I appear to be a wayward daughter,
already headed towards the slaughter.

My misguided acts of intimacy
Have been misinterpreted as acts of
Defiance and greed without intricacy,
Never thought of as a girl’s search for love.

I was focused on my broken parts.
I looked to love as a form of repair.
That is exactly when the soul departs.
Soulless, I let myself into their snare.

That wasn’t truly me who gave it up.
I am left with more damage than before.
Still worth more than an abusive hookup.
They will wreak havoc but I’m still the *****.

The man always claims that I am triggered.
But there’s some things he’s left unconsidered.

Sure, I am triggered. And rightfully so.
When a man can use his pinkie to use
parts of me I’ll never get back, and throw
me to a cycle of escaping abuse.

Rightfully so when a man can tell me
my experiences are not enough
to really warrant my ptsd.
When they can tell me my life’s not tough.

Rightfully so when a man claims to know
the true inner workings of the woman,
when he’s planted the seeds we’ve seen him sow
And refused to reap, blaming us for sin.

When a woman feels passionate about
what hurts her, what’s unfair, what pains her heart,
when she wants to disprove the hate you spout,
your reaction is what sets you apart.

they’re the reason when I’m truly triggered,
the light inside me has always flickered.

At this point I’m not sure who I’m forgiving;
if it’s me or them. But I’m the ones who’s living
with the scars that they drew on my mind.
The ones that prevent me from talking right
The ones that left me with fragments I’ll never bind
The ones that keep me from ever seeing the light.
Sometimes I believe I brought this on myself,
I knew I was looking in the wrong place,
But I’d put my pride upon the shelf.
The moment they wrapped me in lust and lace,
I thought I was feeling real, pure love.
How could I ever be so ******* dumb?
My dark haze led me to do things I never would’ve.
To the abuse and decay, I was numb

I have spent my weekend
being less than human
in horizontal positions.
I have spent my weekend
empty and alone,
weeping hard
but only the house could hear it.
I have spent my weekend
mourning the person I was,
how full she was
how vibrant and strong she was.
I have spent my weekend
as nothing more than
a useless blank mass of flesh.
All I ask is that you
please, keep your flowers
from my face.

do you remember when you were 16?
when you started down the 9 month long, deep, and dark hallway?
with the mirrors and the countless black doors with hopeful golden knobs?
Or how comfortable in your claustrophobia you became?
Do you remember how you didn’t recognize your own reflection?
Or how you felt every time you opened a new black door to a new dark abyss of a grown man?
and how you thought an abyss could fill your empty heart?

do you remember the bittersweet helplessness every time the abyss wrapped its fingers around your throat?
and how you thought that the feeling was making you whole again?
And how when their fingers slid down between your legs, maring your thighs,
you felt disgustingly important?
do you remember the room?
The one where you gave the first abyss your youth under false pretenses?
do you remember how the color of the walls reminded you of your nana’s sweet potatoes,
or maybe the color of your parents’ bed sheets that used to swaddle you in serenity?
Do you remember how the way the abyss spat words
like “sweet” “tight” and “young” so sharply that they stitched your skin into the comforter?
and how the gossamer motel pillow cradled your sick head,
covering your ears and almost seemed to whisper “this is the beginning of the end”?
do you remember the guilt and shame you left that room with?
How empty your body felt, how vacant your mind was?
How hollow your body sounded once it hit the ground?

I am going to set fire to every motel 6.
The way that what happened there set fire to my brain.
Because that fire is still burning
and the smoke constantly drips down my throat.

The few moments I remember from when my eyes were closed,
my face pressed into the dingy comforter
are constantly reeling in my mind,
like videos on super 8 that make your mouth taste like bleach
and I’m always praying that the fire will melt the film
but it never does.

In the videos I see The First One and his orange hair.
I remember the way that its ginger began to drip
into every scratch and every cut he made on me.
but maybe the burning felt better than the initial puncture.

In the videos, I see the pads of his fingertips skating over my skin.
I remember feeling the sparks.
Not the good kind of sparks,
but the sinful ones.
It felt like a dream at first,
to finally have someone care enough to touch me.

I see the flickers of the Carmel Haired’s rented Volkswagen.
and I see the smoke signals that
the Florida license plate set off in my head.
like the receding hairline wasn’t enough
like the GoLo parking lot wasn’t enough
like watching my high school shrink in the rear view mirror wasn’t enough.
I’ll never feel smaller than I did, laid on the bed
with him towering over me.

I am waiting for the day that I can
reach into my head and wreck that super 8 projector.
I want to be able to
relocate the wildfire in my head to my heart.
I want to be able to feel
the projector crush under my combat boots.
I want to feel like Debbie Harry.
I want to feel like Lilly.

I want to use the wildfire to destroy every motel 6
I don’t want any other teenaged girl
to feel the way I did,
only feeling worthy when held to a motel mattress
by an older man’s hand.

my words are like apple juice.
simple and reminiscent of a small child.
they drip down my chin,
flood my chest,
and make the floors sticky.
no one likes a mess

they smell sweet and interesting
but when you finally
get them in your mouth,
they’re bland
they don’t taste as good as they should.
no one likes that,
but it’s okay because I don’t either.

all I’ve ever wanted was
rosé flowing from my mouth,
my fingertips,
its intoxicating scent drawing
Instagram teenagers and publishers
into my spell.
everyone would want to taste
and maybe
my words would mean something to someone

but I’m cursed with apple juice words
forming rambling episodes
on notebook paper
that no one would want to read