As I sit here all by myself,
I think that I have never been less lonely.
Surrounded by strangers on all sides.
Their faces unfamiliar, but comforting somehow.
These are the people who keep me sane,
The complete strangers.
They don’t know my story,
and most probably never will,
yet they are so kind.
Sympathetic glances and a cautiously friendly smiles
can be the most helpful things in the world.
I draw my inspiration from little girl all alone in the crowd.
There is not a single soul here who knows anything about her,
but she does not despair.
She is absolutely in love with every person here.
I envy her ability to love the whole world with such grace.
For she has not yet learned to hate.
I hate that I hate.
The world has made me something that I had hoped to never become.
I wish I could forgive so easily,
but I know that I probably have more in common with these random people
than I will ever have with you.
I love you,
trust me, I do.
But recently, nothing is the same.
The awkward silences are more commonplace,
than actual conversation when we are together.
I worry that we are drifting apart.

She cried for attention
She cried each night for all the attention that she knew she would never get
Each night as she lay in bed the hot, heavy tears would begin to fall
She could hear them talking in the hallway
She knew each night before it started what her parents would talk about
Each night as she lay in bed her parents would talk about her sisters
She just wanted for one night not to hear how perfect her oldest sister was
She wanted just one night to go without hearing how insane her other sister was
Each night she wished and waited in vain for her name to enter the conversation
She never heard it
She never heard her parents talk about her grades, her lack of friends, or her spiraling depression
Each night she wondered when she would tell her parents how big of a mess her life really was
She knew that she probably never would
She understood that her responsibility was to put on a happy face and sit in the corner
Each night she dreamt of a person who would grasp her hand and pull her out of her small space
She loved the idea of it
She grew infatuated with the idea of nothingness
Each night as the house grew steadily quieter, until the floorboards creaked as her other sister snuck out, she contemplated the insignificance of her life
She began to think how she would do it
She started to plan out the different ways she could die
Each night it started with accidental deaths then moved progressively until she was left staring at the dark cloak of suicide
She wondered what her family would do
She was curious who would really miss her when she was no longer there to not be noticed
One night she put her plans into action
They never even noticed until the next day
They cried each night for all the attention that she had never received

He is so beautiful.
I don’t understand how he could turn that perfect face towards me
and see beauty.
He tells me how gorgeous he thinks I am.
I don’t know how to believe him.
When I look at myself all I see
are the craters in my face left by the misfortune of puberty,
those few too many chips and cookies attached to my stomach and thighs,
the hair that never seems to stop growing all over my body,
and my ****** features that aren’t proportional to each other.
But he doesn’t see any of that.
He sees the story behind my scars and the strength it took to move forward.
He wants to know the story behind every pound on my body.
He says he loves to play with my long, hazel hair.
He kisses every part of my face when I say I hate it.
Every time he tells me how beautiful I am,
I want to believe him.
I just don’t know how.
When he kisses me, I hold my breath.
When he touches me, I watch the emotions flicker across his face.
When he says he loves me, I brace myself for impact.
I wait for him to leave like all the others before.
They always leave.
He says he never will,
but they always do and I know he will too.
He hasn’t yet, and these are the moments I live for.
The moments when he and I lie here just staring at the ceiling,
just talking about everything and nothing with the same words.
He is my entire world, but I fear he may just be nothing more than
a shooting star, entering and falling out of my life in mere seconds.

So many conflicting images
society tells us exactly how we should look
but I’m still supposed to love myself exactly as I am.
Supermodel tall and athletic
but still petite enough that no man feels intimidated.
No extra rolls or bulges anywhere in sight
but not skinny enough to appear sickly.
Never cover yourself up too much as to appear prudish
but showing too much skin equates with promiscuity.
Don’t be too in touch with your sexuality else you should be labeled a *****
but don’t deny too many men else you should be labeled a tease.
Never not be aware of your surroundings as danger lurks in every shadow at night
but don’t seem too hyper vigilant unless you should appear paranoid.
Don’t dare wear too much makeup
but never let them see your flaws.
Beauty comes before all else, including pain
but never let them see how you achieve your beauty in danger of being labeled vain or sick.
Girls should be driven to excel
but only in activities deemed suitably feminine.
Society’s views dictate from birth how we should act, feel, and look as women,
but the molds they attempt to force us into are not designed to contained all the magnificence we are born with.

They say you took my innocence.
I say I gave you my heart.
They say you ruined my life.
I say you gave me life.
They say you brainwashed me.
I say you gave me the ability to think for myself.
They say you hurt me.
I say you make me feel better.
They say you will leave me.
I say you will never be out of my heart.

This is slow torture,
driving me absolutely mad.
Minute by minute, second by second
my foothold in sanity slips little by little
until I’m falling down
the rabbit hole that leads to
the dark recesses of my mind.
Landing, crumpled, in the unfriendliest part of myself
I attempt to right myself only
to be tackled to the ground by my own thoughts
never to get back up.

I am so ******* tired.
I feel it in every bone and fiber in my being.
It is the type of exhaustion that settles in your mind and weighs on your body.
Adrenaline kept me going for a while
But now that that's gone what am I supposed to do?
I want to collapse and sink into oblivion.
You won't let me reach the sweet bliss of nothingness.
Why?
Why won't you just let me slip away?
I don't want to be here anymore.
I don't see the point of going through these stupid motions.
I am so done with the *******.
I am already halfway to oblivion.
My eyes require more and more effort to stay open.
Finally, I think it's over.
The blood that flows through my veins seems to congeal.
My mind and thoughts slow drastically.
It takes me two or even three times to comprehend something.
Time condenses so that it feels as though I have lived my entire life in the time it takes for it all to end.
Sending thanks to whatever rules the universe (just in case).
I am so grateful it is all over.

Where was your god when my
grandmother, who loved and feared him
her entire life, lay in a hospital bed
suffering for the last years of her too short life?
Where was your god when I
prayed every night and day for my
father to get sober and for my parents
to stay together?
Where was your god when my
mother struggled to work three jobs and
care for and love her four children on her own
while she continued to go to mass every Sunday?
Where was your god when my
eight year old cousin and best friend
was ripped from existence before I
even understood what life and death are?
Do not tell me that god works in
mysterious and wondrous ways.
There is nothing mysterious or wondrous
about fighting to live every single day
alcoholism that consumes relationships,
a struggling mother doing her best on her own,
or a too short life that should be in the same place I am now.
So do not speak to me of a god who was
never there.

Whenever there is room to wander
my mind always seems to go straight to you.
I wish that there is a way to
stop the onslaught of thoughts about you.
But no matter what road blocks I *****
you come barreling through.
I’m not sure why I expected any different.
You used to bust through my defenses
when you were still here.
But it was never enough for you, was it?
I let you in like I never let
anyone in before.
You took what you wanted
and left the rest for me to put back together.
I was never that great at puzzles, though.
My mind remains a jumbled mess
with most of the pieces missing or broken.
These broken shards stab at my heart
with every thought of you.
I know it should never hurt this bad
because we were never really together
and it has been six months since you ruined what could have been.
I have heard that time heals all wounds
but no wound can heal when I am continually picking at it.

Sometimes I wonder
Do you ever think about me?
Because I can’t seem to get you off my mind.
Do you ever think about what could have been?
I do.
I think about how happy we could have been.
I think about how we would have fought like cats and dogs
just to make up a couple minutes later.
Because I could never really be angry with you.
Do you ever think about what would have happened if we had just listened to our friends?
I do.
I think about what our first real date could have been.
I think about how you would have ordered the truffle fries because they’re your favorite.
but how I would have had to ask for your ketchup.
Because you are always forgetting things.
Do you ever think about what our first (sober) kiss would have been?
I do.
I think about how you would have been too shy and polite to make the first move.
I think about how I would have had to lean in first if I ever wanted it to happen.
however it never would have lasted long enough to suit my fancy.
Because I could kiss you forever.
Do you ever think about what could have been?
I do.
I think about what never was.
I think about how I never told you what I know now I should have.
but I am far too much of a coward to put myself out there like that.
Because I never knew how you felt.
Do you ever wonder if we missed our chance?
I do.

I’ve been debating about writing this all down since hearing about the Aziz Ansari situation. Somehow writing it down makes it feel more like an assault. Like somehow if I never verbalized what happened that night, it didn’t really happen. But it did.

My moment came when I went home with a guy I knew from school (let’s call him Mike). Mike and I had been hooking up for a couple months but I broke it off when I learned that he either had an ex he was still involved with or had a girlfriend. He never gave me the full story and I guess I didn’t really care. It had been about a month since I had seen him and a bunch of people from school were out at a bar. We started talking because, despite how it had ended between us, I didn’t want to not be friends with him. I wanted to prove that I could be a Cool Girl and complete divorce feelings from ***. At one point during the evening I remember I was taking a drink of my beer and he put his hand on the bottom of the cup to make it so that I had to chug the entire thing or risk it spilling all over me. He was trying to get me drunk. After that he continued to ply me with alcohol as we talked. We started talking about classes and professors but then he changed the topic. He started talking, in very explicit terms, about what he wanted to do to my body. He put his hand on my **** and leaned in to kiss me. I offered an excuse that our classmates were around and would see. He said he didn’t care. I said that I did care. He tried again. I allowed him to kiss me but turned my head so he only got the side of my face/neck. I did so not because I wanted to kiss him but because I didn’t want to make a scene in a crowded bar. I was wearing a dress and at several points during the night his hand went under my dress and grabbed my ****. Each time I squirmed out of his grasp. He continued to do it. I told him to stop and he thought I was being coy. I wasn’t. I just didn’t want his hand under my dress. Throughout the night he continued to talk about everything he wanted to do to me. He repeatedly asked me to go home with him. I repeatedly said no. When he asked why I brought up the ex or not so ex girlfriend. He dismissed that. He continued to ask why I wouldn’t go home with him. I told him I was on my period (which wasn’t a lie, but what woman hasn’t used that as an excuse when a man won’t leave her alone about ***?). He said he didn’t care. He wanted me. He wasn’t leaving without me. I agreed to leave with him because I wanted people to stop staring and honestly, because I was drunk. When we got back to his place I asked if his roommates were home. He said it didn’t matter. I responded that if they were I didn’t want to disturb them and would leave. He repeated that it didn’t matter. He said “you’re not going anywhere.” He undressed me and we were hooking up and he kept trying to have *** with me despite my insistence that we couldn’t. He did not stop trying. When I told him I had a ****** in, he told me to take it out. When I told him it would be messy, he said he didn’t care. When I told him I should go home, he said no. Every excuse I offered in an obvious attempt to get out of the situation he ignored. He insisted to the point where I became so uncomfortable my body literally shut down. I had a panic attack because a man that I should have been able to trust and a time that should have been fun caused me so much anxiety that I started hyperventilating and crying. That stopped him. My repeated objections and excuses didn’t. But my body literally shutting down and ceasing to respond to stimuli did. He drove me home and calmed me down but that doesn’t forgive what he did. I wouldn’t have needed him to calm me down if he hadn’t caused the panic attack in the first place. I told my roommate what happened as soon as I got home. While she was indignant that he was so persistent, it wasn’t seen as an assault. I didn’t see it as such then either.

I haven’t really spoken to him since. But I did speak to his girlfriend—well now ex-girlfriend—and told her everything. I still go to school with him. We have a year and a half left and I have to see him every day. The truth is I’m not okay with what happened that night. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been but that shouldn’t be the standard that I have to live by. Women shouldn’t have to be thankful that at least it could have been worse. I read an article once that said that men will always say that they don’t understand women’s way of speaking, but they do. Men understand the different ways women say no—whether body language, offering excuses, or outright saying no—but will choose to ignore it because it is simply easier for their purposes. This is not ok. Before that night I hadn’t had a full on panic attack in years. Since then I’ve had 6 panic attacks in as many months. Men don’t get to do this and get away with it. Men don’t get to pretend that they didn’t understand the situation. Because they do understand; they just don’t care. I don’t know how many times I actually said “no” that night, but I do know that I said it and he ignored me. And now every time I have to see him all of those ugly emotions are brought back to the surface. How he didn’t care enough about me to listen. How he clearly had one objective and didn’t care what he had to do to accomplish that. How I let myself be psychologically manipulated by this man for five months before I finally saw him for what he is. He is a monster. He is a predator. The worst part is, is that he is a self-professed feminist. If that is his brand of feminism, count me out. Recently I saw that he liked me on tinder. Because apparently disrupting my life as much as he already did wasn’t enough for him. He had to twist the knife just a little further in. Because all I ever was to him was a wet place to put his ****. He never cared about me. He used me. He used me until he couldn’t anymore and then he tried to come back for seconds. I will no longer allow myself to be under his thumb. I will no longer allow this man to control me and bend me to his will. I will resist. I will survive. And I will thrive. I will show him that I am not his. But I will not do this for his sake. It is for myself and for every other woman in my life that I will rise and fight and persist. It is for every woman who has come before me who fought so that I could fight. It is for every woman who will come after me so that she has one fewer man in her life intent on dragging her down.

Don't you dare patronize me.
I'm not your stupid little ******* anymore.
You no longer have any claim to my mind or body.
I will never yield to you again.
My intelligence will not be questioned by you.
*******.
******* and your stupid games.
You made me question myself over and over again.
No longer.
No longer will I ever let anyone make me question myself.
I am resolute and firm in my beliefs.
And I believe, NO I know that I am more intelligent than you ever let me know.
You were poison running through my veins.
So I had to open a vein to purge you from my body.
That is why, as I lie dying, I blame you but know I am responsible.

Perfect* is all I've ever wanted
and all that has ever been expected of me.
Before I was even born, everyone just kept
saying what a perfect baby I'd be.

The first words that were ever uttered to
newborn baby me were, "It's a perfect baby girl."
I was perfect on that date because
I wasn't misshapen or deformed and could breathe.

Perfect was what I strived for all through childhood.
I was the perfect student,
except for those times when I wasn't.
Those times when I was less than perfect are the ones I remember.

In high school, things got harder
so I worked harder and longer to achieve the coveted gold star and 100%.
For me those moments were too far and few in between.
Perfect was all I wanted out of life.

The first time I was told I didn't have to be perfect
I was in my freshman year of college and panicking about a project grade.
My mother stated those words as if it were just that simple.
Those words broke the wall holding back the flood of tears and I finally felt *free.

A pop quiz for my father.
First, we can start with the most basics.
What is my middle name?
Not the one that was given to me at birth without your input, but the one I gave myself at my conformation you didn't come to.
What are the names of my four best friends that you have never met and whom I have actively kept away from you?
What piercings do I have and where?
I know you have no idea because you haven't seen my face nor spoken to me since Christmas.

Now, let's move on to the more difficult questions.
No father should have any difficulty answering these.
What profession have I lusted after since I was six?
That could be hard for you because that was the same year you walked away from us.
What am I studying? What is my major?
We've never actually had a conversation about it so I wonder if you will be able to guess it.
What is my birthday?
A basic question for any normal parent, but I wonder if you really know the date because if you do that would make the fact that you didn't acknowledge my 18th birthday hurt even more.

Finally, to the questions I really want answered.
Just do your best and answer honestly.
Was it worth it? Was the alcohol you drowned yourself in worth losing your family?
Why did you insist on no contact for 431 days (I counted) with your children?
Do you regret walking out on us?
Did you ever love us?

She always made so many promises
that she never intended to keep.
Lies spewed from her mouth day and night.
Her lies only begat more lies.
There was never any peace from the untruths she told.
Promise coming from her was a death sentence
to any plans you could possibly have.
All we wanted was to have a little fun,
but she ruined any hope any of us had at a normal life.
Hanging all our hope on a promise made in the forgiving darkness of night,
we just wanted her to follow through once.
Promises made in the quiet of night were always
broken in the harsh light of day.
And how harsh these broken promises were, too.
The unkept plans and dashed hopes feel more like
broken bones and bruised skin than simply reneging on a half-formed promises.
And we never called her out on it.
We merely let her continue on using our egos and morals as her own personal punching bag.
It’s not surprising then,
that she never stopped lying.

There are days when I wish I could say
I believe in a higher power.
I know that on these days,
if I did this I would be
cheating myself of everything I know and love.
I am just so tired of being judged
for what I don’t believe in.
The earliest Christians were atheists, too
according to their Roman counterparts.
So why, if your ancestors were considered atheists,
do you judge me so heavily for not believing in the
one god out of thousands that you believe in?
You say that god gives you hope,
good for you, but I don’t need
some invisible man in the sky to give me hope for a better tomorrow.
I get my hope from the wonder in a child’s eye as they see something they previously thought impossible.
My love for my fellow man comes from the loving house that I grew up in, being taught to believe that deep down everyone is good.
My morals stem from a desire to see everyone have the same opportunities I have known.
So when you judge me and look down on me with derision in your eyes,
I implore you to get down off your high horse and look within yourself
to understand where your love and morals come from.
Do you truly love your fellow man as your god commands?
If yes, I ask you to look at how you treated that girl in high school who did nothing but make your life hell. Did you treat her with all the dignity and respect that you did your best friend?
If you did not, how are you better than me?
Do you actually want everyone to have the same opportunities that have been handed to you since birth?
If you have ever read the bible
(unlike most so-called Christians)
then you will know that god often chose the poor and unlikely to speak for him.
What thought do you give those that have not been born into your same station in life?
Most Christians only think of those “lesser” than them with contempt and hatred
(the very things your god and savior preach against).
Most will say that I am on the direct path to hell because I don’t believe.
If this is the Christian doctrine, how is anyone supposed to believe in a religion
where loving who you love is condemned, women will never be equal to men, and an all loving and just god sends someone straight to burn for all eternity for forsaking something they saw no proof for?
This is not the faith I want any part of.
You call me atheist for not believing in any god.
I call you mostly atheist for only believing in one.
At least I do things 100%.

Why am I so sad all the time?
It creeps up on me at the strangest times.
I could be just sitting in bed,
and then two minutes later I’m posed with the razor at my wrist.
It comes on me like a creature in the night;
I never see it approach, but as soon as I feel it,
I think “How could it have been anything else?”
I never know why it happens when it does,
I only ever know when I’m in the middle of the storm.
Except the storm is only raging in my head.
It’s so hard to ask for a life preserver when no one can see you’re drowning.
I try so hard to be a normal one.
Somehow, it always shines through the cracks,
then everyone gets to see the madness within me.
They all say I need help,
but I need them to hear that the voices screaming in my head are their own.
I don’t think any of them truly understand
what it’s like having voices yell the most heinous things at me all day.
But the worst part isn’t what the voices say,
those are my own words anyway,
no the worst part it that the voices are those of my should-be champions;
my best friends, my sisters, my brother, my father, and my mother.
Their imaginary words cut deeper than the blades
because I always wonder if these are the things they think about me in their own heads.
Do they think that I’m as fat as they tell me in my head?
Do they see every flaw in my face as I do?
Do they really disregard me as useless as I know I am?
Do they want me dead like I do?

Is it really possible for one
person to contain that much joy?
Her smile is one that always
reaches and fills her eyes with warmth
as only true happiness can.
This is such a contrast to
my own eyes that reflect
as much emotion as those of a dead fish.
It's no wonder that most people
either fear or hate me, thinking
that the lack of emotion in my eyes
means that I do not like them.
"No!" I want to shout at them,
"I am not as cold or empty as you think I am."
I simply do not understand how to
show any other emotion besides
sadness through my eyes.
Thus I choose for them to remain vacant.
But her eyes contain every emotion I
have ever heard of
and some I know not the names of.
If eyes truly are the windows to the soul,
then she has the most beautiful soul
I have ever seen.