the stars were trying
your eyes tonight,
and art is trying
to make someone
the stars and art
were so convincing
that it made me vow
to cherish you
like you are
the most expensive
piece of art
and the most
that ever existed.
I hate this. The feeling of complete incompleteness when I leave him that tends to ambush me moments after I leave his house. As if I had lost a limb, a leg if you will. Yes, I can find substitutes. I can find a prosthetic, but it's not the same. I will always feel the pain of losing that leg. I will always slightly limp, the new one does not work as well as the original. He is a part of me.
So when I leave, I spend hours and maybe even days locked in my room. I wear his sweaters day and night, his smell clinging to the fibers. I read the books he gives me, and sometimes it feels like we're reading it together. I listen to the playlist he sent me and I swear I can hear him singing.
And I know I'll see him again. But what am I to do in the meantime while bleeding out?
I sit in my seventh grade health class
*** ed freshman year
My twelfth grade english class
And they talk about ****.
They talk about it like it's an idea
A textbook definition
A rare shadow of society
That doesn't happen to real people
At least not people you know.
They act like there is only one way it happens
It's either a creepy forty year-old man who comes into your bedroom uninvited
Over and over again.
Or, as you grow up,
A boyfriend or date with whom you are, in their opinion,
'Stupid' enough to get drunk with
Passed out on a bed
Your clothes are like weights that anchor your heavy soul.
Maybe my form of abuse was different
As I was in his bed
Which felt more like a coffin full of spiders
As spirits plucked every last bit of life from me
Like guitar strings.
He was not a crusty old man with years of experience molesting children
He was my beloved fourteen year-old cousin
Who had struggled with Aspbergers his whole life.
I had looked up to him regardless.
How could I hate someone who was sick?
How could I hate someone who may or may not have
Understood the severity of what he was doing?
He only molested me once
But it molded my impressionable mind
Like silly putty
From then on I only fell for men
Who had bloodstained hands
And crooked smiles.
It is no wonder that at sixteen
Even after I had dealt with the aftermath of his hurricane
Another boy took advantage of me
And left me seldom sleeping.
It is no wonder that I did not recognize his abuse right away
Or that even though I knew he had wronged me
I would not call it assault.
It is no wonder that instead of press charges or tell my parents
I chose to avoid it
Confiding in my therapist only because I was backed into a corner
Treading quicksand all the while.
The harder you fight, the faster you sink.
After I told about my molestation at fourteen
My parents, although they were extremely supportive,
Told me to keep it quiet
Not to tell everyone.
Their intentions were exceptional
But they made me believe I had something to be ashamed of
When I realized this wasn't the case
I screamed at the top of my lungs
Shouted across the valleys
I was going to be heard
And when I joined forced with others who
Had dealt with similar events
Our ashes piled together
Created a smoke signal so vibrant, so immense
That people had to intentionally avert their eyes in order not to notice it.
We are not the bruises of society
For you to poke and **** at
To see how much our wounds hurt.
We are not for your corrupt education system
That you can choose to use for your campaign
Just when our stories are marketable.
These stories do not all look the same
Different font styles.
My story is mine
And I do not get to pick and choose
Take my assault off the shelf just when it looks pristine and proper
I live with this everyday
And just as burn victims still have marks that remind them
Of the incident
I still have pieces of me
That struggle with this event on a daily basis.
But I choose to use it in a way that makes me whole.
I cannot change the story
But I can change the ending
And I accept the fact that it will never be a porcelain doll
But it is my battle scar to show as I please
I am a survivor
That is my bragging right
And no one else's shame.
Why don't people write poetry
when they are happy?
Because you don't need to digest happiness,
you just let it wash over you.
What would happen if, instead,
happiness through words
and poured struggle and sorrow
onto our heads
so it dripped down our chins
and leaked in our minds
and slid down our shoulders
and made a puddle of tears at our feet?
Our books would be filled with joy
that generations could read
for years to come.
And they wouldn't think us a boring lot,
but find smiles
in our words,
in our memories.
So the ground would be covered sadness...
it would water the plants,
and strengthen our souls,
and nourish our minds,
and that wouldn't be so bad
Because when it's all said and done...
you can step out of a puddle.
But if a pen is a sword
and the words are it's ink
I'd much prefer those words
to be loved.
the train tracks are empty. I don't know how often one comes. I'd like to say that I've been holding myself together with twine and bits of soil and concrete. I'm barefoot and I've found an array of glass bottles littered over the edges of the track.
All I need is a little warmth which is odd considering it's in the middle of summer and the scorching rays are burning my skin. Everything else seems illegible compared to your eyes and nothing looks real anymore.
I want you to know that when a train comes barreling through these tracks, I will face it with as much faith as I can bear.
I once promised you that I would try and I am trying but I can't cough out the words lodged in my throat because, I think, I've kept them there for too long now. I did promise you that I would try but does it really matter all that much now?
I can hear the train coming - this looks like a nice spot to settle.
I'm sorry I'm not strong enough to do this on my own. I'm sorry that I'm not strong enough to look past the lost tenderness that used to grace your eyes.
It's ridiculous really, because I haven't met you yet and there's still an ache in my chestfrom when you left.
I don't know how to do this without you. I don't know how to use the memories of your lack of existence to help myself move from this spot.
I can see the lights approaching.
Please understand. Please understand that I had to do this. Please understand that I had to do this for the sake of my sanity and I can't imagine moving away from these train tracks just to wake up tomorrow to remember that I do not know what it feels like to have loved and be loved by the ghost of you.
Please, I beg of you, forgive me for my past transgressions and forgive me for not being able to quell the pain of never knowing you.
I can hear it now. I can hear the pistons and the rumble of the tracks.
I'll take my leave.
And maybe, if I'm lucky, you'll never realize I was here in the first place.
I actually cried while writing this.