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Jordan Frances Oct 2014
I am in a good place
But will it stay for good?
If I can merely get through the winter
I know things will be okay
In the long run.
After all
Cold weather freezes previously broken hearts
Until they crack and like glass
They shatter.
But I will keep hope's beacon
In my peripheral vision
As it is the only thing I continue to hold onto.
Can you hold me through these frigid months?
If you can keep me warm
Then my good place will forever exist
In your arms.
Jordan Frances Oct 2014
They say actions speak louder than words
But thoughts speak louder than actions.
Frankly, they are the ones screaming at the top of their lungs
With ghastly shrieks that pierce through the membrane of my mind
Filling it with awful ideas and even worse plans.
Thoughts do not have to be socially acceptable
As actions do.
For example,
I can consider
Sending myself off the George Washington bridge
And wonder if anyone would bother saving me.
I can plan my own funeral in my head
And ponder if anyone would even cry.
However,
I cannot attempt any of those things without intervention.
I cannot say such things without offending or concerning others.
Thoughts like these can also be unconscious
And frequently, they are.
They hurt, bang, and cause clutter in my head
But still, I know I will be okay
Because suicidal thoughts
Do not constitute
Suicidal actions.
Jordan Frances Oct 2014
I always wanted to be pretty.
Growing up
When some other little girls wanted to be
Princesses and rock stars and doctors
I just wanted to be something worth looking at.
Maybe its because I was always awkward
And no one ever let me forget it.
My dad would never drop the fact
That I was bigger than the average Jane Doe
And as my sister got older,
She lost a lot of her baby weight
While I just put on more.
Then on TV
I always saw these plus sized girls who were gorgeous
In the ****** region
Even if they had a little extra meat on their bones.
I would analyze myself in the mirror for hours
Wondering why it seemed
I had nothing to offer the world.
Wondering why at the time when my friends were getting boyfriends
Boys were making fun of me.
Wondering why when males would bend over backwards for my peers
They would only be interested in abusing my insecure body.
I never understood
Why I got graced with the "ugly gene."
No one even tried to lie to me
And tell me I was attractive.
So I got to thinking
What else do I have to offer?
And I realized how twisted the world is
Because as a little girl
Since before I can remember
I have been told that how I look
Is more important than who I am.
And how I felt about my physical appearance
Directly influenced how I felt about my internal qualities.
I stopped fearing that I would not look good enough
And started to fear that I was not strong enough to handle
This world and all its messages.
Now, because I have grown
I have nothing to fear
But strength itself.
Jordan Frances Oct 2014
Most people hear about it on the news and they think "what a shame, how sad." They think it is some creepy dark stranger on the street of a major city who captures a young girl whose parents are too naive or busy or negligent to walk her home from school. That is when she is eight. When the girl is 25 and stumbling out of a bar right into the arms of some awful man who is out to prey on her trembling hands and glassy eyes then suddenly, the same breed of creep who attacked the little girl is no creep at all but, in fact, just an ordinary man. It is her fault, after all, what did she expect after consuming enough alcohol to drown a small child or wearing a skirt that clearly gives him permission to force himself onto her unprotected and unassuming body as she lay there lifeless, either passed out or staring up at him helplessly from below? Well, what they don't tell you about ****** assault is that usually it is not a strange character at a club or on a street corner but someone who is in your life, has gained your trust and has taken it and pitched it out an open window the second he lures you into his dark, ruthless eyes. They brush it under the rug of society and leave out the details that it does not usually take place in an abandoned warehouse or on concrete but rather in a bedroom or a hallway in your workplace or school that you have walked through comfortably with him so many times before and now you can barely approach the scene of the crime without having the stench climb up your nostrils and paralyze your body until the feeling nearly sends you to the floor. They fail to admit that the victim -- who is not truly a victim at all because society smacks that label right onto her forehead, implying that the survivor is weak and the attacker won whatever sick game he was playing-- frequently wishes that she had not survived so she would not have to grapple with the pain of living with this secret and seeing his face every day, knowing that should she say a word he has an arsenal of evidence against her and she has none to back her story. They don't know that she knows in the back if her mind that she does not deserve what he did to her but in her eyes, she froze and let him use and abuse her, so how could she not owe it to this man who extracted every bit of joy from her soul and gutted every bit of life from her being? He asked me why I am so sad after he apologized to me, but did he forget the harassing texts he sent me when I would not sleep with him or the way I froze when he made me do other things?  No.  And no, the public does not hear that side of the story that so desperately needs to explode and immerse every area of society that permits **** culture rather than attempts to bring it to a screaming halt. How can society condemn assault victims and coddle assaulters after a guilty verdict is reached? As misogyny prevails, I am asked why I let this happen, told to just get over it, and questioned as to why I am so pessimistic. I am not an optimist, nor a pessimist: I am dead inside after being murdered in a culture that insists on calling it suicide.
Inspired by the one and only Fox News
Jordan Frances Oct 2014
Seeing you when you were broken
Strengthened me.
Jordan Frances Oct 2014
Forgiving your abuser
Is never easy to do.
You remember the way
He pulled your hair back out of your face
He touched your childlike waist
As well as other parts of you.
He acted like you were his own personal plaything
While in reality you were innocent.
Then, the hell that ensued afterwards
Could have made even the strongest person
Break
Into a thousand little pieces
Each one sharper than the former.
And now,
I'm supposed to forgive you?
As much as I sometimes wanted to do just that
I could not let go of the shame and anger
You added to my life.
And then,
Every time I would go to camp or church
And hear a sermon on forgiveness
I would be overcome with guilt.
I know I should let it go
But a part of my heart is still reeling from it.
Until I can stop replaying that event in my mind
I must focus on me
Not you.
However,
I have started moving on.
Therefore, maybe in due time
I will be able to say
*I forgive you.
Jordan Frances Oct 2014
My secret
Will it jump out of me
Before I can catch it with cupped hands
And rock it back to sleep?
All I want to do
Is tell them
Tell everyone I love
Everyone who I so desperately want to accept me
That I like girls
And I like boys
But somehow the two seem to
Invalidate each other.
I will be ostracized in the conservative community
Of my small republican county
As well as in my very Presbyterian church and home.
And yet,
I would not be accepted fully among the queer community.
Sometimes I wonder
Why don't I just make my life easier
And ignore my feelings for girls?
I wish it was truly that easy.
It struggles and squirms in my body
As if to scream
"Get me out of here!"
If only coming out
Was actually an option.
But at this current moment
In my household
In my school
It is not.
So I guess I will continue to be
Bisexual, pansexual
Whatever the hell I am
In the comforts of my bedroom.
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