enough,

he’ll
beat you
and seek me
instead.

People from outside
said you're supposed to teach me
to be a woman
instead of a ****.

But I am instead
left alone,
asking,
"Does my mom still love me?"

What a romantic play you've put on--
to manage to fool
those who love you the most
certainly isn't easy.
 Oct 9 Destiny
manlin
Hell.
 Oct 9 Destiny
manlin
tw: mentionings of ****** assault, allusion to suicide, racism, abuse, sexism

“I’m starving,”
mom says,
the empty void of the refrigerator
reflecting the state of her consciousness.

Little sister
clutches at her stomach,
as if willing her hunger away
would make it disappear.

I’ve made fine food,
yet their tongues
still decry their
miserable states of hunger.

Aren't men supposed to provide
the food,
a house,
and authority?

Aren’t women supposed to provide
the meals,
a home,
and emotionality?

My dad solely remains as DNA,
threatening to make me into
an alcoholic like him
if I don’t behave.

My mom’s boyfriend
rules over us women
with cruel dominion,
making us wish we never had feelings

since we just
feel
so
violated.

His Irish tongue has the scrutiny of
the White Man’s burden
over us colored women,
his cruelty unmatched from the state of war.

When he pulls on my hair,
incessantly demanding my attention,
I remember how
he

ruined my mom’s body
after surgery,
tearing her flesh apart freshly stitched together,
and digs in, blood seeping the bedsheets.

I was just
trying to study.
Trying to further my education
of escaping from this Hell

The Hell he threatens me with
doesn’t seem so scary
when I know
the Price:

being a part of his sick fantasy
of having a harem of mother and daughters
tortured and maimed by his hand,
and our cries only met with his wails.

He already has my mother
sewn into his
game of
escaping Hell.

She acts as his demon sometimes
out of fear,
reprimanding me for
daring to keep my door shut

for daring to
not scream,
keep my thighs together
for him.

My tongue strikes
as my only act of defense
in an effort not against him,
but against a betrayal of self.

I am hungry,
in constant fear and panic,
and am knowledgeable of both how his game functions
and my inability to escape it.

Tell me,
how could Hell
be any worse
than this?

As a *****
made by his hand,
I acknowledge that
my only way to Heaven:

My Escape
lies in sacrifice.
As an ultimate display of familial piety
to my mother and sister.

I take a kitchen knife,
pouring some rice onto a plate,
before stabbing my stomach with the blade,
watching as my flesh falls onto the steaming plate.

Now,
I admit with relief,
I will go to Heaven,
and I will not hear them go hungry!

I declare in pure elation,
feeling my consciousness
previously weighed down by the burdens of a woman
finally flying free from my twisted body.

I watch
from the clouds of Heaven,
having made my sacrifice,
and see

flies collecting
over my body;
the plate is untouched.
My halo wavers atop my head.

“Please,” I whisper.
“Don’t let my sacrifice be
for nothing.”
Sister has yet to leave her room.

I recall
feeling terrified myself
when I was within the confines of mortality.
Mom is—

I see her.
She’s eating.
All this time—
she was lying?

The clouds fall from beneath me,
and my wings are plucked,
causing me to experience a pain
that rivals the first time he tried me.

I come back to life
to witness firsthand
him, with a pig-like glint in his eyes,
gouging on the meal I had prepared.

My stomach
now sliding down his esophagus
reels with hatred.
On the brink of life and death once more,

my vision flickers.
I catch glimpses of
the devil’s horns
through his ***** blond hair.

In my final moments,
I am left to ask:
Did Earth ever really exist
in the first place?
Don't tell broken girls they're not allowed to hate their mothers
Don't tell broken girls they're not allowed to hate their mothers because their mothers “love them”
Because they “support them”     Because they “take care of them”
Because no amount of money spent on groceries     or school clothes     or book fees
proves a mother’s love
Don't tell broken girls they're not allowed to hate their mothers especially if their mothers are the ones who broke them
Because some of their mothers say “I love you”
Some of their mothers say “I support you”
Some of their mothers say “You need to eat less” when they’re already starving
Some of their mothers say “I love you”
Some of their mothers say ”You need to lose weight” when they can’t afford to lose another ounce
Some of their mothers say “I love you”
Some of their mothers hit them     And kiss them     good night in the same hour
Because they believe that genetic connections should give them that power
And that you should let them..
Some of their mothers say “I love you”
“I hate you”   “You're a liar”    “I love you”
“You make my life a living hell”
And let me tell you the truth   in that   Some of these broken girls have scars
on their minds     Their skin     Their hearts
To thank their mothers for
And still they never ask for more
Than the love they’re meant to receive from their mothers
Don’t call them ungrateful, unloving
When they stop coming up with excuses for the black eyes and bruises
Discussions with doctors about the mystery concussions and
words heard that are so deeply rooted in these girls minds
And you’ll come to find
Some of their mothers don’t even change by choice
They ‘change’ after years of “family counselling” and hopeless calls to Child Protective Services
Where they tell you the only reason you have to be nervous is     “If you're lying”
When really those broken girls are just trying to keep themselves safe after this so obviously ignorant woman leaves them there alone
With the mother that “loves them”
But also believes her maternal status puts her above them
When a broken girl says she hates her mother
She’s lying but she wishes she wasn’t     She’s just angry and hurt
So she doesn’t need another voice telling her
That her mother’s words mean more than her actions
Their mothers may say that they love them
But if they do not show it         The words “I love you”
mean nothing
 Jan 14 Destiny
Mak
my story
 Jan 14 Destiny
Mak
The room was silent. The only sound to be heard was the slow, steady dripping from my mother’s IV.      

“What do you mean, you’re dying?”

Multiple Sclerosis was, in short, a ***** of a disease. Somewhere along the span of my mother's 35 short years on this planet, her immune system made a giant mistake. For uncertain reasons, her body began to attack nerve cells, severely affecting her brain's processing ability and mobility. The only medication that had ever subdued the symptoms was beginning to **** her.

“It isn’t an immediate thing, Makayla. I still have plenty of time.”

Turning away from my mother, I wiped tears from my eyes. There was no way in hell I was going to let my family see me cry. Absolutely no way. This was a joke. My mom was not going to die.

“Kayla, baby, talk to us. It’s okay.”

With a deep breath, I forced a smile, as I often did, and blinked away all traces of tears from my gray eyes. Turning around to meet my parents’ worried expressions, I simply nodded.

“How long?”

The question came out as more of a statement than a question. The morbid implication of those two short words spoke worlds louder than any words I could muster.

“5 years, at the absolute worst.”

At that, I stood, and left. I ran, and ran, and ran. I ran until my lungs hurt, and then kept running. But no matter where or how fast I went, I knew I could not escape the horrible reality of the matter.

The woman who gave me life was losing hers.

I was always the type of person who knew how to talk my way out of any situation.

And this time, there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.

There’s no sweet-talking death.

And with that, I began to accept her demise, and my defeat.

///

The first sip burned my esophagus, and I felt the blaze continue to my stomach, where it left a lasting warmth. I coughed a little, as the hazy feeling of drunkenness set in, setting my head spinning and my insides ablaze.

The past two months (52 days, 4 hours, and 30-something seconds) were a continuous downward spiral into a constant intoxicated state. Instead of addressing my feelings in the endless sea of counseling sessions and semi-sympathetic family therapy hours, I isolated myself. When my mother asked how I was, my reply remained the usual, “Doing great, mom.”

I was not, in fact, doing great. The alcohol wrapped itself into me, braided itself within my better sense, and I began to let myself fall apart. The wall I so often hid behind, the wall of perfection, of cool, was crumbling. Short, yet deep cuts lined my thighs, just high enough to be hidden by the hem of my shorts.

My mother had the opportunity to save her own life. Russian research had found a possible cure for the disease that had been plaguing her very existence. 3 weeks of chemotherapy, followed by a few months of intensive care, and she would be normal once again.

My mother denied the treatment.

“Too much money,” she said.

“Too inconvenient,” she said.

Compared to the life of my mother, no amount of money nor convenience mattered.

I was furious.

I was drunk.

///

My mind swam, speech slurred, fingers trembled.

My phone sat in front of me, propped up on a gray tissue box, which had been halfway expended due to that night’s waterworks. The Coca-Cola can which held my ***/coke concoction was long past empty. I was drunk, and screaming words like ‘sorry’ and ‘doesn’t deserve this’ into a pillow. I knew my mother deserved to live. Compared to me, she was a saint. I felt empty and pathetic. I deserved to die.

I convinced myself that maybe if I did something extreme, she would value her own life more than she did.

I held tightly onto the railing of my house’s only set of stairs, as I attempted to keep my balance. I walked drunkenly to the medicine cabinet, careful not to make noise and wake my parents. I grabbed as many pill bottles as I could carry.

Exactly 41 pills of assorted shapes, sizes, and colors sat in lines on my bed. Small to large, rainbow order. The comfort of organization wasn’t helping this time. I wanted to die.

Before starting my buffet of medication, my phone lit up. One new text.

“I know you were feeling upset earlier, and I just wanted to remind you that you are special. You matter.” I instantly felt even ******* for what I was about to do.

I laid down in bed, beginning to drown in my own tears, and let myself fall asleep.

Neither I nor my mother would be dying tonight.
 Jan 14 Destiny
Elle Richard
Okay. I was adopted when I was about two years old. I have these “flashbacks” about what might have happened but I’m not fully sure. Before my adoption, I was in and out of nearly 7 foster homes. My bio father, I have never met. And I do think I want to. And my bio mother, Cindy, I’ve only met her once. I believe I was only 7 years old. My bio brother, Cody, and I went to meet her at the park nearest to Neenah High School. And since I was about 7 years old, I just played in the park. I went to Tullar Elementry School for kindergarten. I met this one girl named, Ellie. She was my one and only friend. Before my First grade year, I moved to Lakeview Elementry. I met this girl named Sequoia Malone. She made me feel like I could be myself. We Used to get in trouble because the teacher put us at the same table, and we would constantly make each other laugh. Second grade was a complete blur. Third grade, I met this girl named grace. her family was struggling because her father left, and since she was over at my house like, 5 days out of the whole week, my parents invited Grace’s family to come to live with us in the camper which is right outside. I later learned that she had a crush on me. I then began to catch feeling for her. We would hold hands during recess every day. Sequoia was extremely jealous because of this. during this year, my family and her family would play hide and seek throughout the house, in the dark. my adopted brother, nick would let me hide with him, because I was little, and was deathly afraid of the dark. so as nick and I would hide, he would make me touch him. he was about 11 -12 years old. I was only about 7–8. I told my adopted sister, Aubrey, who is only 2 years older than me, about this, and she pushed me to tell our mom. and I did. she was holding my hand because I felt like it was my fault and I came to know that I had trust issues. And I thought that my mom would yell at me. Ok? okay. carrying on, in fourth grade, Grace moved away. and left me with everyone- including teachers- who would bully me about liking the same gender. my classmates would draw pictures of me dying in hell, and killing myself. the group of “popular” girls in my grade would make songs about me killing myself and ****. everyone would take turns hitting me during recess. but at least sequoia was with me. although, you know, no one wants to be the losers only friend, so she ignored me. this is about the time I started to hurt myself, like punch walls, cut myself, pinch myself and picked at my cuts until they bled. in fifth grade, I went to the hospital for the first time. this was the first time that I tried to kms. sixth grade, I spent most of my sixth-grade year in the hospital. I got extremely sick. this is when I met Maisie Teska. I fell in love with her. and I still do sometimes. anyway, in seventh and eighth grade, it wasn’t that bad. ig. I officially told sequoia about my self-harm, and she took out a pair of scissors and acted like she was cutting herself. that was kinda triggering to me. and still is. I started having manic anxiety attacks from then on. I was also on the bus. during the summer of eighth grade, going into high school, I went today treatment. I met a lot of teens that were going through what I was going through. in tenth grade, before I came to St. Mary Central High School, I was going through MAJOR mental health problems. I pulled the fire alarms 3 times, and I was planning on doing it again, but someone, I still don’t know who snitched on me. I then was suspended, but then the Neenah Police traced me to the previous times, and found out that I was going to pull it again, then expelled me. then I transferred schools, and now, I’ve only tried to commit suicide about 18 times since then. sooo…
please be nice...
My mom always tell me that the doctors
Took heroic efforts to save my life,
That they went above and beyond the call of duty,
That if they hadn't thought me too
"Smart" and "beautiful" and "having the whole world going for me,"
I would be dead.
Number one: No one's chance of survival should depend on
Their looks, their opportunities, their cognitive ability.
Number two: None of it should've been necessary.
My text messages in the evening hours of 2/12/19
Are filled with the likes of "I don't feel safe,"
"I hate myself,"
"I am suicidal."
Their responses were simply,
"Do the best you can" and "Talk to the RA."
Yet they were surprised when 1 AM on 2/13/19
Found me in a hospital bed undergoing resuscitation.
Still,
When I woke up 10 days later,
They all wanted to know, "Why didn't you tell anybody?"
 Jan 14 Destiny
Whit
You never really know anyone.
Need an example? Have a stay at in the psych ward.

The girl who caught my eye
after rolling up her sleeves to paint
started to cover scars until
I showed her mine.
She wrote song lyrics on her arms
to remind her that others feel the same way.

There is solidarity.

One girl with the cute afro
and anger issues
cried after yelling at one of the other girls.
She loved to do word searches.

Who says we are in control?

The little girl who bangs her head up against the wall
to rid herself of the demons
looks adorable with her fuzzy blanket
singing along to watching Disney movies on the couch.

Anyone can be effected.

One girl who had to learn to eat again,
wouldn't let you
hate on your own body.
She could
speak 3 languages
and draw like a goddess.

We are more than our pain.

The people living under depression can crack the brightest smiles.
We wouldn’t wish these feelings on anyone-
that’s we always want to crack jokes.

Between the locked doors and gray walls,
we shared stories from days long ago,
we got excited on chicken tender day,
we ran around the gym and painted everything we could-

We are trying to heal.

Next time someone assumes
they know you, but get it all wrong, try
not to get mad,
no matter how hard you have to grind your teeth,
because you know the truth.

The truth that
you never really know anyone,
at the end of the day-
if it helps, don’t worry, nobody really knows you.
Based on true stories. Stay strong everybody.
hi my name is broken and
i once caught my father using all his teeth hands lip and tongue on a woman that was not his own
outside my bedroom window,
i spent the night trying to convince myself that
love is real love is real love is real
because after that i wasn’t ever really sure.

hi my name is survivor and
i was once a punching bag for my stepfathers anger and houses in the country will forever terrify me
all because of a random man and his prying fingers and his sticky gum,
and then there’s this third set of bones and dark flesh that made me so afraid of my own skin i had to tell myself
i am beautiful i am beautiful i am beautiful
because hate and death wasn’t my only option.

hi my name is butterfly and
i once broke every bone in my body falling so hard for a girl with the loveliest voice i’ve ever heard but she had other bodies underneath her
thick brown belt
she wouldn’t let herself feel all the things i felt,
i spent thanksgiving in a mental hospital chanting over and over
i am lovable i am lovable i am lovable
because without even trying, she had managed to convince me that i wasn’t.

hi my name is destroyer and
i chose water over blood because blood burned and drowned and buried me ten feet down all at the same time and i didn’t want to die because of them
anymore
i split in half all the walls and windows and doors to my home,
i needed to do and be what was best for me so i told myself again and again
i’m not alone i’m not alone i’m not alone
because all i felt was the aftermath of being the very thing that broke up my home.

hi my name is lover and
i tend to give too much of me way too quickly because i don't fall in love, i dive with feet facing the sky, head towards the concrete
and i wonder how i end up being so broken and incomplete
so i wound up all the glue and all the tape,
i muttered over and over in between each breath
fate isn't fake fate isn't fake fate isn't fake
because my heart always seemed to pound a few beats behind, a few beats too late.

hi my name is suicide and
i stepped in front of trains and bullets and knives and i hate yous and you’re nothings all looking for a father that
never really wanted me
he broke my throne, i cut more than just my hair, i no longer want to be here,
and i screamed at the top of my lungs because
it’s worth it it’s worth it it’s worth it
it just doesn’t feel like it anymore.
it's been such a long time, i don't feel the same.
I’m sorry I’m sorry
I said, Stepping in
The mental hospital
I’m not right in the head

I’ve been constantly slicing
Cutting through skin
To escape myself
To survive my hell

I wish to see your face
when they finally let me free.
I wish you would write
or call me just once

But for now, just visions of you
While I’m drowning
In my own crimson blood
Tearing
       Splitting
            Ripping
Searching for the key
To this mental prison

The nurse walks away
After haven given
Me some medication
Something to calm me

The straight jacket now
Holding me firm
They put me down
I Sit there an empty stare
  
They filled me up with drugs
keeping my head in narcotic haze.
Pill after pill all day, every day
I am broken and defeated

Paralyzed
Broken
Alone
Sitting here in a mental home.
Its been a few days inside now, i'm finally allowed some time to write and use the computer. Its cold in here, its lonely and they are constantly watching The screams at night are the worst.
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