The poet frames the void.
The critic voids the frame.

A lonely lamppost  
it waits for the trains to wave hello
Night approaches
out scurry the roaches from under the drains
how gloomy the night is
the lamp still shines  
the moths are small
they cling to the light
anther train passes
car after car
graffiti spewed at the sides
what a lonely night
the whistle, it sings and the smoke arises
filling the sky with more darkness
It's dim now and frigid
the lamppost flickers
it rattles
the last train for the night
there is goes on the rickety tracks past the light
the lamppost soon burns out
tonight grows still

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me
but you hurt me
with all the words that pour out of your mouth
not one was what I wanted to hear
yet all of them seemed to please everyone else
you can wrap your shins up in cowboy boots and top it off with a hat
but you are not brave enough to bestride something beautiful
only because it is more powerful than you
you are weak
but somehow the lack of words you shot at me
tortured my mind
and the rest
were meaningless

the man
he knocks
repeatedly raps at the door
all through the night
tick tock
he wakes me up
don't open the door
he's a stranger
a disease
a pest
get off your knees
tip down the stairs in a robe made of silk
it's cold but it covers
slip on your slippers
the floor is cold
your hands are cold
his presence is cold, chilling

you walk through the kitchen
now you're at the door
look through the peep hole
do you see the man
the stranger
just a soul
a ghost
open the door,
slowly
you grab the handle
and turn
tick tock
your mind is turning
fists clenched to white
there
the man
he stands
intently
waiting for you to flinch
although you can't move

afraid

the man
he puts a hand to your cheek
and you choke
and you freeze
and every slit on your skin begins to bleed
somehow he has a hold on you without the force

this man
who is he
just a memory
someone to love
or the darkness you keep
hidden under your tongue
there he is
puts his lips so very gently to your ear
and speaks words ever so faintly
you cross your arms and grab your elbows

scared

or confused
the man
the monster
the beautiful figure
who is he
tick tock
quickly make up your mind
stay or go
the knocks
they continue
pull the covers close to you
stay warm
inside
a house that will only keep you safe for so long
the man
he stands
across from you
he stares
but not in your eyes
only your body
no matter how many blankets you hide yourself in
he is there
watching
and he sees past your intelligence
the man
who gave you more warmth then the mattress on your bed
knocks at your door now
every night
you were just a little bird before
now you've flown with the flock of crows
****** is what's written on your forehead
but still
he
never
goes
away.

I still remember that night. I remember how I felt before it happened more vividly than how I felt after. I think I remember it so well because that was the last time I ever felt whole.

Your intentions filled the room as I watched the drool on the side of your lips. The uneasy smirk on your face. You wanted a lot more than to "just get laid." I was far too young to even begin to understand the parts of my body you knew not to touch.

As you kissed me down my neck, my spine quivered and my fear shook. My mother always told me to follow my gut and when I did you grabbed me and you told me not to listen to it. You told me to ignore what I didn't want for the sake of your temporary pleasure. You disregarded my comfort and put your **** ahead of my feelings.

You yanked my legs open and your ripped me into two pieces, and till this day I have yet to find the other half you stolen from me, and I swear I almost see it everyday when I stand ahead of myself naked infront of my mirror but I can never stare at myself long enough to grab me in and make myself whole again.

Do you see what you have done to me? Was that temporary pleasure from my little 13 year old body worth the pain I face today? Was that stolen pleasure worth every jump I make when the man I love touches me with permission? Was your everlasting ******, sounds of moans and sighs escaping from your lips, echoing in my stomach and spilling out in my tears worth me cutting myself open every night since?

I guess it was because at least I'm giving myself permission opening myself up. At least the pain has conscient. At least the blade dragging across my skin silenced the sound of your pleasure inside of me. At least the blood from my wrist dripping onto the bathroom floor isn't mixed with this filth.

At least I have the choice to put just a little more pressure in and I wont have to be reminded of you anymore.

you had too many drinks that night,
and she was wearing a dress,
so you thought, "she's a ****," right?
because you label women as:
what they wear is what they are, right?
you tried to woo her countless times,
but she still said no,
and you thought she was playing with you.
you thought, just because she was wasted,
that means she's ***** and wants to ****.
she was an innocent girl.
all she wanted was to have fun,
but you ruined that for her.
even after she pushed you off,
and smacked you in the face,
and called you every swear word,
you thought she wanted you.
she cried for help,
but the music was too high,
and everyone was too drunk,
and they all thought she wanted it too.
and that makes me sick.
because she didn't want it,
she wanted a place to let loose.
she didn't want it,
she just wanted some fun.
a couple of beers,
a couple of cheers,
then she'd go off with her friends.
but you've formed her into a woman,
a woman who screams in her sleep,
who locks all the doors,
who jumps at every bump in the night.
you've done that to her,
and you don't even feel sorry.
you thought she was an animal,
just a play toy.
but she was so much more.
and after she stopped weeping,
you tried to kiss her again,
but she pushed you away,
you got angry with her.
you shook her and smacked her,
you beat her black and blue.
don't lie to me, i know you want me.
i know you want me.
I KNOW YOU WANT ME.
and she screamed,
even if you hurt her.
she screamed and screamed,
even when you broke her jaw.
she shrieked.
she cried.
she never wanted you.
a week later i was walking home,
and coincidentally i looked up,
and on top of the building was a figure.
there was a goddess up there,
black and blue from a beating,
but still beautiful.
her sobs floated from her mouth,
down to the streets,
but no one bothered to listen.
but i did.
and i went up there,
and brought her down,
and hugged her.
she flinched and squirmed,
because some **** had ruined her.
some ******* poisoned her thoughts,
making her believe every guy is the same.
every guy she has ever loved or trusted,
became another trespasser.
she couldn't even look her father in the eye.
but she broke down before me,
revealing herself in blood in tears,
painting me a story that made me sick.
she cried for hours on that roof,
curled up in front of me,
begging me to let her die,
but i refused.
i saved her life,
and i hope no one saves yours for when karma comes around.

Thirteen is a fragile age
For both boys and girls
Not only for girls
But mostly for girls
When you are a female,
By the time you’re thirteen
You already have a basic idea of what you’re supposed to be like:
What you should wear, how you should behave, what you should say
By the time you’re a thirteen-year-old girl in the year 2008
There is an unspoken list of rules,
A non-verbal inventory of criteria that you should have met
By your fourteenth birthday
You must shave your legs,
You mustn’t wear dresses above knee length,
You must lose your virginity
By the time that I was thirteen years old,
All of my closest girl friends had lost their virginities
Albeit, they were fourteen and I was thirteen because I was a year ahead
But that is a different story for a different poem
This poem is about ****
I remember hearing my friends talk about how they had lost their virginities
In their beds, in the shower, in the backseat of his car
But when I was thirteen, I wasn’t worried about ***
I didn’t want to lose my virginity
Not in a bed, or a shower, or the backseat of a car
No, when I was thirteen, I was highly preoccupied with other things
I was worried about love and what love meant
I wanted to feel love in my heart and in my head
Before I ever felt it in my ******
And let it be said, now, half a decade later
That *** and love are not always the same thing
I wish I would have known that then
I wish I would have known that when he put his hand down my pants
While I was only trying to enjoy a movie in the company of my boyfriend
A man who I thought I could trust
Excuse me, a boy who I thought I could trust
I wish I would have known that when he whispered daggers in my ear
Telling me that he loved me enough to “grace” me with his touch
I wish I would have known that when he pushed me into the couch
With the rough insides of his palms
And gained entry to a gate
That I never gave him the key to
And I wish I would have known that when I asked him later,
“What just happened?”
Too stunned and in pain to cry
And he replied,
“It’s what girlfriends and boyfriends do.
It’s what you do when a girlfriend loves her boyfriend.
You do love me, right?”
And I said yes
When I went back to his house a week later,
I told him that I felt ashamed, and guilty, and *****
Because I didn’t want to lose my virginity
And I had told him that again and again and again
And I was enraged
I was angry because I didn’t have a word for what had happened to me
I had been taught that **** only happens in dark alleys
Not in the basement of your boyfriend’s home
I had been taught that **** only happens when you wear short skirts and halter-tops
Not jeans and a sweatshirt
I had been taught that rapists were old men who I didn’t know
Not my sixteen-year-old boyfriend of two years
And he responded to my anger
But instead of pushing me into the couch,
He pushed me into the wall
And then into the floor
And then out of his life
And you would think,
“Good, this is where it ends. It’s all over now.”
But let it be said, now, half a decade later,
That for survivors of ****** assault, it is never over
The story continues with Planned Parenthood staff, two years later
Having to be the ones to break the news to me
That it was not normal relationship behavior
And hearing the nurse, outside the door, tell another nurse,
“We’ve got another one.”
The story continues with my father asking me,
“Are you sure you didn’t just have *** with him? Were you asking for it?”
The story continues with my sixteen-year-old classmates
Calling me a ***** *****
Because a friend of my ****** decided to tell the entire school
About what had happened to me in that basement three years prior
The story continues after I broke up with my ex-fiancé
And he befriended my ******
In an attempt to **** me off for “breaking his heart”
The story never ends for ****** assault survivors
Statistically, a quarter of the women reading this poem
Will be or have been ***** at some point in her lifetime
And for those women, the story will not end
So now the question presents itself:
How can we end the story?
Therefore, as the author of this **** poem,
I take responsibility for this question,
And I answer it this way:
In the same way that I learned
When I was thirteen years old
That love and *** are not always the same thing,
You must teach your boys
That yes and silence are not always the same thing.

He stabbed me in the back
And **** ***** me.

A lover?
No. Love itself.


-- Eleanor