I keep sleep scarce these days
Like a broach pressed against my chest.
It's walls collapse upon my lungs
Causing me to gasp with tight, choppy breaths.
Like the tide crashing up against my body
It tempts me
And then drifts back out to sea.
Nightmares of courtrooms and funerals plague my mind
His hands ascending in the dark
His face nonexistent
His heart similar to his face.
He is there
And then suddenly
He is not
He is a mirage
And I am in the desert
Faking my way through these delusions.
So I try to keep myself steady
By slumbering in small intervals.
Self-induced insomnia has never tasted so good
Cigarettes and coffee are my stimulants
Keeping my brain running
Like shoes hitting hot pavement
Until it's soft face meets the asphalt
And I can no longer continue.
So I stay there, knees ****** like the tattered rags of my soul
But I continue to tell myself that my bullet wounds are merely scratches
Maybe minimizing the monsters in my head will make then vanish
Maybe deflecting from the demons in my soul will make them scatter
Maybe telling myself that these tyrants are not here will make them go away
So I retreat once again
As I child wishes to shrink back into it's mothers womb
Into the night
Into the brokenness
Into the dark.

Some people define 'feministing' as
"Girl, you crazy."
"You really think you can change the world?"
"Tough ****."
Or
"Nobody's ever gonna love you"
"Because of your fat body and fatter mouth."
Well, contrary to your opinion
I am fighting to be more than just a body and mouth.
A body because men do not have the right
To use it as their own personal welcome mat
And a mouth because I refuse to swallow them up
To be an opening in which they find their home.
My mouth is for more than pleasing a man
My body is for more than pleasing his eyes.
'Feministing' is not me being hotheaded
Or hating all men
No, I hate the men who feel they are entitled to use me
Who feel they can retreat into my breast
Into my womb
As if to mimic their mother's
Just because I came out a woman.
I hate the men who derogatorily call women
*****, *******, prudes
Just because they have too much ***
Or refuse to have it with a particular person.
Just because you came out a woman
Don't you know that it is your sole purpose
To give up autonomy over your own body?
Your own body is no longer your own
It is a maple tree that lovers carve their names into
He scratched his name into your bark
Labeling you as his
Labeling you as the government's
Labeling you as someone else's
Because you, a little girl
A helpless woman
Cannot be trusted to know yourself well enough
To own yourself.
I hate the society that instructs little boys to be entitled
And teaches little girls that
Just because you have a body
Just because you are a woman
You are asking for it
Your cleavage is a stamp that says you want him
And should you say the word "no"
You are inherently leading him on.
Should you say "yes"
You are a disgrace
A pariah
An outcast.
You, girl
Should not be ******
You, child
Should not be independent
You, woman
Should not be.
How can I be?
We, women
Do not have the option
Our voices are lost in the static noise around us
We cannot live
Because we are systematically shut down
When we try to be who we are.
So, next time you complain about 'feministing'
Give me a feasible alternative
About how to be who I am.

My dad always told us things would be alright
He kept us in the dark for our childhood
Assuming his societal role as the protector
Covering things up with the blanket of his knowledge.

That is until
My grandpa went into open season, hunting down two consecutive strokes
Loaded gun ready to fire, cocked courageously on his collarbone
But not quickly enough to beat the savage beasts to the ****.
The condition destroyed chunks of his brain
Leaving him unable to breathe or talk
Which is the first time I've seen him speechless.

As I stood next to your urn
Imagining the dust of all your accomplishments, quirks, dreams
Tucked away in a perfectly carved mahogany box
Realizing for the first time that death was imminent
But still seeing how many metaphors I could come up with for this situation
That's deflection.

When I tell you I was molested for the first time
Breaking my teeth and nails
On each and every word that cuts bone like it is bread
And explaining to you that I help other people
But sparing you the details that make my body look crumpled and sickly
That's deflection.

As I discuss situations that have my knees ****** and scraped
That turn my hazel eyes to deep grays and black
That cause my systematic jaw to clench at the thought of my eating disorder
And others must pry it open with a crowbar
Yet, I still tell them that I am over it
So I do not have to explain her constant chokehold on me
That's deflection.

Now that my Pop Pop is ill
And Daddy, I try to be direct with you
"Is he going to be okay?"
Your response is always
"Well, he's not on his deathbed."
That does not mean okay to me
My grandpa was not on his deathbed until 20 hours after his stroke
But my grandma considered him dead at that moment
6:21 PM, Monday, March 24th, 2014
That's deflection.

I use the unknown element to distract people and myself
From the crippling fear that welds my heart with fire and metal
This anxiety is hellish
And panic attacks are called attacks for a reason
Because you can never win while in the midst of one.
But still I tell myself
And my father tells me as well
"You don't know for sure yet."
"Don't make problems out of nothing."
So I discount the pain that is a cavity within my chest
Rotting my body away with every passing second.
That's decomposition
That's a parasite
That's deflection.

Why do tears sparkle in the light?
So maybe we can see
The beauty in our suffering.

To my ex-lover who told me I'd be much more beautiful if I wasn't so heavy
You'd be much more pleasant if you weren't so ignorant.
I gave myself to you as I stripped every layer of my conscience off
Lying out in front of you
You were the first person I let see my stomach
To run your hands over each scar on my body
That map out my childhood
One for the first time I dieted at eight years old
One for the first time my father ridiculed me for my weight in public
One for the man who touched me prematurely
Causing me to bleed from the inside out
Until my body was submerged in crimson
And I long to feel something on the inside again
Whether it be feathers or needles.
He taught me to settle for men like you
Because with you, I can feel daggers.
As you touched my *******,
They amazed you
Why are the sacks of fat and tissue and fluid on my chest
So much different than the cushion around my midsection?
I should not be seen as parts of a whole
As threads that can be manipulated into something more pleasing to the eye
I am an entire person
And my womanhood is not for industry
For foreplay
A *** toy fit to meet the needs of every man who lays his hands on me.
The glimmer in your eye during *** made me shutter
And maybe that's why I turned away last time
Because that shine was selfishness
All you saw me as was your pin cushion
That you could stick knives in
And I would be willing
You could put all your aesthetic expectations into me
And I would absorb them without a fight.
You must not know me at all
I have gasoline in my mouth
And when you tell me to sit down and shut up
It is the flame ignited.
Just as they say I'm loud in bed
Maybe the reason is that too many men
Have tried to shove cotton down my throat
Failing to drown me out
Telling me my voice is merely static
Telling me I am anything but beautiful
Well, I hear beauty is in they eye of the beholder
And my eyes are the only ones that matter.

When I was fourteen,
My father told me I never had to see the man who molested me again.
For a long time, I accepted this as gospel
Avoidance covered my fingertips
I could touch it
But now,
It's something seemingly intangible.
It was an idea that gave false security to the mind
Allowed the senses to relax
And, in a sense,
Gave you permission to believe this didn't happen.
Logically, you know the facts are all there on a silver platter
The horrible details of his brand of abuse
Are spread out on a plate
But since you do not have to see him
The lustrous metal lid covers these items
They are there, but they're not.
They happened, but I do not really have to deal with them.
It is like an optical illusion that I am perfectly happy to view at face value
I do not want to deal with the disaster he put me through
Thinking of him as an idea is easier
Recognizing him as a person is hard.
If you get to close to it,
It burns the first layer of skin off.
I do not want to feel his fire
Of the mess he left behind.
But now,
Seeing him is inevitable
As if watching my grandfather deteriorate within the shell that is his skin
Is not painful enough
I get the pleasure of enduring these blisters and burns
All over the palms of my hands
The soles of my feet
It is not fair that he gets the walk away stainless
And I am covered in blood and scars
While treading through a pool of sweat.
So when daddy said I would not have to see him again
He did not consider that my Pop pop would get ill
I wish I could have his idealistic intentions
Be my reality.
But when I see my abuser again,
I will cover up my scars with pride.
I will stand with my back arched as I tremble in my shoes
He has already taken enough from me
And I will not give him the satisfaction
Of seeing the destruction he left behind.

For my Pop Pop
I want to see you.
Even in your frailty
As your bones shake in the gentle wind like chimes
I want to be close to you.
Your flesh is nearly transparent
The veins in your face and the thinning of your silver hair
Make you look much older than the 71 years
That have left rings on your skin.
Some say you were a poor father
And an even poorer husband.
You never got along with my aunt
Your daughter
Your beam of light shining through the sidewalk cracks
And she began to shine for other people
But her brightness reflected off of ice
And I know her coldness is not merely human nature.
Pop Pop, why were you always so kind
To my sister and me?
It's like we thawed your hardened spirit
So we could see the softness lying underneath.
Funny how it's just natural
For a three year-old and a newborn to make a grown man crumble.
I don't want to think about the fact that you may never walk again
Because your disease can never steal where we've been
Although, perhaps mundane
Steak-and-Shake, our rented condo,
And plenty of barbecue spare rib joints later
All meant the world to me.
I wish I could say something other than
The last time I saw you was on my sixteenth birthday.
It's been over a year since you stayed in the Sunshine State
And I traveled home to my garden
Pop Pop, it was hard as the years went by
The only way we got to know you was through $20 gift certificates
And the static on the other end of the telephone
On birthdays and holidays.
I wish I had called you more
Because now it's hard for you to speak.
Daddy said you had a shotgun subtlety when you spoke
"How bout them Phillies?"
"Oh....the cancer spread."
"Have you been to a game in a while?"
Pop pop, now I'm the one who's shotgun subtle
"How's the hospital food?"
I'm scared I won't get to see you
"How are you feeling?"
I'm scared you won't get better
I love you, Pop.
*I'm scared.

i.
Nine years old
I remembered hands but no face
I knew something had happened to me
But it felt dreamlike
More like a nightmare.
Ten years old
I saw the contour of a body attached to those hands
Same dream, reoccurring.
But this couldn't be real.

ii.
"They won't understand you if you don't have proof"
"And if they don't understand you,"
"It didn't happen."
Lies that a fourteen year-old is conditioned to believe
I had come to identify the haunting silhouette in my mind
But could it have been my mind playing tricks?
My brain had always been a vindictive magician
Playing with my memory like a deck of cards
Making my sanity disappear in thin air.

iii.
People start asking questions
When you run away
What are you running from?
When a kitchen knife leaves train tracks on your wrists
So everyone knows where you have been
Why are you cutting yourself?
When a shot of gin followed by a Molotov cocktail of pills
Chases the tears you swallow
What are you trying to forget?
I am not trying to forget anything
I am trying to convince myself that my memories are accurate.

iv.
You finally talk.
But your distrust for your own representations of the event
Are only just beginning.
Nightmares continue to slam you into brick walls as you sleep
Your heart bursts like a balloon
One too many pregnancy scares
One too many hospital beds later
And you still can't believe this happened.

v.
Waking up screaming as knives force themselves down your throat
Never tasted so good.
What have I done to deserve this?
Cuts your lips
All you want to do is rip the scab off
Let the wound's open mouth swallow you whole.

vi.
I am nothing but a passenger
In the first steps of my recovery.
This is forced
Like they forced medication down the funnel of my mouth for eleven months
After I made threats
About throwing myself off a bridge.
Like eleven months worth of chemicals
Can balance me out?

vii.
Once I took control
Of my PTSD
Of my depression
Of my struggles with memory
I couldn't hide the fact that this had bombarded me
Everything was vivid
(That's what PTSD does to you)
So it became clear that this couldn't be a dream.
Your smell permeated my skin and my nostrils
To the point of vomiting.
How could this not be real?

viii.
I now own your mistakes
Like shackles upon my feet.
When I stand in the mirror I still see your face
My skin is saturated in your name
When I think of what you did to me
I want to reach up and rip your touch
Your mark
Out of my body
I want to clean every area you defiled
My body is a sacred temple
And you can pick your things up and leave.

ix.*
Because of you
My memory was warped
My sanctity was twisted
My sense of reality was distorted.
Because of me
I got all those things back and more.
Thank you for helping me find my own sanction
And helping me remember my childhood.

When you tell someone with an eating disorder that they are fat,
We will not hear you right away.
We are far too busy warding off our own voices
Cupping our ears to block out the screams
Telling us vile things, disgusting things
About how we look, how we are.

When you tell someone with an eating disorder that they are fat,
You make a choice to further advance this gnawing disease
Because days later, what you said begins to sink in.
It tears our flesh apart with knives
Leaving the splinters of bones exposed
Leaving the bloodstains on the carpet
Leaving us empty, messy.

When you tell someone with an eating disorder that they are fat,
Your words are not harmless.
They permeate my pores
Submerge my body in deep pools of sweat
I no longer have control over my thoughts
Your words are triggers
They are a loaded gun pointed at my temple
And as the bullet penetrates the surface of my skin
I give in, solemnly throwing my hands in the air.

When you tell someone recovering from an eating disorder that they are fat,
You allow the illness to take control.
It still ebbs and flows in waves
Pulling us out and tempting our unconscious desires
Then leaving us gasping.
This phrase gives immense power to the tide
And these words allow it to drown us.

When you tell someone recovering from an eating disorder that they are fat,
That is not the adjective we hear
We hear "worthless," "ugly," "horrible," "better off dead"
Because "fat" is still equated with those things in our minds.
The sickness is still a little monster who hides in the crevices of our brains
She is always there and the more your environment and the people in it feed her
The more aggressive she becomes.

When you tell someone who has recovered from an eating disorder that they are fat,
Do not believe the lie that we are okay with it.
I still have triggers that send me spinning out of control
And steadying myself is incredibly painful.
It is an acquired skill
But just because I have it in my toolbox of coping mechanisms
Does not mean it is easily accessible.

When you tell someone who has recovered from an eating disorder that they are fat,
Their body still feels its effects
Like an electric fence
Sending fields of shocks to each and every corner of my being.
Sadly, I have scars all over my body
I have etched that word on my skin
And etched the names of the people who said it
In my bones.
The walls of my body know who you are.

When you tell someone who has recovered from an eating disorder that they are fat,
We beg you to
Please, be careful with your words
They are not harmless
They are not inane.
We have overcome a vice
An addiction
A disease.
Please try to be proud of us
Rather than rip our progress
Right out of our hands.

Happiness is
                     the shards of glass piercing     my feet as I walk on them.
          your ******* story
                  painted with poison
injected with ink
so your name will forever             dance across my skin
                                                        ratt­le in my bones
                                                        lin­e my longing lips.
Happiness is
                         forgetting who I am for a moment
              then remembering I never was
You make me forget the
               crushed seashells in my palms
            demons hiding behind my smile
               turbulence in my brain, 
     ready to sputter out of control
Happiness is
            the way you take control of this airplane
    steady me out
           smooth it over
make me angry
Happiness is
           socially acceptable madness.
            That's why I am so
madly in love with you
          and that's perfectly fine with me.

Dear customers,
I had no idea my name was
Dear,  honey,  baby
Or hey, you
Thank you for informing and dehumanizing me
By giving me these new titles which you deem appropriate
Just because I am a woman
Or a person who is serving the likes of you.

Dear customers,
Holiday season is supposed to be joyous
Just because you feel you can indulge
Doesn't mean you need to order everything on the menu
I mean hey, I get it
Who am I to judge your life choices?
After all, I work in fast food
So that must mean I am lazy and incompetent
Right?

Dear customers,
Specifically, teenage boys.
I don't quite know who you're trying to impress
But none of us find it funny when you
Scream into the drive thru speaker.
Or make a mess of our lobby
Or order $40 worth your weight in beef
And deep-fried delicacies
Fifteen minutes before closing time.

Dear customers,
The next time you throw money at me
Your hand comes with it.
I am not a piggy bank with a slit in my side
Nor am I a fountain for you to toss your spare change into.
You can take the extra half a second to place your fee into my hand
Thank you.

Dear customers,
Here's the section where I discuss the
****** old men who hit on me.
Some classic charmer's that sent me head over heals are
"Your voice is so ****, you should be a ******* operator"
-Anonymous *******, about 45
And
"Why don't you lean over the counter and let me spank you"
-Secret **** bag, closer to 50
That is just scratching the surface
But you get the idea.

Dear customers,
The answer to
"How are you today?"
Is not
"I'll take a number three"
With a scowl on your face.
However, it is also not
"Oh well my sister's dog died"
"And my chiropractor's daughter's son has a doctor's appointment today"
"Oh, and did you see the medal my grandson won?"
Why can no one ever answer a simple
"Lovely, thanks, and you?"

Dear customers,
Sorry to burst your egotistical bubbles
But you are not always right.

Dear customers,
Lastly,
If I clearly have one foot out the door
It does not mean ask me for something.
I am no longer indebted to you.
I'm out.
Goodbye.

I used to pine for you.
Your acid flesh saturating my hair
Your naked crystal caressing my skin
And when I was scared
I would remember how it felt when
Your tide would gently and forcefully pull me out
How the twisted tree trunks of your love wrapped their branches around me
And I would think of you in rhymes that did not make sense
Prayers that made it seem like I believed in something
Maybe you were my God
Because part of me almost wanted to be impregnated with your love child
At one point or another
So maybe it would make you care.
That part of me disintegrated pretty quickly
As your words became synonymous with the crackling of fire
The snapping that bones make when they break and turn to dust
Your voice could decompose me in an instant
And you never seemed to mind.
So now, that I might have your offspring
Living inside of me
I don't know how to feel.
Taking a test would just reaffirm the fact that my future could be in shambles
Wires wrapped around themselves
A construction zone ready to ignite and explode
So I wait for my monthly offering
That Mother Nature so graciously delivers to my body
Reminding me that I am the only inhabitant in it thus far.
I fear for any child that even has a chance of existing
Because while it would be beautiful
It would be ****** into the middle
Of this beautiful toxicity.

PTSD is not something you get over.
It is when soldiers get tired of hearing their own shots fire
Into a purple horizon of nothingness.
It is when assault victims are scared of becoming a statistic
And their brokenness is suffocating
It is when fear compels the mind to change
And it willingly obliges.
PTSD is when the darkness of human nature becomes evident
It is when it's stronghold is suddenly
More prominent than the beauty in the world
It's brash fingers create a vacuum
That ***** the sanity from your mind
Until you wake up in the middle of the night screaming
"Don't shoot me!"
"Don't **** her!"
You see him and now he is with your little sister
Taking her into his Jeep
While you stand there, watching
******* because you can do nothing about it.
This has not happened
And probably never will
But you are crippled by paralyzing bouts of anxiety and guilt and fear
From which your mind cannot console you
You can no longer hide the loss
That this event, this person, this illness
Has placed strategically within you.
It is when you will do anything to get these memories to stop playing on repeat
An endless loop maybe ended by alcohol
Check
Cutting
Check.
Promiscuity
Check
Anything that will eliminate cycle of not knowing
Of reliving
If only for a short time
Even pretending you believe in God
Because it makes it seem like there is a reason for this confusion
But then you begin to question why God would do this to his child
So you digress into darkness once again
Left feeling unsure.
PTSD is when you stop repressing memories
And they come back so forcefully that they knock you to the ground
Leaving you bruised and ******
Leaving you lost.
PTSD is different from other sicknesses
Because you do not feel sick
You feel there
Like you are in his bed again
And his room smells like mushrooms
That is actually a field of grenades
Waiting to explode throughout your small body
You remember the tone of his words
Slipping from his lips as though they are snakes
Strangling me, leaving breath unable to escape
This is not sick
As you feel no symptoms
But an altered state of consciousness
You do not even realize you are disconnecting as it happens
But this is Hell
This is war
You are broken
And the worst part about it
Is that you must understand your triggers
Your dissociations
Before you can get better.

My parents ask me                                               whenever I am in my room
                                                                   For several hours at a time
"What do you do all day?"
I sit in my room writing poems
                                   for boys who will never write back
Writing letters                                           to people who have abused me
Writing letters                                     to my eating disorder
"Hi, how are you?"
                                                                 "Haven't seen you in a while."
((And I'm ever so ******* thankful for that))
However, this time she responded
                                                  "It's almost Thanksgiving,"
"We should talk"
It's like she's carving her name into my bones                      one more time
It's like she finds purpose in ******* the life from my heart            with a straw
She is a cut that just won't heal
A stalker you can't get rid of
And yet,                                                                           you continue to want her
She is a paradox
Because you feed her           open mouth with the         grapes fit for                  a      queen
But she is the evil                                               witch.
She reminds me that               I need her
Traveling through the canals in my                             bones
Shooting up my                                         spine
Making my                                                             blood flow in waves
I           cannot            control             her
She tells me again,                        as if I hadn't                           considered it
That these holidays are going to be                           hard
They are going to try to                rip the skin            off of me
Pluck each individual                                                                   eyelash from me
Seeing how much I can take                                                                                                                      
before I lose it.
After all, my      grandfather          is              gone
And the last time he saw me
She was still                              my partner
Attached               at the hip
Last Thanksgiving, she not only              sat        with      me at the table
But held      my        hair         back                  as I vomited my dinner into the toilet
It's so            sad          and               sick that sometimes                I miss her
Like an old friend,                                              an old pair of shoes
So worn and broken
But still somehow             a part of me.
Still, I                            refuse to                                          sink
I am a ball of fire                                ready to explode
But I will contain
the                                                     urge
                                     to
               relapse
Until my
                         very
last
                  breath.
She will not be the thing     that                          kills me
I will                            die                                                               fighting her off
Escaping her talons
Recognizing she plants                                                                 bombs in me
Not roses.
So, when                       my parents ask me                                           what I do all                                            day now
I can                say
                                                      "Live."

I am that feminist that cites Betty Friedan in her arguments
Who will tell you to bite your tongue if you think women have equal rights
I am that liberal who stands up for the rights of others
While preaching about white privilege
I am that democrat who goes on Marxist rants
And looks kindly upon socialistic programs
I am that American who finds kinks in the system
But also deeply loves my country.
I am that *****, *****, ****
Who thinks I should have the right to my own body
And the government should not
I am that student who thinks the education system is ****** up
And prays for future generations because the common core is going to fail them
I am that Christian who refuses to associate with the Republican Party
But loves God with all her heart.
I am that loud-mouth who will tell you to check yourself
Before you tell a **** joke
I am that activist who will die fighting for her cause
And I will love every second of it.

I am up in arms about oppression
Why don't we see our own privilege?
Who are we to fail to acknowledge our gains from this world
That are not earned by us
But inherited?
Privilege is never having to think about it
It is sitting in a classroom and having college be an expectation
Not an ambition
It is equal pay for equal work
It is women getting *****
And boys getting shot
It is black children learning to be afraid of the police
Who are supposed to protect them
But instead
Oppress them.
I am up in arms about people getting offended
Because talking about these things is uncomfortable.
Educating people about *** is uncomfortable
But we do that to prevent things from happening in the future
The same goes for racism
Sexism
Privilege in general
If we do not know about it
There is nothing we can do to curb the problem.
I am up in arms about the failing systems
Education
Justice
Legal
That our future generations are being ****** into
Filtered in like cattle, they march
One by one
Into ignorant landfills
That feed them garbage
But there is too much to sift through
That they accept it as fact and move on.
I am not up in arms about Ferguson
Steubenville
Any other place where
Male
White
Upper class
Privilege is an issue
Because it is an issue everywhere.
I am up in arms about the precedent being set
For the generations to come.

Twelve times.
That's how many rounds were fired
Into eighteen year-old Michael Brown
As his head absorbed the gun powder
And he fell to his death
On the hot asphalt beneath his spine.

Twelve times.
The frequency at which twenty eight year-old Darren Wilson
Shot this boy in the brain
He is responsible for taking a life prematurely
He is responsible for advancing the race precedent
Set by prior generations.

Twelve times.
The jury could have indicted him
Held him accountable for his actions
But instead they let him walk free.
Freedom, the very thing Wilson extrapolated from Brown.
Freedom, the very thing many brown boys and girls in America
Will never see
We teach them there freedom does not matter
It is in the hands of white men
As it always has been.

Twelve times.
And many times after that
Will children
Who are just as American as any other human being living on this soil
Be told they are not good enough
Merely because of the pigments in their skin
They are worth less than others
And why do we let this prevail?
Because we do not want to change it.
We are part of the problem.

Twelve times.
I can count more than that
In which I have been the beneficiary of white privilege
Which I did not earn
No, you see
White privilege is being able to say
"I am disgusted with this verdict"
But I will never be the direct recipient of its consequences.

Twelve times.
The fact that people still claim it was self-defense
Disgusts me.
Most would agree that
Beating a child into submission
Rather than acting on another form of discipline
Is criminal
Therefore, just because you want to believe
That firing twelve bullets into a barely grown boy's head
Is acceptable during an attack
Does not make it just.

Twelve times.
The starting point
The amount white people can do
About racial preference.
Start by learning from history.
And learn what you can do to change it.

Twelve times.
The amount of shots it took
To end a boy's life
The fire has been taken from his lively eyes and soul.
But the real flame
Has just been ignited.

My body is open
Open to a world that fails to see it's beauty
Open to people who fall in love with it's softness
Open to the mouths it feeds
With it's omnipresent nutrients.

My body is a shelter
Housing childhood memories in it's folds
Housing every insult I've ever been told
Housing brokenness, loneliness, benevolence
And everything in between.

My body is a complex
Built of bones and stitched together by muscles
A system which allows me to breathe
Fresh air in, bad air out
An industry of carpentry
Always building new things from the inside out.

My body will not be silenced
Should it be shut down
I will ascend and rise against
The violence that tries to oppress me.
It recognizes the winds and rain waging inside
And while I am not a hurricane
I live within the boundaries
Of a beautiful storm.

To Bill Cosby,
Are you proud now?
You slept well at night for almost twenty years
Has your conscience burst your stone cold heart yet?
You were called "America's Dad"
And some people refuse to believe you are guilty
Of ****** fifteen women
But just because they do not want to believe it
Does not mean it didn't happen.
You may have been ambivalent
But a benevolent ****** is still a ******.
Some say your victims should have reported it sooner
Well, I must say I understand their position
I waited seven years to disclose my assault
And no one judged me.
They only say this because they want a reason
To consider you innocent
And speaking of which
I cannot fully condemn you
Because you have yet to be convicted
But I refuse to take the word of someone
Just because they are ever so loved and reputable
Over fifteen women who were afraid.
Why would they come forward out of spite
Knowing the backlash would be gut-crushing
Fire-setting to the soul type of intense?
So, Bill,
Take your shame back
Take every bit of angst you instilled in these women back
Harbor it in your body
Let it fester under your skin
And rot away your soul.
Then maybe you will understand,
As will the world,
What it is like to be abused
By America's favorite family man.

Every evening at dinner,
My mom would tell us about school.
She works there
In fact, the same one my sister and I attended.
She now tells us about education reform
And how it is ruining her classroom.
You see,
She works with special needs children
And teaching them multiple methods to do a math problem
When they understand the first one
Is like thrusting them into the middle of the ocean
Telling them to learn how to swim
And wondering why they are drowning.
Having seventh graders who read at a fifth grade level
Take the same standardized test as other kids their age
Is like putting a dachshund in a cage
And telling it to fight a pit bull.
These students are being set up to fail
And yet, the schools and the government are asking
"Why are test scores dropping?"
"Why aren't they up to par?"
"We're going to lose our money"
What quality teacher signed up to be an educator
With the idea that money would be more important
Than the children in the school system?
Who gives a **** about dollar figures
When you are pushing kids to the edge of the cliff
And getting angry when they fall off?
The game doesn't change until the directions do
But the people writing them are prioritizing the end result
Not the players.
So tell me,
Will anybody win a game that is this corrupt?
Will anybody win this game at all?
People like my mom, my English teacher
The students
Did not agree to play this way.
But if we do not set these kids up and place them in a position
Where success is possible
The future will go up in flames.

The morning I walked into church
Decked out in ripped jeans and an oversized sweater
Was the aftermath of the first night
I had ever tasted *****.
To think I thought I could hide my first binge
But as soon as I met my mom
My hair unruly and my makeup smeared
Mom takes one whiff of me
"Were you drinking?"
Me, panicked and on the defensive
"No, I just overslept."
It's funny how we try to hide things
That are bleeding all over our hands
Tattooed all over our faces
The difference is
Sometimes people actively choose to ignore it.
Like when I was throwing up Thanksgiving dinner
I had every tell-tale sign of a bulimic
But my family turned a blind eye.
Nobody asked me why I locked myself in the bathroom for hours
Nobody asked my why I weighed myself 12 times a day
Everyone thought it was wonderful I was losing so much weight
Over a short period of time.
Well I didn't know there was a prize
For losing eleven pounds in a week
For becoming a sack of rattling bones
Stitched together by pockets of fat
I was not a person during that time
And I thought I was hiding it well
But really,
People just chose not to see it.
How can we pretend these things do not exist?
While some people say
That they have skeletons in their closet
When in reality
They left the door open
And we chose to walk right past it.

Skinny people,
Please do not jump on the defensive
But if you have never experienced the following
This is your privilege.
You did not ask for it
Just as we did not ask for our scarlet letter
Our crown of thorns that is weight.
I am forty pounds overweight
According to my doctor.
According to society
I am ninety
Telling me that 110 pound models are the normal
Ridiculously
Teaching me to swim by water boarding me
And then wondering why it is not effective.
Laughing in my face when I become bulimic
Which cannot be blamed on our culture
But the way our culture is shaped to think
Fat people can't get eating disorders
Or if they do, more power to them.
Being told
"You are part of the obesity epidemic"
You are an epidemic
Aren't we so coy to use the word 'epidemic'
For anything we want to get rid of?
Being charged more to sit on an airplane
Because your extra baggage will offend the other passengers
Because your extra baggage is an economical discretion
Like the economy could get any more ridiculous as it is?
Eating a salad and being the brunt of their jokes
Eating a burger and receiving disapproving looks
From mothers and their children
Who are being conditioned systematically to criticize others
Simply based on their outward appearance.
Being a ****** fetish on **** websites
Like my body type is a piece of raw meat
Fit for the slaughter
But it needs to have the fat trimmed off first.
Having people ask your partner what it is like to make love to you
While you are standing in the room
As if you are invisible?
Funny how the additional weight
Acts as a cape
That seems to cover you when people do not want you to exist.
Being told if you ever love your body
That you are lazy, slobbish, and disgusting
Well guess what, *******?
I LOVE this body
And all the things it does for me
How it moves
How it operates
How it is able to function
And just as frequently as people try to take bits of life from me
I breathe them back in
And they invigorate my being
My pores tingle with acceptance
So I rip the sheet off
Every inch of my body is visible
Can you see who I am now?
I finally am someone
Loved, accepted and beautiful.
I am more than just heavy.

Dear Rosemarie,
I really miss you.
Please tell me you haven't forgotten
The times we went to baseball games
Or when we went to my favorite restaurant
We both ate the same thing every time.

Dear Rosemarie,
I hope you don't blame me
Just as I don't blame you.
What he did was not your fault
I still love you with every ounce of emotion my heart can build up
Our memories are like butterflies, beautiful but fleeting
And all I want is to run after them
Catch them in the palm of my small hands
Please, Auntie
Can't we run and catch them together?

Dear Rosemarie,
I've never been able to tell you how strong you are
Daddy told you what your son did to me
Over coffee at a diner in Pennsylvania
I would think that would be as bad as
A text message with contention-soaked letters
An email with despair marked in the spaces
A phone call with unrest woven into the wires
Public displays of tragedy are the worst
And seemingly impersonal.

Dear Rosemarie,
He said you were never mad
In fact,
He said you never even questioned my trembling words
That were vibrating even from miles away
My initial fear in telling was that you would be hurt
Or even angry
Although that is not in your nature
But you believed me
And for that, I will be forever thankful.

Dear Rosemarie,
Remember how Uncle Joe used to smoke
And you'd make him go outside around us kids?
I didn't even know about his habit until I was close to nine.
Well now, cancer sticks are my vice
And I don't hide it quite as well.

Dear Rosemarie,
You were the only person I accepted sympathy from
Even though I heard it through my father
Because we both lost something sacred that day.
You may be the only person as destroyed by this as I was
So here is my chance to tell you that I am sorry
Not for coming forward
Not for tearing a family apart
But for what he did to me
And how it hurt you.

Dear Rosemarie,
The pores in my bones still remind me
I am hollow
I am human
Just as he is.
I do not hate him
Try to be soft with him
After all, he was only a teenager as well.

Dear Rosemarie,
I really miss you.
Please tell me you haven't forgotten
Me
Because I will never forget you.

To the kid in the hallway telling his friend
"Maybe you need a **** whistle."
And to her response, a sarcastic
"Matt, **** jokes aren't funny."
You're **** right they aren't
Tell me, how is anyone forcing themself onto another person funny?
How are the I don't want tos when her "no" couldn't scream loud enough funny?
How are the ****** thighs and bruised hips funny?
How is the waking up in the middle of the night
How are the flashbacks and her wailing funny?
How is the seven year-old who had so much anxiety she'd tear her hair out
Or a sixteen year-old who kept eyeliner and a kitchen knife side by side in her purse funny?
It's about as funny as a slaughterhouse full of pigs taunting the other pigs
And telling them their approaching doomsday is amusing.
I dug my key into the palm of my hand like a knife when I heard this jeer
Clenching and unclenching a fist
Because I knew if I did not
That hand would go right through your faces.
You do not know the impact of your words
You see, for a survivor
Jokes about ****** assault are triggers.
They bring back every memory
Which becomes a stinging tear behind an eyeball
Fighting not to emerge from its home.
When I say something
Classically I am being "too sensitive"
Just as I was "too sensitive"
When he told me to get on top of him
And I said no
So much courage mustered up in a little body
I could have moved mountains that day
I could have been my own goddess
At seven years old
But he did not care
He was bigger than me
And he imposed that will onto my body
Reducing my childlike frame to the size of a fly
Being swatted by the paw of a lion.
I will not be silent
So when you tell a **** joke and I am in earshot
Do not expect me to laugh
Because there is nothing funny about a slaughterhouse.

A fat girl's Thanksgiving is being told to pass on the pumpkin pie
A fat girl's Thanksgiving is being scrutinized over everything you ingest
A fat girl's Thanksgiving is being met with questions no matter what you eat or don't eat
"Have some more potatoes, Sarah"
"Haven't you had enough yet?"
A fat girl's Thanksgiving is a double standard wrapped up
In a pretty floral bow
Just like the cornucopia in the table's center.
A fat girl's Thanksgiving is a broken tradition fixated not on giving thanks
But on her every movement in regards to her plate
A fat girl's Thanksgiving is only eating half her helping
A fat girl's Thanksgiving is throwing up each and every bite of it
Into a porcelain garbage bin exactly thirteen minutes later
A fat girl's Thanksgiving is perfecting a purge
Stand up and lean
Time it just right
Dry heave first.
A fat girl's Thanksgiving is the second to last time she sees her grandpa
And she cannot even focus on family
Because this disease has intertwined itself into the crevices of her mind
A fat girl's Thanksgiving is her worst nightmare and her favorite holiday
For she is constantly under surveillance
But no one questions her habits that day
So she is free to be sick as often as she likes.
A fat girl's Thanksgiving is counting every calorie
Knowing exactly how much she needs to compensate for every particle of food
Polluting her system.
A fat girl's Thanksgiving is shoving things into her body
And immediately wanting them out
While having the means to get rid of them.
A fat girl's Thanksgiving has always been shared with her alter ego,
Bulimia.
A fat girl's Thanksgiving has always been a paradox
Hopefully this year she will be able to go alone.

To my future husband
Please be kind to my children and me.
Yes, this is another obligatory essay
About growing up in a home with daddy problems.
This is another poorly written anthem
About wiping the tear stains from my baby sister's soft cheeks
She was a naive ten
I was a vulnerable thirteen
And I told her he didn't mean it
When I honestly wasn't sure what he meant that day.
Protecting her became my duty
Because he wouldn't do it.
And my mom seemed to be his string puppet.
So please, be compassionate to that younger sibling
And lift the burden off the elder one
Who, no matter the force at which the blade is thrown,
Will always jump in front of it to save the baby.
Please understand that their mom has baggage
I have been used by more men than I can count on one hand
And defiled in the worst way by two.
Please be gentle
Understand that having *** with the lights on
Will only drag me into the pit
From which I have just recently emerged.
Understand that I will only be able to see my older cousin's face
And suddenly will once again be a helpless seven year-old child
Reaching for love and protection
Only to be met with disappointment.
Understand that I will look at the rolls on my body
And instantaneously be ashamed
Because I have been told by my own father that this body is not worthy of acceptance
And my eating disorder increased the intensity of that voice twelve fold.
Please, when I am drowning
Do not walk away
When your seventeen year-old daughter asks where you are going
Don't say
"Just out."
With so much hostility and contention in your voice
That it may have well been a brick breaking the surface of her skin.
For then, she will begin to detach from you
The glue that formed your loving bond when she was little
Will begin to break and fall away
She will start doing homework at Starbucks
Just to get away from this incinerator home
That burns her flesh to ash every time she walks through the door
She will begin meeting up with ex-boyfriends
Not because she really wants to sleep with them
But because she needs somewhere to run
Even if the place to fall is not soft.
She will think she is pregnant
And will know clearly who the father is
But will tell you something different
If it ever turns out to be her reality.
She will become so angry with you
That she scratches your name on her wrists and inner thighs
Tallies up each time you have called her
Fat, slutty, ******* up
Each time you have rejected her
And when she is recovering from this vice
She will not blame you
Because you do not deserve the satisfaction of knowing you hurt her so intensely.
So, to my future husband
Wherever you may be
Please just promise me one thing:
You will not be like my father.

What did it feel like when you passed out?
Blackout, spinning in endless spirals
Chasing some shadow that appeared to be there
But wasn't.
There was a shallow depth
Ears silently rings
Irony making perfect sense
Just like the pure soot in my lungs.

What does it feel like to talk to your parents?
Like soft noise.
My dad spews static from his mechanical mouth
Words warped by the Republican Party and Fox News
As well as his religion.
Words that have tried to oppress me
Calling me a ****
Telling me I am fat
And that ignites the fire.
Lighter fluid poured into my mouth
And boy, do I have flames to spit at him.

What did it feel like when your cousin touched you?
Broken.
His hands were broken
As they didn't know what to do
And yet they did it anyway.
His words were broken
"It's just a game"
Were the tectonic plates that slid against each other
Causing an earth quake.
My heart was broken
As it had been molded for the first time
By a man who would never love me
By someone sick and selfish.

What did it feel like, cutting and purging?
Like dragging jagged metal
Across soft skin
Like diving into a lake full of sweat
With a body covered in cuts
Like a snake meeting the back of my throat
Allowing me to dry heave until
My thoughts, my anger, my control
Find their way back out of my body.
Like a jealous spirit ripping my sanctity from my being
Leaving me on the cold, porcelain tiles
Or on the bottom of the bathtub
Wrapped in a blanket, shaking
Or worse yet, naked
Forced to face myself
Alone.

What does it feel like to find people who care?
Better than you can imagine.
It's like people believe in you
Even when it is clear you are going to stumble
Even when you have to learn to walk all over again
Knowing there are people who will be beside you
As you relearn to understand yourself
Is beautiful.
It reminds you that humanity
Even through all it's evil properties
Is beautiful.

What does it feel like to recover?*
Liberating
As though the chains and shackles that imprisoned you
For nearly a decade
Over half your life
Have been cut or burned off
And you are dancing in the very place
You used to wish you would die.
It reminds you that the human race is not
The only thing beautiful
But that you are as well.

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
Your industry
That you can choose to use for your campaign
Just when our stories are marketable.
These stories do not all look the same
Different chapters
Different pages
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.

"Hi, my name is Sarah, and I haven't purged in almost four months."
That's what I tell group therapy sessions
Or online support groups
When it comes to my eating disorder.
Even better is when I talk about my cutting
How it's been two years since I gave way to the knife
Plenty of "oohs" and "ahs" and, my personal favorite,
"You're so strong"
Even though I still think about the sensation
Almost every day.

What I really am told
And sometimes even think myself
More frequently than not is
"My name is Sarah
The lying, conniving resident **** of my house"
Or
"My name is Sarah
Fat girl, so pretty if she'd just lose the weight
No longer ******, disappointing her family one day at a time"
"My name is Sarah
Just another basket case, pregnancy scare
One, two, maybe three times
How stupid can she be?"
"My name is Sarah
Child abuse survivor
Or is the appropriate terminology 'victim'?
Isn't she over it yet?"

That voice and the one that calls me
Strong, when the other calls me fat
Passionate, when the other calls me obnoxious
Potential, when the other calls me hopeless
Are constantly at war
Bloodshed is the goal.
Devil versus angel
Compete to be the main influence in my life

While really,
The only thing that I can say for certain is
"My name is Sarah
The human being."
And that is perfectly fine with me.

Red stop light blends into grey clouds
Looking around, faces blend one into the next
Just as their stories do.
While individual
Here,
We are all the same.
Stuck in traffic.

I have broken something some would call
Sacred
It feels as though I am moving
But like quicksand holds my feet in place
Where are you, my love?
Are you that far away?
Breathing becomes intentional
And suddenly, I am stopped.
Stuck in traffic.

The quicksand I mentioned earlier
It's beautiful, yet horrifying
I can suddenly think about all my mistakes
But I am too entrapped to fix them.
The golden ocean surrounds my body
Tugging me down, letting me watch
As my fate is reduced to an idea.
Once again, forever
Stuck in traffic.

I believe that I can save myself,
Maybe, just maybe
If I get down far enough
Crawl out on my knees
I'll be ****** and scathed
But I truly think I can succeed, right?
Not a chance.
I already am well aware
That I am eternally and unequivocally
Stuck in traffic.

More things flash before my eyes.
Do I look okay?
Am I the fat girl that was staring in the mirror
Tearing apart her appearance
Just fifteen minutes earlier?
Now, none of that seems to matter
As I am dealing with the extreme effects of being
Stuck in traffic.

Now,
Do I really exist?
Is my being a fact or opinion?
Suddenly I feel
As though I am not here at all.
If no one sees me
Am I invisible?
My thoughts, spinning the wheels
Have caught up with my body and are
Stuck in traffic.

Speaking of broken bodies
Seven years old was the most dreadful.
Full of shame from the way he touched me
He led me to believe I could trust him
But that trust was not mine to harbor.
Funny how when you're about to die
These memories implant themselves in your brain
Things you think about while
Stuck in traffic.

It's a miracle I am even thinking at all.
Considering in these dire situations
My mind tends to slip
And I stumble and fall with it.
Shards of glass hit my face
But I am the one who crashed and burned.
At least I am no longer
Stuck in traffic.

Seventeen.
I start doing homework at coffee shops and Applebee's
I cannot tolerate my father's *******
But for the first time in my life
I am able to revive myself from the frustration he fills me with.
Each time his biting comments pierce my skin I say:
"College eight months"
"College seven months"
"College six months..."
By telling myself that coming home has become optional
I am able to smile and gently whisper
"Yes, Dad."

Sixteen.
One of the two times I can remember compassion from my father.
A heartbroken me watched my grandpa deteriorate
Just ten days after I had entered recovery
From a bad bout of bulimia relapse.
Dad actually hugged me
Even cried with me
When grandfather died.
But for the other 360 days of the year that did not include that week
Even when my friend committed suicide
My father did not meet me with kindness.

Sixteen.
My battle with bulimia
Was mine to wage alone.
When my parents got the call
They were more worried about my wastefulness
Food isn't cheap, you know.
Daddy continued to bash my weight
And I continued to spiral downward
Until I decided I was worth more.

Sixteen.
Had I told you a boy had taken advantage of me
I would have just been a **** once again.
After all, I led him on
After all, my shirt was fairly tight
After all, my friends told me it was my fault.
I know you would have considered me blameworthy
I sure thought I was.

Fifteen.
One handful of pills
And a crimson message on my arm
Lands me in intensive therapy.
I sit there
Telling myself I am not like the other suicidal kids around here
I'm not ****** up
I just ****** up.
Sick of listening to people tell me why I did it
The most frequent was my experiences with molestation
Just because some pervert touched me
Doesn't mean I'd go off the deep end.

Fifteen.
You didn't care
About my drinking, my cutting, my anything
Until you heard my plans to end it all.
You called me a ****
When you found out I had slept with my ex.
You permeated **** culture by telling me not to discuss my abuse
With anyone but my counselor.
You didn't mean to,
But you did.

Fourteen.
The other time I remember compassion.
You heard that I had been horribly violated
By your cousin.
It curdled your blood
As well it should
And you told me we'd get through it.
Fortunately,
It was never yours to get through.
You tried your best to help me
But to no avail.

Fourteen.
Lost my virginity
With a strong chance of unwanted pregnancy
That was thankfully inaccurate.
Started drinking
Taught myself how to throw up
Tarnished your perfect image
Of Daddy's little girl.

Thirteen.
Middle school ends
But my battle with eating disorders
And my dysfunctional relationship with food
Gains speed.
My then boyfriend described my dietary patterns to you
Before he was scared to death of your rage for him.
Where are you Dad?

Twelve.

Eleven.
I cut myself for the first time
And obsessive thoughts about food began to litter my mind
Depression and anxiety
First showed their ugly faces this year.

Ten.

Nine.
You told me I was fat again
So I began storing things in my room
Whole bags of junk food
I would have miniature thanksgiving feasts
Because eating in front of you was horrifying.

Nine.
Got a phone call from my fourth grade teacher
Who was in earshot of me telling my friends I was fat
My mom cried that day
Although she has a lot to do with my self-image.
But still
Don't let her pick up your mess.

Eight.
Humiliated me in Wendy's
For not ordering a kid's item.
Children are like elephants
We really don't forget.

Seven.
He touched me
And I didn't know what to make of it.
I thought this was truly just a game
You could not have protected me, Dad
He is the one at fault
No one else is.

Six.

Five.
You told me for the first time
That eating a bagel would make me fatter.
The first time I remember being skinned with comments
About my weight.

Four.

Three.
My perfect sister was born
As she entered the world
I was suddenly no longer good
No longer skinny
No longer pretty.
She would become acceptable by society's standards
And I never would.

Two.

One.

Zero.
Do you ever wonder what your parents imagined for you
When your mother was pregnant?
I do
And I don't think they imagined
A counter culture, feminist
Resident fat girl.
I was defined before I was
And I redefined my expectations.

I cannot continue to compartmentalize
Each aspect of my life
Individually
Separately
In cardboard boxes on wooden shelves
Waiting to be moved into one house.

My existence does not work in cubicles
Sectioning off each area of who I am
One by one
9-5 jobs
Some work overtime.

And yet, I do this so frequently
I continue to store things away
In the back ruins and corners of my mind
They go into storage units.
I guess I picked up the technique after being abused
So I could dissociate from the experience.

But I cannot keep putting on different identity hats
Sarah, the child abuse victim is a black beanie
Sarah, the ex-cutter and ex-bulimic is a red bandana
Sarah with daddy problems is a knit cap
They are all mutually exclusive
They cannot occur at the same time.

So why can't I continue to shelve these things
Intricately and one by one?
Because I am Sarah
The whole person
The individual
The human being who deserves recognition for her progress
Not her vices.

Talking about your assault
As if you are removed from it.
When someone apologizes for his unforgivable actions
Even though he was always unapologetic
I calmly reply
"It's okay"
And sometimes even with a smile on my face.

But it's not okay
Or rather
What he did to me will never be okay
And I always feel foolish after that response leaves my lips

You lie to people a say you hate him
But really
If I'm being honest
I never did

Although, my situation is different than most
Because this wasn't some vicious act of ******
But rather, a game my teenage cousin with Aspbergers
Told me to play.
Looking back,
I was fourteen once too
And I wasn't even close to perfect
I can't incriminate him based on one dire mistake.

I never wish to minimize anyone's experience with abuse
Except, of course, my own
Because making it smaller
Makes me feel more in control
Just as blaming myself used to do.

Granted, I have dealt with it
But now I remove myself from the situation when I discuss it
As if I am talking about someone else.
That way, I do not have to vividly see it in my mind.
That way, I don't have to explain
How I have to fall asleep to music
That way, I don't have to explain
How I can't have *** with the lights on
Or else I see his face.

When I say I am perfectly comfortable talking about it
I don't know if 'perfectly comfortable' reflects it as well as
I am just used to it
And I feel as though it is necessary to discuss.
I am not one to shy away from challenging topics.

While he made me stronger
Some days being strong is just too hard
And I give in to old habits
Or at least to the temptation of them.
I haven't bled from the result
Of a self-inflicted razor blade or kitchen knife
In nearly two years.
And my bulimia is better
Though I have only rid myself of that vice
Three months ago.

And yet,
Talking about my molestation seems
So routine, so standard
Which is scary
Because something that heinous should shock me more
But it doesn't.

Maybe it's because
He started an avalanche
When it came to boys using me for ***.
Maybe it's because
I share the same blood
As a child-molester.

It seems as though **** culture has permeated me for so long
That it's in my DNA
Woven strand by strand
So it doesn't scare me anymore.

It all comes down to perspective
And talking about my assault from a third person perspective
Keeps my battle scars under wraps
And my mind well guarded.

When people are shocked when they hear
About the things you did to me
I am always met with a strange level of surprise
For many years
I led my life believing this is normal
That everyone faces some form of abuse
At some point in their life.
Maybe it's because my normal
Has always been feeling stranded
Feeling empty
Because I don't know how to feel anything else.
Maybe it's because my normal
Has been for over a decade
That this is just how things are
As though it has been viciously branded to my body.
Maybe it's because my normal
Includes me proudly exposing my scars
So I can help others heal theirs.
Maybe it's because my twisted normal
Has made this everything I see.
I cannot say that the way he touches me
Does not bring up memories of the way you violated me.
I cannot say that the smell of mushrooms
Though vile to most people
Does not bring up a specific image in my mind of your bed.
Then mixed messages tell you
"It's your fault"
"It wasn't abuse"
"He should be in jail"
"Why wouldn't you prosecute?"
"You should hate him"
And you just want to shut out the noise
So you can soundly make a decision on your own
But they keep hounding
And you lose the ability to cope
So you take a knife to your arm
And a handful of pills
So maybe you can just have silence
For once.
Parents find you
And therapy becomes crucial
In which she tells me
That I am safe
I am okay
I am fine.
However, I will never be fine
Because I can never accept what you did to me
But I have moved on because I am worth it.
Letting you control all of me
Thoughts, behaviors and actions
Is like letting you get away with this atrocity.
It's like letting you tell me this is my fault
When it's no one but your own.
Although, when people ask me why I don't hate you
It's because you do not get the satisfaction of any of my strong feelings.
However, it is also because
You were a teenager
If people knew everything I got into at fourteen
There would be some pretty incriminating details there as well.
But the main reason why I will never exert anger toward you
Is because I got over this traumatic event not by hating your existence
But by loving my own.

Am I even breathing anymore?
I can see
Hear
Smell
Touch
But to breathe,
That takes energy.

Your body on top of me
Made me feel like I was drowning.
I mean
Clearly you did not **** me
But I ****** you out of guilt.
And what does that say about me?
That I am extremely weak.

I went home that night
Speeding even though snow was pouring out the sky
Feeling like I could ***** any second.
I haven't eaten since.
I quickly washed my clothes
And changed into something baggy.
I wanted to hide from everyone
As if my scarlet letter was branded on my chest
Carved savagely by a butcher who skins the weak.

So take your poison back, dear
I don't want your trace on me.
It triggered every memory I have of ****** assault
Sadly, the number is higher than it should be.

Lose me from your body
So I can be *alone.

How to have a healthy relationship with your razor
A guide, for the ex-cutter:
First, take her cover off
Let her slide out of that shear plastic coating
Then, just look at her for a few seconds
Stare at the shiny pieces of metal that line her core
But also look at the things that aren't so pretty
Like the gooey gel that surrounds her plastic parts
She'll like that you take the time to notice each and every one of her blades
As well as all of her.
Don't touch the sharp parts though
As those used to have a hold on you.
See, your relationship used to be very manipulative and abusive
When you first met
You were vulnerable
And she played off of that like she was a huntress
While you were clearly her prey.
She would lure you in with the luster of her kiss
How it felt when the metal dug into your pasty skin
And almost instantly, you would regret the sensation
The momentary high that you got
From your evil queen
Your sweet escape.
You would throw her away
The garbage became her home
But there were many like her
And like the devil, she kept appearing
In her many manifestations.
Plus, you needed her for housekeeping reasons
To keep you looking your best
And your sister and mother kept her around, too.
They really liked her
And she never harmed them the way she harmed me.
You really couldn't live without her
But learning to live with her
So you two shared mutual love and respect
Is an uphill battle.
Why did I want to be with someone like that?
Therapists blamed in on the fact that some man
Had unjustly touched me at seven
And sleeping with a knife under my pillow
(Her close relative)
Could have led me to having a volatile romance with the razor.
Some believe it was my daddy issues
That he had dropped the ball in so many areas of my life
Had he taught me to love myself
And not that I was just a fat, sick ******
I wouldn't need to turn to her sweet bliss.
But now, regardless of why we initially got together
We are in a good place.
I run her up my leg and she touches it
Making it smooth
And then I run my fingers along her work
Loving how it feels to be soft and feminine
She no longer suppresses that side of me
She no longer causes me to be callous
Because I put her in line and said
"Enough is enough!"
She will not take advantage of me anymore
Because I finally value myself enough to ditch
My attachment to her abusive nature.

One in eight boys will be sexually assaulted this year
One in eight of our brothers, coworkers, fathers, boyfriends
One in eight will be told "men don't get *****"
One in eight will be feel their masculinity being stripped from them
One in eight feel as attached to it as their muscle is to bone
One in eight never expected this to happen
One in eight will unjustly be told to question their sexuality
One in eight will hold it against themselves
Their shame is a blanket
One in eight are told they are defenseless
Eight in eight have experienced overly sexualized culture
In which they are told they must be strong, bold, *****
All the time
Eight in eight are told lies about their own bodies
About their own minds
Eight in eight are expected by the media
To be promiscuous and want *** all the time
So when that one in eight experiences unwanted touching, kissing, fill in the blank
They feel weak
They feel defenseless
They feel "unmanly"
To my brothers who have been sexually assaulted
You are not weak
You are not merely a statistic
And you are not alone.

You ignite me
Like my cigarette **** against the velvet midnight sky
The northern lights in the summer
The sunset in Arizona
In the middle of November.

You excite me.
Like a good ****
A roller coaster ride
My stomach is doing cartwheels
Broken glass against my hand
I fall in love all over again.

You make me drunk.
You are my shot of tequila
You are my cup of coffee
But with you
I need one more sip of whiskey
Or ten.

You make my body feel everything.
My feet feel like bubbles are encasing them
Fireworks light up my gut
My skin is drenched in a sheer screen of sweat
Electric currents shoot through my veins
They are carried from your lips as they connect with my neck
My bones shatter in the best way possible
And it reminds me that I'm still breathing.

You are the only thing
That makes me feel alive.

My childhood was measured
By smushed handfuls of red raspberries
That stained my clothes methodically.
By counting sports cars instead of shooting stars
After all, we have enough in the suburbs to last us a while.
By "don't touch this" that comes with the affluence
Of one of the most prosperous counties in the country.
By butterfly T-shirts that were stitched together with secrets
By people picking and prodding at my size
By "if only I was skinny" vibrating my eardrums
As I had heard it from so many people before I hit the age of 12.
By being different
As at thirteen, I had no interest in make-up or push up bras or jocks
But punk rock music and a boy who was a little bit more dangerous than I anticipated.
By unwanted touches from uninvited men
Who took it upon themselves to show me womanhood
Before I could identify it myself
By the way my father stopped looking at me
As though I was his little girl
Because he began to find out where my skin has wandered.
By how my father had stopped looking at me quite some time ago
Because I was never his skinny spitting image of perfection
By the way he criticized my clothing
Told me if I wanted people to make fun of me for my size
If I wanted people to call me a ****
Then I could wear whatever the hell I wanted.
When I replied that I, in fact, did not give a flying ****
My mother chimed in
"Well you should."
And by the way complete strangers have told me to go on a diet
While others have screamed from passing cars
"****, baby, look at that body"
As though my body is my worth
And as though my worth is something to be measure
I have been taught that my worth is something tangible
That can be compacted into a little box with a pretty pink bow
Stuck on a scale and weighed
And that the number I see on that scale
The number of pounds that my body physically contains
Directly correlates with my worth as a person.
Do those strangers that hound me about my weight even stop to think
That I spend hours in front of the mirror
Pinching my skin into too-tight jeans
******* in my stomach because I just want to look my thinnest?
Do they even wonder about my past
How I have tried to diet and that is the only time I can remember my father
Treating me like a decent human being?
Oh, but I didn't lose much weight
In fact, the only time I really lost anything significant
Was when I was bulimic.
But they don't question that either.
And to the strangers who catcall me
That "body" has been abused by men I have trusted
That "body" has lost all control on a bed when a man took it from her
That "body" is strong, healthy and beautiful
It is not just a door mat for you to wipe your paws on
It is not just a *** toy whose sole purpose is to satisfy you
And then be thrown away
Is this what it means to be a woman?
To have your personhood and purpose in this world
Be quantified and made so it can be held in the same small palms
That smushed raspberries at six years old?
I hope that my worth can someday be more
Than a measurement.

2 months, 5 days, 6 hours and 4 minutes ago
I found out you were soon to be
Embedded in the earth we used to dance on
But who's counting?

2 months, 5 days, 6 hours and 5 minutes ago
My world came to a crashing halt.
The I wish I could have been there's
Shocked my skin like a nine-volt battery.
I didn't feel pain
I didn't feel anything
I hit the ground and my endorphins were racing
Like a pin ball machine
They kept running into each other at rapid fire speeds
But I didn't care.

2 months, 5 days, 6 hours and 6 minutes ago
I sat in my car, getting high on every particle of air that flooded my lungs
I drove for an hour looking for a store that would sell me a **** pack of cigarettes
I planned to down all twenty of them
So at least then I could have a prayer of getting sleep that night.
But my usual spot had a cop car in front of it
So I stuck it out
This town gets so boring after dark
Everything closes at 9.
Needless to say,
I was tobacco-less for the rest of that night.

2 months, 5 days, 6 hours and 7 minutes ago
I started to restore my faith in you.
It was ironic, considering you were already gone
And the circumstances were extremely unbecoming
But my memory was like a movie montage
Every picture we ever took
Every event behind the camera
I remembered.
And suddenly,
You weren't a drug addict anymore.

2 months, 5 days, 6 hours and 8 minutes ago
I was praying this wasn't real.
I was really trying to believe that this was a joke
And you would pop out of nowhere saying
"Got you, *****!"
You always did have a slightly morbid sense of humor.

2 months, 5 days, 6 hours and 9 minutes ago
I didn't cry for you
But my heart was a rock in my stomach
My body took the blow
Much worse than my mind did
At least at that time.
There was a total disconnect between the two entities.

2 months, 5 days, 6 hours and 10 minutes ago
A part of me changed.
And I could use an abundance of metaphors
To describe this feeling more vividly
But the truth of the matter is
No words will ever be able to convey the pain of losing one of your first best friends
To an overdose.

2 months, 5 days, 6 hours and 11 minutes ago
I missed you intensely
And I haven't stopped since.

To the girl in the hallway of my high school
Who called me a *****.
Please, dear
Tame your venomous tongue.
If you want me to "act like a lady"
Why don't you talk like one?
By your own standards, of course.
Your words are spikes that are omitted from your spit
Can I spit them back at you?
Then again,
I guess that would only do some good
If I cared enough.
You see,
The definition of a ***** is
A derogatory term for a *******.
Please educate yourself
As I am not a *** worker
No, I do not get paid to be an object for men
As I have only even slept with one
As I have only even done anything consensual with one man
And no man has pleased me since.
Apparently I tempt them by saying
"I'd like to see you try"
Even though I meant it in the most sarcastic way possible.
And oh, do they try
Many even disguise satisfying themselves
As attempts to satisfy me.
But once the lights come back on
I'm not quite done with the last man I spent the night with
But he's already out the door.
His skin still lingers like fog in my mind
And in the corridor where we did unmentionable things.
I feel as slimy as ever
But it was stupid to sleep in our clothes anyway.
Because things went further than I wished.
I pull a blanket over my shivering body
It has been a cold autumn thus far.
And I'm sure my mom was worried sick
But she slept that illness right off.
Boys will be boys, she says
And when I try to explain what happened that night
How my memories are a little bit shifty
My credibility seems to fade as his ghost did.
Instead of questioning what happened that night
I am answering to questions like
"Well, what were you wearing?"
"Did you lead him on?"
Why, of course I did
Because everything I do in this ******* society is "leading him on"
If I blink, smile, wave, walk toward him, have confidence
I am suddenly opening up my body like a book to be examined and gawked at
Suddenly, I abandon my personhood by doing any of these things
And leave myself as a thing to have *** with
But because I know the consequences of being a woman and existing
I am still some two-dollar *******
Just for being a woman who has consensual ***
Just for being a woman who does not want you poking her bruises and revealing her scars
After all, they are not fully healed.
Just for being a woman who wears low-cut shirts and tight dresses
Even though I am not a size two.
Just for being a woman who believes that we, as women, should be able to make choices about our own bodies.
Just for being a woman.

To my father
I'm sure I have written this poem so many times before
But this time, I just want you to listen.
See, I keep writing and rewriting
Examining and analyzing which way will be the most effective to tell you
You ****** me up, man
But I don't hold it against you
Just against myself.
I press it to my chest every second I live
Like the hot metal pan I burned myself with last Friday
It brands my skin so tightly to form a label
One that tells me I am too fat to be pretty
Too promiscuous to be loved
Too awkward to be worth anything more than an insult.
You make me feel like such a bad person, dad
And I am screaming for you to just accept it
For the first time in your life
How anxiety and bulimia are byproducts of my chemistry as well as my childhood
How I am so hellbent on staying silent about my assault
Because you told me to keep it in the family when I was molested
And while you were supportive
You did not let me thrive by telling my story
As I could have with you by my side.
You claimed to be protecting from scrutiny
But I can take care of myself because I know what I'm up against.
How my dysfunctional relationships
In which I expect to be told I am a failure
Because that is all you have ever expected me to be
Have to do with how you brought me up.
I say I will seek to do everything better for my family
For my future
And yet, I already find the fingerprints of what you have done to me
Everywhere in my life
And my body and soul cry out
They say
"Don't be like your father!"
And yet, whenever I act in any way that even slightly resembles you
I want to tear my skin off
Bang my head against a wall so hard that my memory pours out my ears
So I don't have to hear your vicious comments about
My weight, my social skills or how I embarrass you
Is that the legacy you want to leave?
Daddy, I really don't mean to incriminate you
I just don't want you to wonder why I never came home
Or why I ran away with some man who doesn't really love me
But makes me feel human.
My heart is like a sword fight
And the scars run deep
Like train tracks, they trace every place I've been
But they don't lay out where I plan to go.
I can only hope that place is far away from here.

Anxiety is not a feeling
As some of you may believe
You wouldn't be alone
Because plenty of people place it in the same category as
Sad, angry, elated
But one of these things is not like the others.

You see, anxiety is everything and nothing
All at the same time.
Anxiety is when no matter how spacious the room is
It seems to be getting smaller
Until you can see every intricate detail on every wall
Each corner touches your skin
And flattens your chest
As it rises and falls
Your breath is getting short until it stops
And then you become as functional as a corpse
After all, isn't that what you are?

Anxiety is
When your love stands over top of you
Watching your diaphragm as it rapidly pulsates
Wishing he could hold your hands as they sweat profusely
Wanting to breathe life into your convulsing body
But instead, he cannot even grasp the concept
Of why you are not alright.

Anxiety is
Accepting that your reality is not truly real at all
And deciding to realize that people wish they could fix you
But understanding that they don't know what to do
And you don't either.

Anxiety is
Learning from all the
You're blowing things out of proportion's
And
You put to much pressure on yourself's
When you begin to have these panic attacks
In which you feel like death in imminent
Over trivial things.

Anxiety is
Being with people who love you
And still getting bursts of loneliness
That ignite and explode inside your pores and underneath your skin
The blood flowing silently through your veins reminds you
That you are all alone.

Anxiety is
Relating each and every thing you do
To how you are not adequate
And how you must take charge of everything.
It influences the things that tell you
"Make yourself throw up"
And
"Skip that meal today."
Most times, you shoe it away with every particle of strength that you have
Other times, you are not so lucky.

Anxiety is hard to personify
But it is.
And as I muster up the courage in my soul
And the hope in my being
I realize that those things need not be stored
Because I use them every day as I fight this battle.
We are all waging wars
Mine just happens to be against
This thing that is so intricately woven into the chemistry of who I am.
It is a part of me
But it is not all of me
And my voice is louder than this sickness.

She pines for me to come back to her.
Her broad shoulders, loose lips that really do sink my ship every time she speaks
She makes me feel like a Barbie doll on acid
As she critiques every element of my appearance.
My eyes are too wide and inquisitive
My hair isn't quite straight
And my weight?
Forget about it.

Yes, Bulimia has a funny way
Of making me feel like a failure
And yet I still hear her invigorating voice
Every waking moment I live.
It makes my skin come alive
My body jolt
My mind rise and fall
Still dizzy from the high she gives me.

People think
Going to a nutritionist will take care of her
Going on a diet will absolve her presence
Sure, she gets jealous
But that just causes her to inflict more pain upon me.

We have been fighting recently
And I threaten to take care of it for good
By taking a handful of whatever pills I can find to shut her mouth
She dares me, defiantly
"Do it."
One time, I almost did too.
Toxic relationships seem to be the most prominent kind I have

My therapist says she's only around because my ex reinforced every idea she put into my head
And my father did as well.
But frankly, I think she was there long before
Anyone ever encouraged me to skip a meal
Before anyone ever told me that my stomach has too much soft earth within it
To make me lovable
Before anyone made me feel like I wasn't enough.

She has all the influence in my *** life
And kind of reminds me of a jealous ****
For she encourages me to be promiscuous
But then her beady eyes give way
Scrutinizing every inch of my thick body
She whispers the number on the scale in my ear
And so I tell him to turn off the lights
So he won't have to look at the abomination
That stares back at me every day.

As his hands glide over my back
His fingers slide into the grooves between each individual rib
I **** uncomfortably and awkwardly
Because the fear that he is looking at the person I see
Could not scare me more.
She tells me that this fear is rational.

She is the third lover you did not invite into your bed space
But to call her Mia
To grant her personhood seems wrong
It seems sick.

She has a personality of her own
That's for sure
And none of my friends like her.
When she hurts me, I make excuses
"I've got it under control"
I say
"I can fix her."
Sure it's a lie
But I've made a career of lying to myself.

She is not a person
She is a wicked spirit
With a black curtain over any trace of a heart that was once there.
She tries to control me
She tries to become me.

And so,
Over the past month I've gained a few pounds
And while it makes my vice
Bulimia
Angrier than could be
She likes me skinny, she really does.
All that weight
That soft earth previously mentioned
The vessel I carry in my belly
It's all me.
It's all me
And none of her deceit has permeated it's entirety
So it remains
Purely me.

I said goodbye to the tree that afternoon
The one I sat always sat by as a child.
As I began walking away.
I knew that night I had no intentions of waking up
The next morning
If the knife or the pills had their way with me
It was like a potent *******.

I said goodbye to my phone
As I turned it off
And stuffed it under my bed.
Maybe no one would find me, call me
And everything would turn out fine.
No one has to hurt anymore
Isn't that the point of this endeavor?

I said goodbye to my family and friends
Through chicken scratch on a bright yellow post-it note.
"Mom, I love you" really meant
Mom, you are my hero
Even if you have made a lot of mistakes
You are the gentlest person I have ever met
I can never repay you for loving me unconditionally.
Please, keep loving me even as I lay beneath the dirt.

"Daddy, I love you" really meant
Daddy, I just want you to think I am enough.
I just want to feel like you love me no matter how I look.
I just want to be Daddy's girl
That's all I have ever wanted to be.
Please, don't be mad at me.

"Heather, I love you" really meant
Heath, when you find me
And you probably will, because you're always sneaking into my room
Don't look at me this way
So decaying and lifeless and ugly
Even though I have never been as pretty as you
None of this is your fault at all
Please, don't hate me or be ashamed of me.

I said goodbye to you all
But goodbye could never say enough.
No words that I could string together
From any of the twenty-six letters in the English language
Would ever explain even the very beginning
Of how my life disintegrated within my hands
Like sand, it dissipated into the air
And became one with the wind.

I said goodbye to myself
For I no longer knew who I was
Clearly, I was meant to lose myself along the way
Because once I awoke, ****** and cut up
I decided a change must be made.
My life became a work in progress
And while I have been far from perfect
I am improving
And that is all I can expect of myself.

I said goodbye to suicide notes
Written in pages of books
My pen was my dagger
That furiously cut away at the paper beneath its blade.

I said goodbye to the pills, the knives, the abuse
And eventually, although it took another year and a half,
To the bulimia that held my life captive during the lag time.

Never again will I attempt to say goodbye to this life
That left scars on my hands and wrists
And blisters on my heart and soul.
Never again will I attempt to check out
Because I choose to live by saying
"Hello."

I stand in front of you
Closing my eyes, because I do not want to see the gun
I know this is a firing squad
And I am undoubtedly the target.
Take your bullets, tainted with hate and fury
Please, I pray,
Make them deadly.
But you stand there for a good deal of time
Taunting me
God, would you just shoot me already?
I am already half-dead
My limbs danging from my body
My heart on the outside of my seared skin
So why do you prolong this process?
Still,
You continue to laugh at me.
I am defenseless,
What power does this give you?
I continue to talk to the god
That I still, even after this ordeal
Manage to muster up some sense of hope in
Even if it is a false one.
"Let me die"
I repeat, over and over again
"As seeing his face is like
Launching a bullet into my chest
And having my heart continue to beat."
What's worse than dying?
Living like you are dead
Because you might as well be.

Oh, decrepit world where we live
Who chose you?
Who is your creator?

Some say it is God
But I do not believe that the loving Lord
In whom I have been taught to believe
Would make something so heinous
So deceptive
So evil.
I find it a bit ironic.

People literally die to get out of this asylum every day.
Those people take their own lives.
Other are so angry about it they resort to violence
And they take the lives of others.
How can human being be so inhumane?
I find it a bit ironic.

Every day, our species
Who are supposedly different than the animal kingdom
Commits ****, homicide, slander and torture
And we are supposed to be more intelligent and rational
Than the other animals who tread along this planet?
I find it a bit ironic.

So, decrepit world
Do your devices derive from hate
When you were supposedly built out of love?
Christians say this
And while I love God
I find it a bit ironic.

You took a twisted part of me
And made it utterly broken.
Will I ever be able to live a repaired life?
Maybe, but not because of you.
You told me I was fat
When I was bulimic
You knew I had an eating disorder
Yet we talked about it maybe once
And you continued to pressure me to be the best at everything.

No empathy in my home
No, not for a disturbed, attention-seeking child
Who is really more damaged and broken
Than you will ever understand
Even if you don't care to see that.
To you,
She is just a selfish spoiled brat
Even if that was true, who's fault would that be again?
Who is trying to make your life miserable.

I wish you knew
That I cry in my bed every night
Curled up like a little child
Wishing I was lovable.

I wish you knew
Every time I purged
Back in that dark time in my life
I kept playing back the words
Daddy wants me to be thin
He won't yell at me anymore if I lose weight.
Even though that is a lie that still penetrates every ounce of my being
Because I know I will never be good enough for you.

I wish you knew
Every time I looked at the scale
I saw your face
And the number always made you angry.
I would tell myself how you would be angry with me
If I did not lose at least ten pounds in a week
So I would go harder.

I wish you knew
Every time I even began to believe I was pretty
You took that dream from my hands
And squashed it between yours.
You stole a lot of my self-confidence
And I do not know if I can ever forgive you for that.

Every cut
Every purge
Every tear
Every drop of self-hate
Every bit of longing for acceptance
All stem from you.

They are all for you
So take them as gifts
And treasure them against your cold heart
As maybe they will finally thaw it out.

I carry my baggage with me
Like a sack of ashes.
I have been burned and charred
By various sources
They are all that remain.
And yet you complain
That they don't smell good
And that they obstruct your view
I'm sorry I ruin your idealistic scenery
Considering your eyes are closed to a ******* up world
And you make your focus
The residue it left behind?
I hate to break it to you
But ashes are the result
Of a terrible fire that continues to incinerate
Our flesh and bones collectively.
The human race will eventually burn to a crisp
And you're worried about the remains
That I use to heed warning to others.

You put too much pressure on yourself.*  How often have I heard that, from my parents when I used to rip my hair from my head after softball games and school plays because I felt like I was stupid and incapable? From my therapist when I would continuously tell her how much anxiety I feel on a regular basis, like the world is collapsing on my shoulders and literally pinning me to the ground?  Now, from various teachers telling me I will be fine when I have panic attacks with tears leaving trails on my scarred cheeks and cannot stop shaking because the fear for the future and the terror of letting people down seems to be the hands around my neck, waiting for me to black out? How frequent have those words met my ears since I was five and began to look at myself like I was ugly, or at nine when I felt the need to hide what I ate so I would binge in my room, stuff bags of chips in baggy sweatshirt pockets so no one would see me as I cried about my size, but I continued to eat because it gave me some warped sense of paradoxical comfort?  And then at thirteen, when I felt I needed to do something about it so my stash moved from my bedroom to the bathroom, the place I locked myself alone for hours and stuck an unwilling finger down my throat so that all of these things that made me so not good enough would find their ways out of my limp body?  A good deal of this pressure was self-induced, but it was also learned.  You see, being my daddy's girl, every little child's dream, meant looking the part.  It meant passing on the chocolate cake on my birthday even though I had been waiting for it all year.  It meant being publicly ridiculed in fast food restaurants when I would try to free myself from his totalitarian diet regime and I would immediately be subjected to social homicide no matter who was there as a tactic to force me back into my place.  Maybe that's why I still cringe when people come into my workplace and embarrass their kids over petty things that won't matter to them the next day, but will scar the child for years to come.  It meant being taught that my only goal in life was to look pretty, and that because I am a girl, my voice means nothing.  It means learning to think I deserve the kind of love that tells me I am worthless if I am not a size six.  Being my daddy's girl meant that when the first boy I ever loved called me a fat ugly ******* on a regular basis that it was nothing new to me, he was just more frank about it.  It meant that when my please, don't's and my I don't like this anymore's were silenced by a friend's unwavering desires for power and control, I figured it was because he cared about me because that's what he told me.  After all, being my father's girl meant that I was nothing more than a pretty face, a porcelain doll, who was only good for being someone's *****, even if I was combatting against his advances.  
Being my daddy's girl meant sometimes, as a child, I wanted to be a boy, not because I was transgender, but because I wanted to be something of value that was not solely based on the beauty I did not have. Because of all this, being my daddy's girl meant never being good enough.  If all I could be was attractive, and it became clear that I was not, then what was left?  My sister grew into the skinny robot he wanted her to be.  She was my daddy's girl.  I never was, and I used my voice to speak out against every value he taught me.  He was conservative; I became a raging liberal.  He claims to be Christian; I began to question religion.  He was a sexist, homophobic bigot; I am a feminist and human rights activist.  As in all forms of tyranny, they try to shut you down if you shout the truth from the depths of your being.  But my voice will not stop screaming.  Still, how I felt about my looks began to affect everything else.  My father would try to support me in my activities and in school, but when I looked at him, all I could see was a big glaring manifestation of YOU'RE NOT GOOD ENOUGH staring me straight in the face.  And while this snowball has been rolling and building up for years, I have to stop believing the lies.  I cannot blame all of them on him; society has taught me that I am not a model, therefore I am nothing.  The church has taught me that I must be subservient to some man and that I will never be anything without him.  In case you couldn't figure it out, that will never happen. Overcoming this is not easy, and while my thoughts still panic and franticly bounce about from corner to corner, while my mind still travels to evil, lifeless places, I must crawl through the darkness.  I must proclaim to the world that I am enough, whether I believe it or not.