I. When I was 5, I thought recess was probably the best thing ever invented. Until the first autumn rainfall, when the sky opened up and unleashed it's sorrow unto the earth. The children were kept inside that day. As the storm thundered on around us, we ran to play on the other side of the classroom. The boys charged to the shelf with legos and blocks, while the girls lined up at the miniature kitchen. I followed them to the tiny toy oven, even though, secretly, I thought those lincoln logs looked really fun.

II. When I was 6, I thought my first grade teacher was the sweetest woman to ever have lived. Then, one day she lined us to to go outside, calling out, "Boys on one side, girls on the other" reminding of us of a divide between genders that we did not understand. Marking off differences on a checklist that none of us had read yet.

III. When I was 7, like most little girls I daydreamed of the perfect wedding. The part I played over and over in my head was my brother walking me down the aisle, "giving me away". Because even in the second grade, some part of me knew that I belonged to the men in my life.

IV. When I was 8, I learned that the praise I'd receive from the boys I called my brothers would always be conditional. No matter what award I received, how fast I ran, how tough I fought, how smart I was, I'd always be "pretty good for a girl". And that is never a compliment.

V. When I was 9, the YMCA told me I had to stop playing the sport I'd loved for 5 years because I was a girl. I took my first feminist stand by quitting, because I don't care what they say, softball and baseball are not the same thing.

VI. When I was 10, my brother informed me that the day I brought home a boyfriend was the day he bought a gun. Because that's how you protect your property.

VII. When I was 11, a boy ran up to me on the playground and told me I was cute. For a moment, I felt confident, a feeling that was foreign to me. Until the boy and his friend started laughing uncontrollably, as if they couldn't believe that I'd ever think that was true. I cried a lot that day because I hadn't yet realized that my self worth wasn't directly proportional to how many boys found me attractive.

VIII. When I was 12, my aunt gave me my first make up kit for my birthday. When my grandmother tried to force me to wear it, I refused, yelling, "It's my face!" She proceeded to tell me that I'd never get a boyfriend with that attitude. After all, who was I to want to be in control of my own body?

IX. When I was 13, I thought gym was a subject invented by sadistic hell fiends created just to torture teenage girls. It was the hottest day of the year, and I'd just ran a mile, so I opted not to change out of my tank top before continuing on to my next class. A teacher cornered me at my locker, advising me to put on a jacket before I became a distraction to the boys.

X. When I was 14, I confessed to my mother the wanderlust inside of me. Exclaiming about travelling to new places, having new experiences. That's when she looked me dead in the eye and told me to always take someone with me. Preferably, a man. I couldn't bring myself to be angry. We both knew what happened to women alone on the streets, and I felt bad for the way I made her eyes shine with worry each time I left the house without her.

XI. I am 15, and I walk with my fists clenched and my head down. I am always conscious of what clothes I wear and whether or not they could attract "the wrong kind of attention". I attempt to shield myself from the world, but I can feel my barriers cracking with each terrifying statistic, each late night news story, each girl that was never given justice. The world is a war zone, and every woman must put her armor on before walking outside. My life has been one battle after the next. I am a 15 year old war veteran, and have the scars to prove it. I've learned from my experiences and am left with just one question:

At what age does the war end?

The summer before I turned thirteen, I spent copious amounts of time perched on the edge of a ***** wooden chair in the corner of my friend's kitchen. Sometimes we'd sit together watching her mother make us dinner, the way her hands moved gracefully chopping up onions, and with a flick of the wrist, tossing them into the cast iron pan.

Other times we'd sit with her sisters and fill the table with large stacks of books, reading our favorite lines out loud to each other. Laughter bubbling up to our ears, a quiet contentment settling over the room.

This time was different. It was just us girls, the oldest of us was playing with my hair as I leaned back against the thick wooden frame of my chair, humming quietly to myself. The ******* the other side of me slid open her phone, them immediately turned to me. When I looked at her, she squirmed in her seat as though she had committed a crime and the kitchen had somehow transformed into an interrogation room.

Finally, she broke the silence, saying, "So, uh, I told my friend, the boy you met the other night, about your whole...thing." Instantly, I knew that this "thing" she was talking about was my crush on the girl down the street. She was still uncomfortable with the subject so I gave her points for trying and swallowed my pride. I asked his response and she glanced back to her phone while I waited for a cry of disgust that never came.

Instead I got a reaction I never knew I should fear. Her phone screen displayed a simple text message with only two words. "That's hot."

As if I should care. As if even though I didn't want men, they were still allowed to want me. Still allowed to think that they owned me.

The way men think that my life is a game and at the end of the day what I really want is a big strong man to take care of me.

All women fear ****** assault, but there's a special kind of torture that seemed made only for me. Corrective **** is what they call it when a man thinks that the best cure for a lesbian is to get a taste of a man.

As if men cannot fathom the idea that women were not made to please them. As if they can't comprehend the idea that there are women who don't want to have *** with them.

The way straight men complain about how uncomfortable gay men make them feel, as if men are allowed to say no and women are not.

And at nearly thirteen years old, I didn't know any of this and I bore his words as though they were a compliment, because even if I didn't want him I'd been raised to think that pleasing men was to be my only goal in life.

I told myself I shouldn't be angry. I begged my skin to stop crawling, my insides to stop revolting against me. What was wrong with me? Why did a compliment feel like an assault?

But a part of me recognized, even at twelve, that those words were not a compliment, but rather a threat. This boy knew I didn't want him, couldn't want him, but that didn't seem to matter to him, because he wanted me. I have been taught that men always get what they want, so why shouldn't he get to have me?

With two words, I felt like I'd been sold into slavery. I opened my mouth to speak but no words came out, silenced by the waves of shame crashing over my mind.

I was a girl, nearly thirteen, sitting in her friend's kitchen, and realizing that I'd never be free.

Marissa Ann was a firecracker of a little girl.
For her, there was no fence too tall to climb, no bully too mean to face, no street too busy to cross.
She was all tangled hair and toothy grins.
And she'd yank the book right out of my hands and say, "Gabrielle, we have more important things to do than read."

In the jungle of our lives, Marissa was a lioness, queen of the pride.
I was a mouse not indigenous to these parts of the second grade.
The world was a terrifying place, and I had no problem cowering in the corner, knee-deep in a pile of Nancy Drew.
I tried to stay huddled behind my words, drowning in the ink, attempting to let the pages be my armor.
Marissa would not let me.
When I allowed bookshelves to be my shields, she came guns blazing, and kicked them all down, then stood me back up on my feet.
She'd grab my hand and pull me head first toward adventure.

Marissa was tough, and everyone knew it.
There was not a soul alive brave enough to pick on Marissa Ann.
But me? I was an easy target.
The other girls said I was "weird" with my enormous wire frames resting atop full cheeks, and my frayed jeans, a glowing reminder of my mother's lack of wealth.
I heard the whispers on the playground about the chubby girl who read, (can you believe it?), chapter books.

Brianna was a demon of a child.
She'd bat her pretty little eyelashes and everyone would melt.
She had the entire second grade class wrapped around her tiny little finger.
She'd corner me on the soccer field and do everything she could to remind me that I was different.
But one day at recess, she was nowhere to be found, until I made my way through winding halls, back to the warmth of our classroom.

There sat Marissa with a devilish glint in her eye, waving me over to sit in the desk beside her.
Behind us, a sniffling Brianna, looking forlornly at the teardrop stains on her pink lace skirt, her mouth pulled tight into a perfect straight line.
I looked back at Marissa with a curious glance, then intertwined her hand with my own.
The sound of stifled sobs behind us and the warmth of her skin on mine sealing an unspoken vow between two girls with puzzle piece fingertips that only fit each other.

I have started this letter one hundred times. I have referred to you as my friend, my "cousin", my love. No term seems more right than brother, as you have grown with me, and we have lived our parallel lives. I have known you since the day I was born, and I will know you until the day I die. I have long since memorized each freckle on your face, each vein in your hand, each scar on your hip. I am saying this in the hopes that you will understand why it hurt so much when you looked me in the eye and told me to calm down.

As we skipped rocks in the river that runs past my house, you complained to me about the cousin with the crazy feminist ideals. I laughed it off, and tried to reason with you, trying to teach my dear brother a valuable lesson. That's when you stared at me, with those gorgeous, piercing eyes, and you said, "I know women think they don't have rights, but like...just calm down, okay?"

Not okay. It will never be okay. It can't be okay until boys like you stop ignoring our pain. Stop writing off our suffering as hormones and gossip. Stop telling us that our feelings are invalid.

You have always said that I was your little sister. As children, you were the first to teach me how to throw a punch, so I could take care of myself. You were the first to grab me by the hand and whisper, "I will never let anything happen to you."

If you wanted to protect me, if you wanted to love me, if you wanted me to have what you have, you would not ignore the hardships of myself and my sisters. You would not tell me I'm making it up. You would not tell me to calm down. You would not stop until everything really was okay.

I wonder how much you actually know about feminism, and how much you actually know about me. Once I thought you had memorized each piece I have given you, the way I have memorized every curve in your body, and every corner of your brain. I suppose, looking back, you never were the best listener.

The day before you came to me, angry about the unfairness of your parents. I would never say to you, "I know you think it's not fair but like...just calm down, okay?" When you came to me about your anxiety, I would never say, "I know you think it's hard, but like...just calm down, okay?" I would never ignore your words, would never patronize your pain, would never tell you to calm down.

Something inside of me has been broken ever since that day. The day that I realized that my big brother wasn't always the good guy. Some days, he's the villain. Most days, he's part of the problem.

I will always love you. You have been with me since my first breathe, and I'll be ****** if you're not there for my last. I will always listen, always hold you, always love you, always be here for you. But the one thing I refuse to do is dilute my anger for you. I will not sugarcoat my oppression, will not sweep away my sadness. I will not calm down.

And maybe, with you by my side, we could make things be okay.

when i was just a little girl
mama said, "you're the prettiest girl in the world"
and at four years old, sitting with a mirror
i batted my big green eyes, and simply believed her
for this was just something that i'd always been told
it was a fact of the world that i was beautiful

six years old, with long, blonde curls
and mama said, "you're the prettiest girl in the world"
i remembered the phrase, but doubted her words
i had no front teeth, and a voice too soft to be heard
but it must've been true, 'cause mama's don't lie
but how could it be that the prettiest girl would be so shy?

eight years old, with a baseball cap on my head
"you're the prettiest girl in the world," mama said
i looked down at my soccer jersey and cleats
"if i'm so pretty how come i have such big feet?"
but mama didn't miss a beat, she was so smart
she said, "you're prettiness shines through your great big heart"

ten years old, with a notebook and a pencil full of lead
"you're the prettiest girl in the world," mama said
i barely heard the words, and decided i was fat
pretty girls like shopping, not books and baseball bats
and the pretty girls don't need to constantly be reading
because when you see a pretty boy, a pretty girl is leading

twelve years old, and wishing i was dead
"you're the prettiest girl in the world," mama said
i knew it was a lie, and i was severely ******
if i'm so pretty then what are all these ugly scars left on my wrist?
but i nodded to my mother, and told her that i knew
maybe i was dying, but i wouldn't bring mom down, too

fourteen years old, lying in my bed
"you're the prettiest girl in the world," mama said
i knew it was a lie, but i'd made my peace with that
i'd always be a little ugly, i'd always be a little fat
i didn't look like a model, but that was okay
i never would be pretty, but who cares, anyways?

now i'm fifteen, and i'm starting to be okay
"you're the prettiest girl in the world" is what mama will say
i know i'm not the prettiest, but more importantly, i'm kind
real beauty isn't in the face, real beauty's in the mind
i'm learning to accept the hand that i've been dealt
and i'm starting to heal my heart after all the pain i've felt

i was 12 years old, and i had two best friends
i didn't know i'd lose both before middle school came to an end
just trying to get by, and i wanted a little attention
didn't think there was anything wrong with a little affection
but they told me two girls kissing ain't a part of god's plan
maybe it was time i started looking for a young man

still 12 years old, and i had a bigger circle of friends
we were singing pop songs, and following trends
i didn't know the first person, i'd spill my biggest secret to
would be a person that i hardly even knew
from that moment on, she became the one i trusted most
without her, i'd have surely been toast
she told me i was fine, there was nothing wrong with me
i had absolutely no idea what would come to be

a little later the same year, i sat in a room
your best friend's couch shouldn't feel like a tomb
but despite all of her good christian girl ways
she never tried to tell me that it was a phase
and despite our talk, she still let me sleep in her bed
but the idea of talking to her sister, still filled me with dread

the two sisters loved me, so i thought maybe i'd be okay
the first one still adored me, but the other sent me away
she refused to hug me, and wouldn't dare come near
the idea of "catching the gay" filled her with fear
she didn't understand what her best friend became
there was nothing to be sorry for, but i still took the blame

two years passed, and i lost them both
but i kept two others, who mattered the most
one of them was the first to hear my tale be spun
the other one had been with me from day one
high school sounded pretty great, like a brand new start
maybe i'd make some more friends, to heal the holes in my heart

not long after that, i had a new group of friends
i thought this could be my shot, to make some amends
we talked about churches that thought they could pray me away
and that's when one of the girls straight-up asked if i was gay
i nodded my answer with tears burning in my eyes
they all stared at me while i waited for the goodbyes
but instead they all shrugged, and told me it was okay
i never knew people could act that way

a few months later, i had to tell my three boys
they've been by my side since we were in the yard, playing with toys
i knew that each and every one of them, would have their own reaction
but i didn't know homophobia would come in a one-third fraction
the smallest of the three, was easy, he loved me all the same
the taller one was harder, but his insults were fairly tame
the oldest was the worst, i thought he would protect me
instead he said it was gross, and i had to run; i had to flee

the worst is still yet to come, i know that to be true
my grandmother loves me, but i can't change her views
because the bible says, that being gay just ain't right
and she's not gonna trust you, if you're not white
i guess i'll tell her when i'm older, and hope for the best
talking to your grandma, shouldn't make you feel this stressed

build me up, or tear me down, which one will it be?
now i've learned, that i can only be me
it doesn't matter what you think, i've got friends i adore
i never understood what all this hate was for?
i just want to get married, why is that so wrong?
i'll use your phobia, to make myself strong
i've got to say, i never asked for this
it's amazing what can happen because of just one kiss

well i'm not good at math, so i guess i'm not smart
and i don't care about you, so i don't have a heart
your perception is off, but what else would you expect
from a person who tries to simplify all that is complex
like race and gender, it's not like you think, it's not set in stone
and the stereotypes that you speak chill me to the bone
"not be racist but" is not a way to start a sentence
there's no "buts" in racism, could you show some repentance?
well, not to be racist, but white people are *****
and not to be sexist, but all men are ******
and i'm getting tired of all of your ignorance
how does it feel to be full of intolerance?
you see the world through one narrow view
has anyone told you that you haven't got a clue?
you can't put people in boxes, we are so much more
we're filled with infinities that simply won't fit in a drawer
each mind is a galaxy, well, i guess maybe not yours
and you're so afraid of what you don't know
so get out of this world, i think it's time you go
because no one likes racists, *******, or jerks
being a ******* won't get you any perks
it's about the heart, not about the face
we're all a part of one single human race.

just decades ago, in far off world
in big white house, sat a little girl.
she lay in the corner of her room without a care
because this little girl had dreams to spare.
she laid on her bed, with her nose in a book
she had thousands of adventures in that little nook.
until one day, an arrow shot her right off of her cloud
she had to learn to grow up, and fit in with the crowd.
she traded her books for lipstick and blush.
she took out her ponytail and got a new brush.
she had to learn to be pretty, it's not about brains.
if you want to be heard, you'd better be vain.
if you don't look perfect, than no one cares about you,
if you're not pretty, then you won't make it through.
so take off your glasses, and drop all of your classes;
men don't care about brains, they care about *****.
you're meant to be a housewife, what else is there to do?
get with the program, why mess with their view?

but the girl wasn't done, she wasn't going without fight
though the world had hit her, she still had some bite.
why can't you both pretty and smart,
still be kind, and speak from the heart?
but the world said "no!"; and it's hard to rebel
when the world is trying to silence all of your yells.
but she kept on marching, she was determined to win
with a smirk on her face, she was ready for it begin.
armed with a dress and a large stack of books
she spread the word that it wasn't all about looks.

the world called her bitter and ****** and mean
apparently "feminist" is the worst thing you can be.
she stood up to them, and challenged their norms.
she told all the girls, they didn't have to conform.
she told them they could be what ever they wanted
but she knew that the girls would still be haunted
by the judgmental world she knew too well
could they make a change? only time would tell

though she tried her hardest to win the battle
there are still times when women are treated like cattle.
and we're still not equal, not in work, not in pay
i just keep praying that it'll get better someday.
but praying won't help, if we don't do our part
we've got to keep fighting, we've got be smart.
we can't let these men keep making the laws
we've got to start a revolution, and be true to the cause.

but still it's so hard, and i'm just so tired
when will women start to be admired?
and i am too young to feel this ******
but women's rights have been put on a waiting list.
there's so many things that i'm fighting to change
but the harder i fight, the more people find me strange.
but why is it strange to want equal rights?
i want to save myself, i don't need a white knight.

there's so much to do, we've got so far to go
and there's so many things that i just don't know.
but listen, little girl, don't you fret
because i promise you, our story isn't over yet.

I. When watching TV with my grandmother, we stumble upon a film about two beautiful girls who fall in love. When they kiss, she turns away from the screen. Every time.

II. I'm getting reading for school in the morning, and turn on an episode of my favorite show. When two of the boys kiss, I glance away out of habit, and my mother whispers, "It's just so strange."

III. I'm making lunch in the kitchen when my grandmother remarks, "I don't think anyone can know they're gay until they try being straight." Suddenly, I'm not hungry anymore.

IV. One of the boys I grew up with keeps telling me that I'll find the right man, no matter how many times I correct him.

V. When my friend finds out, she says it's okay. But she refuses to hug me.

VI. I'm out to dinner with my cousins when  one of them says, "I have a friend who's a lesbian. It's so hot." I excuse myself from the table and spend the rest of the evening sitting in a parking lot.

VII. The boys at school say "***" every other word.

VIII. The girl in the locker room refuses to change next to me.

IX. My grandmother finds a love poem in my room. I tell her it's a part of a school project.

X. In class we talk about gender roles, and a boy gets up and says, "You have to teach your kid to be manly or he'll end up being gay."

XI. Someone says the word "****" and I feel like crying.

XII. The youth pastor at my church tells me that I can be cured.

XIII. Everyone tells me I'm wrong.

XIV. I tell myself I am wrong. Every single day, it repeats in my head like a sacred chant. I tell myself I don't deserve to live. Until the day that I don't.

--------------------

I. I watch every movie I can find without looking away.

II. I smile every time they kiss.

III. I develop a stronger stomach.

IV. I correct him more forcefully.

V. Her sister hugs me twice as hard.

VI. I slap my cousin across the face.

VII. I decide to see it as a term of endearment.

VIII. I stop taking gym.

IX. My grandmother finds a love poem in the room. I tell her to calm down.

X. The girl beside me tells him to shut his mouth.

XI. Someone says the word "****" and I feel like laughing.

XII. I pray for her.

XIII. Everyone tells me I'm wrong.

XIV. I tell myself I am wrong.

XVI. Until the day that I don't.

there are certain feelings that have no parallel
moments that can't be replicated
like the last class of the day on a friday
it's chemistry class, and your teacher is speaking in his thick raspy voice and the words flow through you
you recognize that he is talking but you don't take in the meaning
your eyes and mind are focused on the clock
forty minutes forty minutes forty minutes
and the promise of the weekend fills your body to the brim with a hope that cannot be matched

you are sent to the back of the room to do a lab
and your partner is the same scrawny boy with the chestnut eyes and the softest blond hair that you have ever felt
he's lighting the bunsen burner while you fiddle with the fraying elastic on your decade old goggles
he turns to face you and smiles and you note that his smile encompasses his whole face, his brown eyes beaming at you behind the yellow tint of his safety glasses
you smile back at him and the idea of who this boy is begins to sink into your thoughts
this boy is neither friend nor foe
he is potential
he is a boy you never speak to except to copy notes and you realize that depending on a series of choices this boy could be either everything or nothing to you
the thought is overwhelming so you shove it away
right now, you are lab partners
and the simplicity of that makes you grin

there is sunlight pouring into the chemistry room on the west side of the third floor and it dances across the black lab table where you and the boy are fiddling with a test tube of copper sulfate
you do not speak, just work
hands in perfect synchronicity as you adjust the utility clamps and let the burner ignite
it is almost like a dance, a ballet of hands as your fingertips do pirouettes around each other, recording and observing and adjusting and other science class endeavors
there is a certain intimacy that goes with looking into someone's eyes through the glowing orange of fire coming from a secondhand bunsen burner
both of you are buzzing with the energy of friday but neither of you rushes, wanting to gather each detail, to memorize each beat

it goes fast anyways, and soon you are scrubbing a still warm test tube in the sink next to a girl with hair the color of the night sky
you let out a gust of air to dry the glass and the girl's onyx locks flutter in reaction to the newfound breeze
with one more glance at her, you turn and take your seat, tapping your foot to the rhythm of  the clock, and sitting silently next to your lab partner
you watch as his wide eyes dart back and forth across a page of a book as though he is a cat trying to catch a mouse
chasing the poetry and attempting to trap each word in his mouth, exploring the letters with his tongue

he smiles when he sees you watching and you smile back
then lean into your desk, close your eyes, and capture the moment

welcome to a world
where anorexia is the latest trend
my secrets are being unfurled
and being thin is more important than being a friend
food is the devil, and i think i'm in hell
nobody noticed how little i ate or how far i fell

welcome to a place
where bulimia is what's expected
words don't mean much without a pretty face
and being fat is worse than being rejected
skinny isn't an adjective; it's a life goal
your appearance is worth so much more than your soul

welcome to a universe
where self-hate is cute and self-harm even cuter
the word "food" is a terrible curse
we're more worried about our bodies than our futures
buying a knife is easier than talking it out
everyone's lost sight of what life should be about

it's time to say goodbye to this place, this world, this universe
i've got to get out of a place where my body is not something to love, but something to hate
i'll get out anyway that i can, whether it's in a plane or a hearse
i'm tired of being controlled by a scale, being manipulated by my very own weight
i need to escape before the images of perfection eat me alive
i have to stop thinking of myself as the enemy if i want to survive

they say "hell is empty and the devils are here"
i guess then it makes sense, that at night i see all of my deepest fears
the ghouls and the ghosts and the demons are real
they come to live in the minds of men who can't feel
they inhabit the bodies of bosses who fuel corporate greed
they're bloodthirsty animals, just desperate to feed
they feed on your hope until there is nothing left
your colours get erased and they leave you bereft
and when you find that your life has dulled to a gray
maybe you'll realize that you have nothing to say
because you're just like the rest, you've become a clone
you're nothing more than a corporate american drone
my biggest fear is that this will happen to me
i'm petrified of the soulless shell i could come to be
so try as i might, and try as i may
i'll do what i want, no, i won't obey
i'm going to live by my very own laws
i'll fight to the end, and stay true to our cause
i refuse to be like my mom, striving for perfection
my every last thought will show through my own reflection
i won't be a slave to your american dream
i'll be myself, even if i have to scream

we stick to together as children
but die all alone
they say "it's okay to be different"
"just don't be a clone"
but they lied to me
and they'll lie to to you too
the world hates different
the world hates you

and isn't fun to live in a world
where nothing is what it seems
there are kids on the streets
begging just to get by
and kids safe asleep
who are praying to die

and they preach acceptance
then declare your sentence
and the punishment's usually death
not death to the body
but death to the soul
death to the spirit
not death to the whole

the world is cutthroat
and we're all out of hope
so stop making art
and rip out your heart
or they're gonna do it for you
buy a nice suit
and don't try to be cute
and soon you'll become
complacent and numb

paper skin and glowing hair
i breathe love like you breathe air
phantoms whisper in the dark
your voice is melodic like a lark
with every breath, you rise and fall
laying perfect like a porcelain doll
the moonlight dances on your skin
but the shadows taint it like a sin
your mouth is open, eyes are closed
you look like a model, but less posed
your hair's fanned out upon your bed
like a halo wrapped around your head
you drift to sleep; i'm wide awake
you don't know i'm yours to take
and despite your beauty in the night
i know that it will double in the light

i'm suffocating, gasping for air, as i sink into the quicksand,
i desperately try to grasp at her arm, hands flailing as i pray to get a hold of any part of her,
but she is too far away to save me in time,
as i drop into the abyss i cannot breathe, i cannot scream, i open my mouth in terror but find sand consuming my lungs, filling up my body until i become one with the earth

i can feel the end approaching in my bones as i allow the panic to dominate my mind,
my body curling into a ball, squirming underground,
my brain screams at me to give up the fight and i know for sure that soon the sand will bury me completely and solidify my skeleton into the soil,
returning to which i arrived,
giving my soul back to the earth, the cycle complete

i've resigned myself to my imminent death when i feel a pair of strong hands wrapping around my wrists, pulling me out of the dirt where i had lay six feet under,
she rips me out of my misery and the sand pours out of my mouth as she cleanses my soul, her presence allows me to breathe the cool morning air once more, no longer choking on my own despair
i cry my gratitude into her shoulder and in her arms is where i can finally start to feel whole
i lay my head on her chest and our hearts beat as one
her voice soothes my fear addled mine, anxiety melting away

she stands strong beside my shaking body, the only person to ever grab my hand, and pull me right out of a panic attack

behind the creaky old door,
in the middle of the hall
lay a shelf of forgotten things
the old board games,
a box full of mittens,
nana's yellow coat,
and that bright red sweater.

i had never seen that sweater,
i'd remember if i had
the threads are burning scarlet
and it fit me like a charm.

the moment i laid eyes on it
i knew that it was mine
its coarse wool clung to my body
like a kid clings to its mom
i wrapped the cloth around me
and knew that i was home.

i ran into grandma's bedroom
to show her my new find
only to see a weary look
and hear the catch in her worn voice
she said that the sweater was her father's
he wore it like a champ
his muscled limbs and
his pale skin
left it tight around his arms
and she looked at me once over
and then nodded her head
she said, that it fit me almost perfectly
and that it should be mine, instead.

so i walk these halls
in my bright red sweater
carrying my family history
and the smell of his cologne
to them it's just a fashion statement
but i know it's so much more
this sweater is the link
across generations,
across time,
to my long gone grandfather
who i never got to know.

the sweater is no longer
on the shelf of forgotten things
because my grandfather is gone
but this sweater proves
that he will never be forgotten.

"Gabrielle" was a name falling from my grandmother's lips,
as I was rushed to the NICU, the doctors asked my name,
and my grandmother uttered a word that was more like a promise.

Gabrielle is the female form of Gabriel, the angel that brought the news of the birth of Jesus to townspeople, like how my grandmother brought the news of my birth to the hospital waiting room, where my ten year old brother was beginning to understand what it meant to be a man, and my other grandma threw a fit about my new moniker.

The name Gabrielle means "gift from god" and my life itself was a gift as no one knew how long I'd be around to live it, the odds of a tiny baby hooked up to wires and tubes. God gave me the gift of life, as I was born without breathe, my lungs not ready for this world, he gave me a second chance, and I opened up my mouth and cried.

Gabrielle meant a name, and a name meant a life, a family, a place in the world.

Growing up I loathed my name, hopping between nicknames, wishing I had been given anything else for a title, but now I know I would not trade it for the world.

To reject my name is to erase the prayer that fell from my grandmother's lips the moment I was born.

There's something exhilarating about watching the hero of an action movie soar across the silver screen, thrusting fists into the face of some grotesque, mustached villain. Every time I see a thriller, I am at the edge of my seat, bubbling with excitement.

When the security guard came sprinting into the lunch room shouting, "This is a lockdown." I didn't feel anything even remotely close to excitement. I didn't want to skip through the commercials, didn't want to turn the page. I wanted to close the book, to pause the movie, to curl up in the safety of my own skin and never leave.

It was nothing like the movies. There was no hunky hero waiting in the wings to save us. There were only teachers on the edge of a breakdown, as they slowly realized that they were responsible for the two hundred lives they had just herded into the auditorium.

The villain was invisible. He was a crackle on the radio, a shadow in the corner, a ghost hanging in the forefront of everyone's mind. There wasn't a clear cut solution, no Bruce Wayne to bust in and kick some ***. Just terrified kids, and the teachers who were so much more human than I had ever seen them.

The girl next to me's hands shook in her lap, her voice carrying a note of panic that I'm sure matched my own. My knuckles turned white as I gripped my phone like a lifeline, trying to send words of love through the airwaves to my everything, who was cowering in a corner of the algebra classroom three stories up.

In the movies, goodbyes are always a performance. They are dramatic and gut wrenching. They are sobs into the sky, and screams into the night. What the movies don't prepare you for is the idea that your goodbye could be an eight letter text message, or a whisper no one would ever hear. As I waited for a reply, I wondered what would happen if this was the end. Maybe I'd hear her name on the radio that the teacher was holding, read from a list of casualties from another teen drama. Maybe I'd come home to find her name plastered across tv screens, my best friend's face synonymous with a caricature of tragedy.

If they made a Lifetime movie about this, I wonder who would play her, what glamorous Hollywood actress would dissect her personality and attempt to transform into a pale ghost of the girl I've known since childhood. I wondered how much money she would make for wearing a dead girl's skin.

Somehow, "school shooting" has become a marketable phrase and sold to me with a perfect soundtrack and a dramatic title. I wonder how much money I have given to the same people who wouldn't hesitate to turn my tragedy into a blockbuster for all to see, as they fill fiction with the faces of the nonfictional dead.

The voice on the radio signaled the all clear. The girl next to me breathed the deepest sigh of relief I have ever heard. My best friend sent back a text much longer than eight letters. A happy ending, I suppose. But as I walked out of that auditorium, something shattered inside of me. I will never hear a gunshot without imagining it coming from behind my best friend, never watch the news without wondering why it wasn't us, never see a bullet without feeling it pierce my mind.

I haven't been to a single action movie since.

I've already lived one.

i simultaneously long for life and death
i want to **** myself, but don't want to die
i want to disappear into a nothingness
i want to float up into the sky
     (but maybe that's just a teenager thing)

in crowds, i get panicked and weepy
alone, i suffocate on the floor
i belong to no person or thing or place
and i fall to pieces behind that bedroom door
     (but maybe that's just a teenager thing)

sometimes, i'm just teeming with emotion
the pain and the love and the best and the worst
all of the feelings get twisted together
until i'm sure that i'm going to burst
     (but maybe that's just a teenager thing)

on the contrary, sometimes i feel numb
i'm immune to the pain of this place
i can't feel the good or the bad or ugly
it's amazing what you can hide behind a happy face
     (but maybe that's just a teenager thing)

i constantly feel like i'm empty
and that i've got nothing left to give
i feel like i'm broken and done for
and that there's no reason for me to live
     (but maybe that's just a teenager thing)

i write suicide notes in my free time
and count the number of ways i could do it
and hide pills away in the drawers of my dresser
like my own little "how-to" death kit
     (but maybe that's just a teenager thing)

i keep razors and knives in my bookcase
i have methodically placed lines on my wrist
i long for the pain and the blood that it brings
i flirt with the demon of death, and then give it a kiss
     (but maybe that's just a teenager thing)

i live in a world of pain and anxiety
in constant fear of the people that i'm supposed to love
i think that i want to die, but what is want is to be free
depression's the cage, and i am the dove

but i guess that must be a teenager thing.

once upon a time, in a land far away
in a big stone tower, where a princess lay
there was magic in the air, but sadness in her heart
as she waited for the day that her life could start
because everyone knows a princess is nothing without a man
but she got tired of waiting, so one day, she ran.
she hurried away through the forest that night,
planning her life as she stood by the moon's light.
but as the village woke up the next day at dawn
the king of the land found that his princess was gone.
he was pale and sick, the news was too hard to swallow,
how can a girl live without a man's orders to follow?
but the princess was fine camping out in the woods,
she knew she could show them that girls can do some good.
she had spent her life dreaming of princes with elegant smiles,
but as she wept and she waited, she starting thinking that princes were vile.
and now she doesn't need a prince's beauty or charm
because she know that men will do nothing but harm.
but back at the castle, the king sobbed and he shook,
and he told his knights to go find his daughter, to have one more look.
the knights searched and they scoured for what seemed like forever,
but they couldn't find the girl, no, she was just too clever.
the princess moved on, she wanted to travel,
as her kingdom back home began to unravel.
all the girls realized, they could be anything they tried to be
they said, "if the princess can do it, why can't we?"
and the men cried out, "what do we do with these *******?"
without the women around, the kingdom was falling apart at the stitches.
but the girls didn't care, they left, and filled their lives with laughter.
and this, my friends, is the real happily ever after.

everyone's merry, the house is full of christmas cheer
my brother's in the corner, sneaking yet another beer
because it's not easy to get through this holiday
don't take anything too personal, or your self-esteem will pay

everybody's drunk, and nobody's nice
and everybody's turning to their most unhealthy vice
mama's drinking *****, while daddy smokes a joint
and all the men have seemed to reach their boiling point
insults are tossed around like candy
while all the women sit and drink their brandy

to most children, christmas is their single favorite day
but all i want for chistmas is for santa to take me far away
most days of the year, i love our little home
but today i feel like a rat in an observation dome

i guess family gatherings bring out the worst in everyone
some families talk with words, my family talks with guns
there's so much blame and guilt inside our family tree
i hope that all this hate, will never infect me

so for all the kids on christmas, having so much fun
be sure to thank your parents for everything they've done
don't give them too much grief
and remember what i've told you
and feel a little relief,

because you know your parents love you
and they'll never show you hate
make sure to say "i love you too"
so no other little girl
will have to share my fate

art is my own safe place
each night i shed my skin on stage
then put it back on with every page

art is my own safe place
each word i write helps me escape
everything i draw takes a new shape

art is my own safe place
acting helps me break out of my cage
i let the lines dissolve my rage

art is my own safe place
i know that words can make a change
because writing keeps the demons away

art is my own safe place
i put meaning into every play
artists know how to weaken chains

art is my own safe place
my imagination gets me through the day
creation is the only way

i walk down the street with a man's hand in mine
our footsteps stomp to a beat, we walk perfectly in time
his messy black curls twist in the winter air
the darkness of his locks contrast with my silky blonde hair

you'll find no similarities in our opposite faces
the only thing connecting us is our hands' embraces
but we've travelled life together, from one home to another
because this man who walks beside me is my dorky older brother

his hair and eyes are dark where mine are soft and pale
his body is broad and round while my bones are sharp and frail
he holds me when I cry and knows how to make me laugh
so you understand why it hurts when they say he's only "half"

"half" is not a word in my sibling dictionary
he's my brother through and through, anything but secondary
we've shared jokes and games and laughter and all our childhood stuff
we share a life and a mother; isn't that enough?

he taught me how to cook and taught me how to heal
he showed me all his games and showed me how to feel
he told me about mario and told me about carts
but most of all he told me how to keep an open heart

so, sure, try and tell me that this man is not my brother
he helped to raise me and has been there like no other
and true family isn't in blood, true family is in the soul
my "half" brother and i are just two halves of a whole

they say this isn't real
and neither are we
but they don't know what i feel
they don't know what i see

this is as real as it gets
and i'll never forget
the way you held my hand
as i held my breath

why wouldn't this be real?
my heart is yours to steal
how much hurt can one girl take?
my heart is yours to break

they say this is a phase
but how could that be
phases are for moons
not for me

why do they care what we do?
this is between me and you
when they locked us in this cage
they filled our tired minds with rage

how could so much love
inspire so much hate?
they shoot us all down
then act like they're the saints

well it's time to rise up
we know what we feel

i wonder how they'll react
when we decide to fight back

so let them try to beat us
with their hate-filled hearts
love always trumps hate
and light overcomes dark

look at me
don't walk away
why can't you see?
why can't you stay?

i'm begging, please
don't leave me here
i'm on my knees
don't you dare disappear

i love you so
don't you love me?
please don't you go
please don't you flee

why are you going
so far away?
you're always growing
and i'm always the same

so i guess it makes sense
you're better than me
i put up a good defense
and you're sick and tired of dodging debris

my hands were trembling, tears rushing down my face as i reached for a pen
i was leaving in the morning, i had to write my feelings before then
when people **** themselves they leave letters of beautiful words that they wrote
so i guess you could consider this very poem to be my suicide note

now mom please don't cry, and don't take the blame
it's not your fault that i was in so much pain
and hey grandma, listen, despite all my hate,
i promise that you're not the cause of my terrible fate
and brother, i love you, you were always so sweet
i hope you have a daughter to treat the way you treated me
michelle and kaylynne, you've always been there
you were more than my cousins, you always showed me you cared
and marissa, my dear, you were there 'til the end
you showed me the very meaning of being a friend
sweet little marie, please don't you dare cry
and can you promise me that you'll never do this, you'll never try?
and heather, i know you've been through this before
i'm sorry i couldn't show you how much you were adored
and ellie, my sweet, you helped my heart to heal
but i have to leave you, there's just too much i can't feel
oh god, my qynn, this one is the worst
what we had was magic, but i guess i was cursed
and alex, man, you'd better take care of our girl
please try to show her how much more there is to this world

writing this poem made me feel that maybe i didn't want to die
but it was too late, i'd made my decision, i'd made up my mind
this was never just about me, no, it's so much bigger
my whole body was shaking, as i reached for the trigger
and sure part of me still wanted to live
but i was tired and spent and had nothing left to give
my mind was made up, life just kept getting harder and harder
at least this way, i could die like a martyr
thought i couldn't make it, i hope th rest of you do
i hope you that i'm sorry, i hope you know i love you

i slammed down the notebook, i wiped away my tears
then it was time to face all my fears
i wrote down my "sorry"'s and decided to die
then i lifted the gun and let it kiss me goodbye

her hair is golden like spun silk, cascading down her back;
a waterfall; an endless ocean of heavenly light igniting in the sunshine,
sparking around her head and intermingling with the summer air

her hands are stretched skyward as though trying to catch the sun
she twirls across the carpet, her bare feet pale in stark contrast to the dark floor
never once does she miss a step
her body, the image of grace and poise, confident in this moment against the baby blue walls

a brilliant melody reaches our ears and she pauses, then rushes toward the source of lyrical beauty
suddenly, she is flying past me,
down staircases,
across narrow halls,
through wooden doorways,
and into the arms of another.

her face, tragically beautiful, she smiles
and for me, there is nothing else in the world but the symphony that is her laugh
the sound envelopes me in a euphoric embrace and i want to cry

my mind tells me that my feelings are hopeless and her perfection puts her far out of my reach

and it is in that moment that I realize I have been touched by an angel.

6:00 AM

I wake to the sound of my grandmother's voice announcing the morning long before the first rooster crows to the open countryside. The sun is still in hiding as I dress in the dark, already dreading the day's events. Shuffling through the empty house, as I attempt to force my frizzy hair into some kind of order, before giving up and slinging a backpack over my shoulder as I walk out the door.

6:45 AM

I stumble on the bus, still half asleep, as the havoc of the the night before has kept me from ever allowing my body a reprieve. Constantly moving, yet I still somehow manage to gain weight. I drop into a seat, my ever growing thighs pushing together as I lean against the cold glass of the ***** window, not daring to look out upon what my world has become.

7:30 AM

I amble my way up expansive staircases and through crowded hallways to my locker, tucked away in a tight corner next to the English office, where I find a semicircle of people waiting for me. We mumble our morning greetings then part ways in our minds long before our bodies move in opposite directions.

7:40 AM

The late bell rings, and I ease into a seat near the front of the class as one of my three good teachers begins to animatedly shout about expressing ourselves and setting our minds free and I'm always tempted to ask her how exactly I'm supposed to do that trapped between the four walls of this mighty mind numbing institution. Because even though this school may have been built like a castle, anyone whose read "Rapunzel" knows that a castle is just a prison where they hide away women.

8:25 AM

I leave one of the few decent classes of the day and enter the chaos of the hall where people are screaming and running and kissing one another, human interactions that I never seem to be a part of. I sleepwalk through the dull drone of teacher's voices, as they rant on about the importance of my "education."

10:00 AM

I reach my fourth class, the day is nearly half over, and I try as hard as I can to listen to the women at the front of the class as she expands logarithms on the page, but the numbers fog up my mind and cloud my vision. I start to feel dizzy, like if I see another equation I might faint. So instead I pull out a notebook that's nearly falling apart, and let the thoughts fall from my mind, making much more sense on the page as I scribble my feelings in a desperate attempt to be poetic.

10:50 AM

The moment I step foot into the cool auditorium it seems to get a little easier to breathe. The corner of the school I have carved out for myself as a home has opened up to me for midday drama class, and I smile at the sight of half-painted scenery littering the stage. But still I wonder how my creativity is supposed to flow between these walls, and how I'm supposed to allow my spirit to be lifted when every single scene we play out has been one hundred percent scripted.

12:30 PM

Finally, lunch arrives and I rush to the courtyard, hoping to soak up the social freedom of these forty five minutes as my friend and I ramble about things that matter and things that don't and I never remember any of the conversations but they're still important because they're the only things that make me feel sane.

1:20 PM

I find myself in the third floor chemistry classroom where I will sit for the next hour and a half wondering how I could make my death look like an accident from an untested chemical or crazy bunsen burner reaction.

2:45 PM

The school day draws to a close, but still I stay in the building where my dreams have come to die, slaving away in a poorly lit auditorium, giving my life and soul to the theatre. Not for a chance to be on stage, but to be behind the scenes, weaving together a musical with the smallest of roles, and it doesn't seem to matter how insignificant my job is, because it takes a lot of small people to tell a good story.

5:30 PM

I exit the sanctuary of the theatre and walk to my mother's car. I choke as the cigarette smoke fills my lungs, while we talk about both nothing and everything. I find that this is the best conversation I'll have all day.

6:30 PM

I'm called upstairs for dinner, my grandmother insisting we all eat together while we scramble for polite conversation topics. My angry political disputes and uncensored ideals of the future are not welcome here, so I keep my mouth shut, tugging at strategically placed articles of clothing made to hide the few secrets my body has managed to keep.

9:30 PM

After hours of pointless false conversation and staring at a flickering screen, I jump into the shower, loving the blissful in between state it provides.

10:00 PM

I go to bed, but not to sleep, my phone hidden under the sheets, sending secret messages to my friend across the universe, like whispers in the dark. When I finally shut my eyes, all the insecurities crawl into my mind like little insects of anxiety. My throat closes up and I can't breathe. I feel as though I have been tied down, and I thrash around the bed until I tire myself out and slowly succumb to sleep.

12:00 AM

I dream.

6:00 AM

I am ripped out of the one pure moment in my 24 hour cycle, ****** awake by the sharp sound of my grandmother's voice shouting the time. I get up to repeat this never ending monotony of my everyday life.

We flood into the auditorium like a frenzied herd of animals, pushing at the gates. We crowd each other, everyone frantically stumbling into seats. My anxiety isn't nearly as binding as one would think it would be and my mind goes into a state of total strategy.

2 minutes to get to the girl upstairs

I map out battle plans, trying to see if it would even be possible to reach my best friend on the third floor. Only four floor above me, and yet this is the farthest from her I've felt in years.

1 minute to get the library

My dreams of being a hero to the girl I have loved since the second grade plummet, just like my heart, and my leg bounces nervously. Libraries have always been safe. Libraries have always been home. But not even books can help me this time.

30 minutes to get to the sanctuary

Home is so far away that it isn't even an option I should allow myself to consider. I consider my grandmother at home alone, and I wonder if she's thinking of me. I wonder if she is even aware that her granddaughter is holed up behind auditorium walls, daydreaming about escape plans instead of cute boys. Trying to pass on comfort, instead of passing notes.

1 minute to get to the makeup room

I know this part of the school better than anywhere else. The theatre is sacred, and I have dedicated my life to the stories on the stage. The makeup room is where my friends share everything from stories to eyeliner to hairbrushes to kisses. It is a room built for anxiety, and pre-show jitters. I wonder if it would calm the nerves I have now.

30 seconds to get to the wood room

It's interesting that the rooms that have been my safe places for years, could truly be my safe havens as I wait for attack. The room hidden under the stage is dusty, and full of dismantled sets and large, clunky monitors. I would if those monitors would let me see the action, like watching a film from the safety of your home, watching reality from the safety of four concrete walls.

15 seconds to get to the scene shop

It's the safest place in the school. I have spent a lifetime in there, washing paint off of hands. I wonder if I could ever look at that mess sink the same way, if I had to use it to clean blood off instead. I consider the way this day has changed all of these rooms forever. Will I ever wipe down a makeup room counter without imagining hiding beneath it? Will I ever check out a book without imagining using it for a shield? Will I ever see my best friend's face without imaging myself jumping in front of a bullet? This day, no matter the outcome, has invaded my most sacred spaces, and turned this school into an battle ground. I pray that it will not turn the school into a graveyard.

A muffled voice lets out a sigh on the teacher's radio. The herd stands back up, and we return to our lives. Everyone is safe. My mind shuts off the timer, stops counting the seconds, erases the maps.

The space between me and the world doesn't seem quite as important anymore.

there is a moment, when i'm in the shower
and i slowly begin to turn the silver handle to cold
i can feel the two extremes beating down against my skin
opposite temperatures battling for control of the small space
half of my body is braving an arctic winter
while the other half retreats, only to find the fires of pompeii
the two sides meet in the middle, and i smile at their contradictions
it is in these moments that i begin to understand my own life
the war waging inside of me is not dissimilar to this
my love of art and love of stability threaten to extinguish each other
leaving me with a love for nothing
i turn off the shower and collapse to the tile
i will make my decision tomorrow
but today i am a fallen soldier,
another casualty in a war of my own making

anywhere from the ages of eight to sixteen
girls start to learn how to clean the blood out of their clothes
to prepare for the war against women

because it's important for us to know how to hide the evidence
of our self-inflicted scars
the ones that we leave on our wrists
and our thighs
and our hearts

and it's even more important to know how to hide the bodies
of the men who don't understand that we're people
not just objects or wives
and that we are human beings
we have wants
we have needs
we have lives
and we must learn to defend ourselves against those
who can't seem to hear the word
no

from the time we are nine years old
woman is synonymous with soldier
and i'm ready for the war

We never say, "I love you."
The words always get stuck somewhere between our hearts and our tongues. Forcing us to swallow our affection, and replace the phrases that seem so hard to say with words that are much easier to get out.

Instead of "I miss you." we say "*******."
The distance makes us distraught, as we toss knives at the one person we never want to push away.

Instead of "I trust you." we ask each other to check our phones, because there's nothing on there I don't want her to see.

Instead of "I need you." we look at colleges together.
The idea of leaving each other is so implausible that we spend our time designing our future apartment. Each draft has one shared detail- a wooden bunk bed, so we can fall asleep to the sound of the other's breathing, the reassurance that we  will never have to be alone. The reassurance that I will never have to live without my other half.

We never say, "I love you."
We do not need to.
We say it with every sarcastic comment, every inside joke, shared memory, favorite song, every inhale, and every exhale.

I miss you.
I trust you.
I need you.

We never say, "I love you."
Either that, or we never stop saying it.

rest little soldier, lay down your sword
let me show you just how much you're adored
come now sweet warrior, put down the knife
maybe in the morning, you won't want to end your life
take a seat my dark-eyed rebel, it's time to give up the fight
i know it's dark now, but soon will come the morning light
take a sit my dear champion, let me hold you close
what you need is a hug, not an overdose
so lean on me my hero, i'll be here to guide you
just focus on getting stronger, and let me help you through

she had emerald eyes and messy hair
we ran around town dishing out dares
we broke the law twice that night
as we danced in the streets looking for a fight
i had dorky glasses, and her hair matched her name
we treated our lives like one big game
we glided through the air on playground swings
for a second i believed that we both had wings
we drew funny faces on a concrete wall
and traded our shirts outside the church hall
we had a thousand adventures that started at dusk
and ended when we woke up in her room smelling like musk
being in her presence gave me an electric shock
with her there was no time, no hours on the clock
she lit up my life with on single night
and then the very next day she had to take flight
i'll always remember the weekend we shared
i just wish that my broken heart could have been spared
she gave me adventure in a town such as this
my only regret is denying her that goodbye kiss

"i miss you" you say, but do you even know me?
we were friends for so long, but that's ancient history.
life's not about nostalgia or reliving our past,
it's all about now, moving forward and fast.
the moment is fleeting, so let's just move on,
i'll always love those green eyes and your favorite song,
but we've been holding on to those memories for way too long.

"i miss you" i say, as i think of all that we shared,
but what i really miss is having someone who cared.
i don't know who you are, our connection is gone
what we miss are the people we were before it went wrong.
i remember each tear that i shed and the lies that i told,
i remember that it was you who i used to hold,
and i remember that together we learned how to be bold.

"i love you" you said, but could you say that now?
do you remember the night in your bed when you made that vow?
you said we'd be friends forever, but that's a big word.
we still hadn't learned that you have to scream to be heard.
and we still shared everything, from secrets to food,
we whispered about your sister with the bad attitude,
we didn't know that within the year, our friendship would conclude.

"i love you" i said, and now i don't know who you are.
i miss the nights in your yard spent watching the stars.
you brought light to my life when i could only see dark,
i thought my fire was out, but you brought back my spark.
i tried to move on in every way that i knew,
but it's hard to forget the girl who helped you through,
i think that some part of me will always love you.

we've said our goodbyes again and again,
but it's so hard to let go of your very best friend.
you taught me the meaning of having a family,
and taught me about love beneath an oak tree.
we were just kids, had no idea of the aftermath of our actions,
we forged a friendship full of unnecessary attachments,
but now we have to grow up, there's no room for distractions.

"just try to move on" you whispered, leaving me in the dust,
"i don't know if i can" i said, "you're the only one i can trust."
but you left anyways, and now i know that it's not your fault;
we did what we could, but our love was brought to a halt.
so i'm taking your advice, i'm moving on,
everything that we shared is suddenly gone,
i shed my last tears over you last night in your old lawn.

"i love you" you said, and i know that you meant it.
"i miss you" you said, and i'll never forget it.
you've left your fair share of scars on my broken heart,
but now that i've let myself cry, the healing can start.
you never meant to do me any harm,
but oh, how i miss your smiles and charm,
and i still can remember being wrapped in your arms.

no words that i write can ever compare,
i'll always remember everything that we've shared.
but it's been a few years, and now i have to say goodbye,
there's no point holding on to our song and your green eyes.
i promise i'll keep every secret you spoke,
and i'll keep on laughing at all of our jokes,
so i guess this is goodbye to you and our summers under that oak.

my oldest friend is a girl with a too big mouth and too long hair
she runs around town screaming battle cries
and she tries to fight my wars so that i will not have to
she is loud, unabashed, unapologetic
and she has taught me to never be sorry for who I am

the boys complain that she is abrasive
she is too big, too angry, she takes up too much space
and I ask them if they'd rather she not take up any space at all,
if we should shut our mouths and shrink into ourselves
girls are better seen than heard and they would prefer us to be
smaller, daintier, easier to swallow
but she has taught me to be immense

she walks with her chin in the air as though she is a queen approaching a throne
to the world she is strong; unbreakable
but I have heard her cries, I have wiped her tears
I have picked her frozen body up off the bathroom floor
and she has taught me that no one is unbreakable

she wears nike shorts and a singular black hoodie that carries her scent through the air- shampoo and marijuana permeating the wind
she acts casual and screams to the world that she does not give a **** about how she looks or how they think she looks
but I know that she spends hours on her hair, her nails, her homecoming dress
and she has taught me that there is more than one definition to the word beautiful

she comes to school with hickeys and the scent of drugs and ***
she laughs and jokes
and I let her
because it is her body and what she does to it is not my business
but she has taught me that it is okay to be concerned anyways

we link our hands together and proclaim that we are sisters
we have shared everything from clothes to beds
from meals to test answers
car rides and late nights and head aches to heart breaks
despite what our dna tries to tell us, the blood in our veins, the beat of our hearts,  everything about us knows that we are sisters
and though my father was pale and hers is dark we still have this bond
because she has taught me that, yes, blood is thicker than water, but love is thicker than blood

in my dreams, i am a warrior
dueling with ghouls in my sleep
i fence with the demons and conquer the beasts
i am strong
i am fair
i'm complete

but waking up is a whole different story
my body seizes with fear
real life villains are harder to battle
and real life wounds much harder to feel
for there are demons and beasts in my own life
though they're not the ones in my closet
they're the ones in my soul screaming to get out
changing my feelings,making me doubt

they exist in the minds of the angry
and the men who teach our boys hate
they hide around corners and houses
taking kids far away from this place

then there are the ones in the dark
telling me i don't know my own heart
girls are nothing but playthings
their sick and demented dreamlings

so it's easier to stay safe asleep
cloaked in the warmth of my bed
because then i can be a warrior
even if it's all in my head

it's midnight, and i'm all alone
usually i'm fine being on my own
but thoughts of you seem to plague my mind
memories from before you are hard to find
because you have completely enraptured my brain
how is it that you are cause of my joy and the cause of my pain?

it's 1 am, and i'm by myself
i think that i was injured when i fell
i fell for you, and all your glory
won't you please tell me one last story?
just one more word before i drive myself mad
how is it that you can make me both happy and sad?

it's two am, and i'm terrified
your image has unleashed the demon inside
i know you don't love me, but neither do i
all of my unrequited feelings make me want to die
and my love for you has gone way too far
how is it that something so beautiful could leave such a scar?

it's three am, and i'm almost gone
all that's left of me is the sound of your favorite song
i've become such a beast for your love
preying on you like a hawk preys on a dove
but it's my body, not yours,  that i attack
how is it that no matter how much i love you, you won't love me back?

it's four am, and i'm merely a ghost
i'm at your mercy, tied to your whipping post
not the drink nor the blade nor the lighter can heal
nothing can change the fact that love for you is all that i can feel
i think of nothing but you as i lay still in my bed
how is it that something as brilliant as love could make someone dead?

it's six am, and it's time for me to wake
but my mother finds i won't move no matter how much she shakes
i've been found surrounded by blood in my eternal sleep
the love that i felt for you ran way too deep
so i tried to cut it out by shredding my veins
how is it that love could cause so much pain?

don't you want me?* isn't that what you wrote?
the very same day you stuck your tongue down my throat?
no i don't want you. i thought in my head
but the look on your face made me freeze with dread
i was too scared to speak, let alone write
so i left the page blank, i left the page white
your pick-up lines sounded more like threats
not running away will forever be my biggest regret
and you mistook my silence for an invitation
it was my body on which you took out your frustrations

no.

i struggled against you, scared and alone
thoughts of your intentions chilled me to the bone
i shivered and cried and i wanted to scream
my fragile mind was falling apart at the seams
as much as i sobbed and called out for help
it seemed no one heard any of my yells
and you drove me to silence with one cruel look
and i shut my mouth while i wept and i shook
you left me ravaged and broken and as good as dead
but still i picked up the pieces and only looked straight ahead

no.

when i stumbled home late in the night
my parents exclaimed that i had filled them with fright
do you know what could have happened? was the question they asked
and god knows that i did, but i didn't feel like being harassed
so i kept myself quiet and let my light fade away
everywhere i went i felt like some predator's prey
i couldn't feel safe no matter where i went
until the day i learned that i wasn't broken; i was just bent
i learned to be tough by forcing myself to move on
i looked my reflection in the eye and told myself to be strong
i slowly but surely got past my constant state of woe
my only regret is not saying *no.

autumn leaves and a monarch butterfly
if they don't separate, one of them will die
they're beautiful together, but death has beauty too
the butterfly loves fall, the way i loved to fall for you
i'm just a dying butterfly in an autumn bitten tree
the leaves are slowly dying and i will too if i don't leave
because all the praying and the crying has already taken its toll on me
but how am i to leave you when you are so weak
but somehow despite your frailness you keep dragging me down too
if it weren't for your ailment there wouldn't be such a feud
inside my mind, my thoughts are waging war
should i stay or should i go? what's a love struck girl to do?
if i stay, both our lives are lost, but if i go i will lose you
could there ever be a bigger cost? there's just so much to work through
if you really loved me how could you want me to stay?
if you really loved me how could you send me away?

I don't remember what he looks like.

I am told that I carry much of him in myself, with my blonde hair that curls around my shoulders, foreign green eyes, and a smile that could never belong to my mother. These are all his traits. Everywhere I go I carry a piece of him inside of myself, in everything from my complexion to my complexities.

My DNA is 50% monsters in the closet.

I wonder if that's why I always have an urge to punch the mirror.


I barely remember his name.

I am told that when his mother asked my name, she cried. She cried as she was told that there would be no evidence of him there.

I wonder if my mother knew even then.


I don't remember the day he left.

I was too young to understand why this goodbye would be any different than the others.

I am told that my mild mannered brother, all toothy grins and silly jokes, curled his hands into two identical fists and growled, "I am more to her than he will ever be"

I wonder if he ever resented me for forcing him to become a man at 14 years old.


I remember a doll.

A soft rag doll with yellow yarn curls and dimples, nearly identical to my own.

I am told that he gave it to me.

I wonder if he noticed the resemblance.

I wonder if he ever noticed me at all.


I remember a phone call.

The way my mother's hands shook. and her words followed suit.

I was told that he wanted to see me, nearly ten years after he left.

I wanted to tell him that once you've ripped someone's still beating heart out of their chest and devoured it whole, it was bad table manners to ask for seconds.

I wonder if my rejection even bothered him.


I don't remember a father.

I don't think I ever had one.

you were like a drug,
when you were around me i was filled to the brim with ecstasy
and when you weren't all i could think about was how to get another hit, another fix, another glance into your soul
forever desperate to hear the sound of your voice, or to catch a glimpse of your alabaster skin
i was like a ******, filled with longing for the way you said my name, your lips curving around each and every syllable, the intimacy of my name on someone's else's lips
you kept our hands firmly intertwined, and while i know that this was just your way of being friendly i couldn't help but to tuck this information away as evidence of your love,
the way your eyes flitted down to my unbuttoned shirt, proof of your want

as our legs wrapped around each other like ivy tangling on the side of a fence, you remained perfectly composed, unaffected
while i slowly fell apart, a fool in my longing,
you leaned forward to whisper simple truths in my ear, as we traded admissions that barely counted as secrets, stories and guilty pleasures were our currency and our conversations a marketplace
we were rich in our words, overflowing piles of confessions and declarations
drunk with the moment, and the sound of saxophones somewhere in the distance

i woke in the morning, ashamed and afraid, to face your excellence in the light of day, but it seemed you were willing to turn the tables
as i sat in front of you on those autumn red chairs, and i heard the uncertainty in your voice as you whispered to the girl beside you that you remembered nothing of the night before
instead of feeling that familiar wave of relief, what i felt was all the air leaving my lungs, as if someone had just kicked me in the stomach,

the feeling of having my soul ripped out, only to be released into the wild, like an animal no one wanted to tame

tie me up or turn me loose
hang me by a fraying noose
you beat me and i take the blame
you commit the sin; i feel the shame.

you're not mine, but i am yours
sure, you're a ****, but i'm a *****
so i guess that means that we belong
i'm a caged bird; no voice, no song.

i spent life hoping for tomorrow
and now i'm drowning in your sorrow
you tie me up without a rope
you suffocate all sparks of hope
you keep me down without a chain
i've become numb to all your pain.

nowhere to run, nowhere to hide
you are always by my side
you let me burn and waste away
just because you don't want me to stray
but i won't leave, you know i can't
i'll just keep quiet while you rant.

i'm locked away with nothing left to do
despite all this, i still love you
there's nothing for you to rectify
just let me sleep, just let me die.

they tell me i'm broken
then don't try to fix me
they tell me i'm dying
then walk away quickly
and what a hard truth it is to find
that mama doesn't love me
and daddy said goodbye
grandma doesn't care
and now i'm going to die
they can't see that i'm drowning
to them i'm already gone
but here i am floundering
i can't carry on
i've lost all sense of hope
i can't live a lie
pills or a rope?
what's the best way to die?
but now you've come along
with those beautiful eyes
your words like a song
you break through my disguise
your hand against mine
gives me a thrill
you make me realize it's not me
that i want to ****
you pick me up
and carry me through
and now there is something that i need to do
do i tell you i love you
and wait for the pain?
or do i keep on pretending
and open my veins?
i need you
i miss you
i'm longing to kiss you
because you said i'm not broken
but you still tried to fix me
you said i'm not dying
and stayed around even though i am sickly
and you say that you love me
and you'll never tell me goodbye
you tell me you care
and you won't let me die