Most days, I wear
my depression, my anxiety,
my PTSD, like Girl Scout badges
I proudly sewed on a sash
and wear on my uniform to Brownies.

Part of a girls' club for which
my member's card never came home from school
or the mail,
but the ceremony was held anyway.
Induction was never an option,
and the meetings are held every day.

Reciting the motto,
and finger painting it everywhere;
it's my identity more often
than it isn't.

There are others outside the club,
who say maybe those badges could be replaced,
one by one, with items that are
more worthy of what life becomes;
More worthy of topics of conversation, they will bring more joy;
More entertaining than ****, or abuse,
or why sadness lingers like strep in my throat
that cannot be cured with the strongest of antibiotics.

I just want to get a badge that says I learned how to skip today.
I blew bubbles and they flew and glimmered into the wind.
I played hopscotch and counted to ten while remembering to breathe
and reciting my favorite rhyme.

Cognitive distortions, and it's always been like this;
Water fountain eyes with no thirst-quenching,
bruises spreading out in hand-shaped marks around my neck,
whispering not to speak;
Mom says I'm just looking for attention, while wanting to shrink
with all the clothes that no longer fit;
Dad hits me when -

There I go again.

I'll dream in cotton candy color of a future that dissolves
honey sweet between my teeth:
Carefully I'll sew on badges saying I graduated,
held down a job,
and became something.

Most days I feel like I wear
my depression, anxiety,
PTSD, and issues
like a sash of girl scout badges that I proudly sewed on
and wear with my uniform to Brownies.

This is part of a girl's club
of which I've never wanted to be a member;
something much bigger than me,
replacing my personality,
that I just want to escape.

But I drown myself in it.
I paint it on myself
and it's my identity more often than it isn't.

That girl wearing the sash wants to replace those badges,
one by one,
with things that are more worthy of a life story;
More worthy of topics of conversation;
More entertaining than talking about my ****,
or my abuse,
or why I'm sad today.

I just want to get a badge that says I learned how to skip today.
I blew bubbles and they flew and glimmered into the wind.
I played hopscotch and counted to ten while remembering to breathe
and reciting my favorite rhyme.

It's always been like this.

Always crying eyes and sad stories and wishing I was invisible;
People asking me why I'm so quiet;
My mom saying I'm just looking for attention;
My dad hitting me when -

There I go again.

I don't want to write another sad poem.

I want to rise above it all.
I want to give sad people with sad faces like me hope.

Give me a day where I believe the sun will rise
and I will enjoy the sunset without fearing the dark.

Can I just write a poem that says "**** the police"
for every single line
for every single stanza
and leave it at that?

Because I'm imagining his next victim, because there will be a next one,
and how she will feel when she finds out that he had my former report
on his private police record, accessible only by certain police.

I want to scream, but the metal chain he put around my throat to choke me because
"ha ha you like that, right?" after I had already said no
is still there, so nothing can come out of my mouth,
except I've been screaming as loud as I can for so long;

One year and I'm still not free.

His body weight is still crushing me, still heavy; the bruises on my body still felt every day, my body a museum of decaying loss and my mind a perfect video recording that plays on repeat whenever I just
want
some
sleep;

Nightmares I wake from and can't wake from.

I think one of the hardest days of my life was when I got my **** kit.
I mean- you know- other than the actual ****.
I developed a stutter that day.
I blame myself.
I blame. I -I- I blame myself.
But I can't!

All of the "no's" that I said to him didn't matter, the police said;
everything non consensual didn't count;
it was only the one coerced "yes" that counted;

Scared for my life but, **** the police, right?

And all the times that I said to the police "yes" that I was *****,
collapse and boom like a bomb on deaf ears of police that tell me that,
"maybe you just regretted having *** with him."

Or how about when they rolled their eyes when they learned that I met him on tinder?
I gave them a smile and answered that yes, that's true, because what else was I supposed to do but tell the truth?

Or the first thing they said to me was "so then you had a few drinks..."
Well no, sir, that's not what happned, at all.

See, there have been multiple levels of injustice here and I thought I was doing the right thing to heal.

In my partial hospitalization program that I went to for PTSD,
that I got from my ******,
I learned that the "right" thing to do was to seek help right away after a traumatic incident so that it doesn't lead to lifelong suffering;
Quick help leads to a faster recovery,
and I've always wanted to do the right thing:

Like getting him arrested for ****** me.

But the police don't listen even when your body has been confiscated, graffiti marked by your ******,
and the police tell you coldly to just seek counseling because, after all,
you "consented,"
and that your ****** isn't a ****** in the eyes of the law.
A ****** isn't a ****** but is a ****** and he's going free.
I did the right thing but I'm still stuck night after night, waking up crying;
I wonder who will be next, and that person's weight is added on top of me;
The gallery of bruises he inflicts will just continue, and I wonder where on snapchat will they be next?

1.  Silence always means he's thinking about his deep and everlasting love for me.
2.  Farts are his way of glorifying my existence.  And burps always get a "God bless you."
3.  Him and Gary the get-well-gorilla want me to be happy.
4.  On OKCupid, the opening line of his first very first message to me was "Bonjour!  While reading your profile, I noticed you're into gaming."
5.  He found that street, you know, with the black mailbox at the end of it.
6.  I have never wished for him to "find an antique rocking chair to die in." (ESOTSM)
7.  We will have a hammock in our attic.  And a room for our four cats, named Fiona, Penelope, Montozo, and Ernesto.
8.  We will kiss in a tent in a woods, and then kiss in Paris, and finally settle which is more romantic.
9.  [R]Otman's Ottomans is our future enterprise.
10.  Oh, and, uh, I guess I love him, and stuff.

You're a robot, mechanical heart and
mechanical brain and mechanical soul. Nothing
about you is alive. You live to destroy
me and turn my heart to rust.

My veins crumble under the pileup of
what you say I must be and I can't
understand my own thoughts
anymore.

What do you think I am?
What you say is what I must be.
What else am I living for?

I.
The devil is right outside
my window.
I never knew he dressed
in all black.
He says hello
and I see the bag of mail
he's carrying.
The devil is not
a mailman.
What is my brain doing to me?

II.
Time to take my pills.
The nurse hands me
the cup.
The ******* one
will **** me.
"It's a vitamin,"
says the nurse.
"Nothing bad
is going to happen
to you."

I.
Sirens ring out as warnings
amongst the patients of the ward.
Now the world will end in a firey
apocalypse. They've found me out
for the bad I am and now I must
suffer. I walk from room to room
looking for the grim reaper;
a nurse finds me
and tells me that the fire alarm
will be shut off soon.

II.
God is bringing me warnings
to never visit this place again.
She's an old lady and has been here
for a long time. The apocalypse
is coming sooner than I thought.