i do a little dance
with guilt
during the day,
and then i
let anger **** me at night.

i try to feel safer about my whereabouts
whenever i'm alone
ever since the security guard at the club
stopped me and asked me not once,
not twice, but four or five times
if i was carrying mace on me
and was astonished every time i
repeated the phrase “no!”
anxiously while he was checking my bag
upon entry.

because it's heavily implied that women can't exist
without some choice of weapon
against the type of men who want to ask
why we're not already defending ourselves
against them when they've established
their weird *** interest while conducting
a security check. i guess.

i think if i did in fact
have mace on me,
his face would have been the first
i'd  have maced.

so like, what flavor mace should i get, guys?

go ahead,
have another breakdown in the office bathroom and then
pretend like you’re having the time of
your life on the internet. think about how
it could be happening to some other girl
if not you, how “cool” you must be
to be able to keep it together.
(which really means stupid)

they'll all think, "wow he must
really be something special to have someone like her" or something shallow like that, something along those lines. something to make it feel just a bit worthwhile.

go ahead,
lose track of when those lines of performability blurred and the sustainability of it all started.

someone might ask me if i want another drink and i will no thank you, because he tells me it “runs in your family.”
but he’ll pour himself a night cap or five before bed or he’ll convince me after a set of repeated no’s to wash down a heavy handed cocktail or two that he made because he says he’s the best at home bartender we know and we are always at home.

i don’t touch the stuff anymore, i used to when i was brave. i used to be brave.

he said, “you should write more,
you should let me use your words.”
but my words can’t hold any meaning
other than the utter embarrassment of
who i was and how it’s consumed who i
used to be at the hands of someone who
i allowed to selfishly grasp me when i thought i couldn’t hold myself. i watched myself fall through his fingers, like empty promises and then get thrown against the wall just like all our
various household items i’ve seen him smash in the same way.

so he thinks i just have writer’s block. or at
least that’s just what i tell him. and
i try not to, but i can still hear his stupid distorted guitar tone humming, calling me a dumb **** from the other room.

sitting on s cameron waiting for the
light to turn,
waking up for the morning commute
just like that indie electronica group
said i would. thinking about the various
ways i’ll allow myself get taken
advantage of today.
the city smells like ****
and desperation. to be honest,
i think i fit right in.

i had a dog once
i think he still loves me
i used to kiss his nose
and take him for walks

when he got scared i held him in my arms
i squeezed him when he shivered
i remember his soft ears and whiskers
i think he still loves me

he is a good boy and i told him
everyday

Daniel Johnston was an underground American singer-songwriter known for his nonconformist stoutheartedness, vibrant and vulnerable use of lyrics, and DIY-esque recordings. Johnston suffered from many mental illnesses in his lifetime, nevertheless, his creativity shone through as a driving force throughout his artistic career. Johnston is more widely known for his album, Hi, How Are You, which received some mainstream recognition after Kurt Cobain was photographed in the 1990s wearing a t-shirt with the album artwork on it. Daniel Johnston passed away on September 11, 2019, at his home in Walker, Texas. This was also the same day my husband told me he hated me for the first time.
I remember the way the grass felt under my skin when he said those words, the way my face flushed and how my vision became slurred, toppled over, motion sickness-like. When someone says something like that to you and you actually feel it with every fiber of their being it does something so irreconcilable to you. I had never told anyone I hated them before and I vowed that day I would never make someone feel the way I felt in that moment as long as I lived.
I’m embarrassed to say that we weren’t even ******* married yet on that day. When I told him about how I couldn’t get that memory out of my head 5 years later, when I was asking him for a divorce, when I finally saw things as they should have been, as they have always been, how incredibly wrong they have been, his immediate response was “you tell me you hate me all the time.”
It’s hard to explain to people when they ask why I stayed so long, as if it really wasn’t so terrible, I could have left at any time and then I think about how he said to my friend when I was moving my things out, how what he’s done “wasn’t really that bad because look at how she’s grown up and how her dad treated her mom I mean, she should be used to it, shouldn’t she?”

She should be used to it.

I won’t go into detail about all of the terrible things, about the way I think about the worst things of myself because of someone else’s repeated phrases and subtleties, how when I close my eyes in the shower, I'm nineteen and think of the bedsheets against my face, how the cotton felt like razor blades and the hands that were supposed to hold my cheeks, the spaces between my fingers, certainly not around my neck, for a split second before he came to, and we had to pretend like everything was okay and we were in love, and it didn't mean anything because it didn't leave a mark and he didn't actually hurt me, and it was the first and only time, and then the drug problem that wasn’t a problem because we don’t talk about problems and problems can’t exist if we don’t talk about them, naturally. You can fill in the blanks.
I don’t want to explore the darkest parts because I’m scared I’ll never come out.
Instead, I’ll say that I lived a life with him that I imagined I would have grown to accept if I hadn’t been able to embrace how totally unknown you are to yourself unless you start looking. Neither of us really tried to figure each other out, let alone ourselves. I can’t fault him for that, but I can hold myself accountable.
I don’t want sympathy like he does when he logs into his social media accounts and posts for his friends and family to watch his very public slow paced downfall. I just want to portray a slice of my truth. I want to be able to log into Facebook and not worry about people reading about my divorce publicly from the man who feels like he needs to clear the air of something he’s so clearly dirtied. I want to wake up feeling proud of myself for finally finding the words to describe the ways in which I have personally tortured myself through the means of another person. I want to be able to let go. When I had to leave, I had to lose everything. All I have is nothing. I am nothing. Sometimes all I feel is nothing. But I’ve learned becoming nothing is better than being someone's object or accessory. I would rather be nothing.

One day when I am far away from this point in my life, when my hair has grown back and I have gained a few pounds, rather than at the rate at which I am losing, I know I’ll be able to look back and forgive myself. I know I can forgive those who have done injustice unto me, however, it is so much harder to forgive myself for such a total abandonment of self.

For now, I'll settle with the sentiment of knowing that I am not (that much of) a *****, I am not a bad partner, I am not a terrible person or a stupid ******* **** who messes everything up and makes everything her fault.

Was everything really ever my fault?

I know I am brave, I am kind, I am empathetic (to a fault, but I’m working on it), I am smart, I am funny (sometimes), I am capable of being independent, I am a gentle morning after a night out, I am a flashbulb capturing a moment of pure elation, a smile in slow motion, I am a still dancing flame that cannot be snuffed out.