NO*
This
Can't
Be
Real

You are the gun to my head
The water underneath my feet
The chill in my bones
The part of my mind that wanders
To deep and desolate ruins
That scare the **** out of me.
You have used me
Trashed me
Destroyed me.
I call myself compassionate
And yet
Sometimes, I wish you would hurt too.

Can't I just keep pretending
Like you are only *sleeping?

You and I
Are like fire and gasoline
You continue to spew sparks
Into my gas tank
And expect me not to explode.

When you start on a turbulent trail
With your anti-Muslim slurs
As your speech begins to slur when you've had too much to drink
I prefer your intoxication to your ignorance any day
And your "facts" from Fox News
I try my best to cup my hands over my ears
As if I am closing floodgates
But you keep pushing me over the edge.

Floodgates are what you open
When hate spills out of your waterfall mouth
The waves ebb and flow violently
Crashing into me
Crashing into my best friend
A follower of Islam
Who would never hurt a soul
But the flood she faces on the daily
Makes her believe that she will be a casualty
Of the war the water wages.

When a father has to lie to keep his job
The one he has rightfully earned
Just because of his religion
America no longer seems like the land of the free
You complain about persecution of Christians in
The workplace and mainstream media
You don't know what persecution is.

Your acid tongue is volatile.
It spits venom into my cuts
That have yet to heal
You think you are saving me
But you just make the wound more painful.

You do not know the consequences of your words
Of the things you blindly support
The casualties are not
Dollar figures
Your right to speak freely
No matter who it hurts.
The calamities of these sentences
These mindless broadcasts
Are people.

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.

Can you hear that?
Swoosh, swoosh, thump, thump.
The blood rushes to your head
Until your ears can't stand the pounding.

Can you feel that?
The beating in your chest is accelerating.
A heart attack could be on the horizon.
Is it the fear of getting caught
Or the chase that excites me?

Can you taste that?
It's on the tip of your tongue
And seeping through every pour
And out of every outlet in your body.

Can you smell that?
The world around you melts fragrantly
Pick your poison, your sin, your vice
Whether it be *****, ***, addictive substances
Or some hearty combination of the three
And breathe it all in

Did you see that?
Every rule they tied me down with has been shattered.
You won't sleep tonight if you run with us.

But I guarantee you'll regret it in the morning.

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.

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.

One.
When you remember what happened to you as a child,
Ignore it.
It probably doesn't mean much anyway
After all,
You're probably just using it as an excuse to get away with ******
You're probably just making it up for attention.

Two.
When a boy fondles you in your church boiler room,
Do not tell anyone.
Since you froze up
Did not say no
The best case scenario
Is that they will make you "talk it out"
And tell you it is your Christian duty to forgive him
The worst case scenario
Is that your formerly mutual friends will brand a scarlet letter to your chest
And you make it your personal mission to live up to that label.

Three.
If you have *** before marriage,
Do not let anyone find out.
If you have *** with multiple people before marriage,
Hide it under lock and key.
If you have casual *** with multiple people before marriage,
You can forget about going to heaven.

Four.
When you have become the perfect liar and *****,
Do not get assaulted.
You know what I said about no one believing you?
Increase that times one hundred thousand.
The only difference is this time
Not even the ones you love the most
Will take you seriously.
You'll get your morning dosage
Of ****-shaming
And "what were you wearing?"
The nightly pill shoved down your throat
"He was in a bad place."

Five.
When he texts you four months later
Saying he hasn't tried to **** himself in quite a while
When you read the word "sorry" in a public bathroom
Say you're okay.
Do not say you are bulimic
And that where his hands went that night
Or the text messages that made you fear for your safety
Had anything to do with your own perfectly calculated mental breakdown.

Six.
When your church talks about purity,
Nod like the rest of the robots.
Smile, because you are their concrete example
Of who not to become.
Why do they care more about the *** you have
Than the *** that was forced upon you?
They say trauma has a stronger link to addiction
Than obesity does to diabetes
Do they ever stop to wonder
If just maybe, I am addicted to everything I hate?
They will tell me I have nothing new to add to the discussion
So they can silence me
But I have my story
A story that is mine and I control
The ending.

Your crooked smile betrayed me
Your cracked lips lied to me
Your greasy hands violated me
But who am I to complain?

You stole the ground from beneath my feet
You stole the sanity from the mechanism of my mind
You stole my control right out of my hands
But who am I to complain?

I wish this wasn't real
I wish this wasn't true
I wish this would all just go away
But who am I to complain?

Now, I am taking what is rightfully mine
Now, I am living, rather than merely being alive
Now, I am my own hero
Now, I am shouting louder than ever
Because you tried to keep me quiet.

I am finally granting myself
The right to complain
Because this is unacceptable
And yet
Society makes it seem okay.

****** assault is never normal
Therefore
I will never stop complaining
Until it is obsolete.

I tried to block you out.
I cup my hands over my ears,
Sing some immature tune
To keep your memory away.

It didn't work.

My mind still goes,
To the way you touched me then.
To the way your strong, stretched fingers
Traced my childish frame.
To what you made me do.

I still replay a movie in my head.
"It's just a game" you promised.
"All the big kids do it."
No. They don't.

You're so ****** up that you
Were able to convince me that
Something's wrong with me.
I didn't ****** a child.
I didn't lie to and coerce a seven year old
To give into my own deranged needs and desires.
You did that, remember?

Part of me almost feels
Sorry for you.
I know you have your problems
That you were born with
But that is not my fault
And that is certainly not
A seven year-old version of me's fault, either.

I told about what you did to me
When I was fourteen.
Some people say it must have been nearly impossible
To keep a secret like that for seven years.
It was honestly harder for me to break that secret.

Part of me was emboldened.
Part of me started to feel okay.
Until it all happened again.

My ex and I have been intimate
But it is always consensual.
When a friend took advantage of me
Right after some tragic events took place
I didn't know what to do.
I couldn't speak.
I couldn't think.

It happened so fast
But we didn't *****.
I found my voice to deny that,
Avidly.

That, however
Is a little less black and white.
The way you abused me, clearly
Was wrong, illegal, and disgusting in every sense of the word.
I understand that.
I do not understand what he did to me
And it has left me more confused than anything else.

I won't lie to you,
I am ****** about what you did to me
Still, to this day.
I would never confront you about it
I love your mother too much to hurt her that way.

I am ****** about what he did to me, too.
I still have the world's hardest time
Going to school, to work, anywhere
Out of fear that I will see him.

When I do see him,
I feel my breaths get short and raspy
And my heart beats too quickly for me to catch up
My body shakes,
And I get an overwhelming nauseous sensation.

However, I am trying to cope with this.
It will not keep me bound.
You never kept me bound.
I am breaking through every chain
That has strangled me like a noose.

I am accepting this
With every bone of my being
So I can move on with my life
So I can teach others
So I can become stronger
No thanks to you.

A comprehensive list
Of things that people don't say to me
Don't say to her, fat girl
Don't say to her, dumb ****
Don't say.
"You're not that fat"
"You don't need to diet"
"Have you eaten today?"
"Are you making yourself throw up?"
"Are you bulimic?"
"Are you feeling okay?"
"I believe that he assaulted you."
So every day I put on a new mask
Made of lavender soap and my own blood
That I continually drain out of my body
Onto a sheet of paper
Onto a slate of stone
Write it on my skin.
Because every day,
A new version of myself comes to dinner
Will it be the quiet, gentle Sarah who is too far too boring
But well behaved
Or will it be the loud, driven Sarah
Overstepping boundaries is her favorite passion
Doing things the wrong way is as natural to her as breathing
And then she scratches a list of things she has heard
A few times too often onto her wrist
"Fat *****."
"Waste of space."
"No one will ever love you."
"**** yourself."

A small needful fact
Is that 98% of women
Do not look like fashion models.
100% of American children
Are being lied to everyday
Told they are not normal
Told there is something wrong with them.
Another needful fact:
More than two million women
More than eight hundred thousand men
Are bulimic
Add, subtract, multiply, divide
Any way you try to solve the problem
It still exists like a parasite.
If any girl, boy, child, man, woman
Wants to escape these images
Running with cupped ears in the other direction
Hoping to save themselves
It follows them, rank with the smell of sewage
It is the ghost in the closet
Television set
Store aisle
Telling them they are not good enough
They cannot escape the lies so dense
Even their inner most breath
Is hot with deception
And so, even the most basic function of breathing
Becomes challenging.
Until we replace poison with water
Brokenness with holiness
Lies with truthfulness
These seemingly sorrowful statistics
Will never quite add up.

All of a sudden
My life came crashing down
All of a sudden
I was broken on the ground
All of a sudden
You were gone before my eyes
All of a sudden
I broke down my walls and cried
All of a sudden
My happiness was no longer there
All of a sudden
This dream became a nightmare

I used to fear loneliness.
I wondered if I would ever get married,
Or feared that no one would ever want me.
I am not scared of being by myself anymore,
But am more concerned that if or when I get married,
I could fall out of love.
I could be the 50% that ends in divorce
Or I could be the unspoken statistic
That ends up staying together
But making each other's lives miserable.
I have seen it happen far too often.
I am not afraid of being without a mate,
But of being far more alone and secluded with one
Than I ever was before.

The first time I knew I was fat I was five
When you told me not to eat the other half of my food
Because it would make me bigger
As if I was large to begin with
A perfectly normal, healthy, happy child
Saw the light flicker in her eyes
And eventually, burn out.
From then on, you kept attempting to be my nutritionist
Where you had no place to do so.
I kept learning to restrain myself
To eat when I was hungry
But when I was hungry, I was told not to eat
I kept wandering around within myself
A stray dog, a lost thought
The candle in my mind never stayed long
Somehow, you thought shaming me would help my hips to stop protruding into the atmosphere
Would help me shrink wrap my body
To become dust, like everyone else in our thin town
Thin high school
Thin media.
When I fell in love with those hips, those thighs, that stomach
I was told to become a ghost again
Even in the wake of my eating disorder.
What no one tells you about shame
Is that the end goal is never attainable
It's like helping someone breathe
By suffocating them
It's like teaching someone to swim
By drowning them
You told me it was never about appearance
I believed you
Until you made a comment about self-mutilation after I got an ear piercing
Knowing I used to cut myself.
Making me think of all that was said and done
Since I was five years old
When you bought me gifts if I lost a certain amount of weight
When you insulted my hair, my clothes, my makeup
I learned that my body
Was nothing but a canvas
That I was supposed to erase the picture if you didn't like it
And that I was nothing by my body.
I now have a plan to get healthy
But I don't intend on telling you what it is
Because it has nothing to do with weight loss
And you will simply undermine it
As you undermine me
Every time you tell me I will fail.
You told me you did not want me to be like you
Since you let yourself go
So I keep sinking
But at least at the bottom of the ocean, dad
I can drown out the chance
That I will ever be like you.

My little sister had become an entitled *****. Her thirteenth year had brought terror on us all. I can't really complain, however; I had been the same way at thirteen and fourteen. It's funny how I act like I'm so much older and more mature now. At almost fourteen, I was having *** and sneaking around and I'm still doing that. However, I was in the god-awful scene phase of my life, not that we haven't all been there with the clip-in colorful extensions and the emo band tees. My sister is in the slutty Hollister model phase of her life. I feel like we all go through on or the other, or if you're lucky enough you go through both. My body type was always bustier and hippier than any Abercrombie model that I had ever seen.

My dad and I had always **** heads. It flares up when my mom isn't around to be the peacemaker. Even when she is home, we still argue frequently, and we take a lot of low blows at each other. Yet he also expects me to be perfect. He's always been on my case about my weight, my friends, my clothes, my hair, my personality...I can barely breathe around him.  Nothing I do is good enough for him and frankly, I've stopped trying to please him.

And me? Well, I'm just the black sheep, the dark horse, the family **** up. The **** up who isn't all that smart, in school or in life. The **** up who can't lose weight, and who takes the heat for the fact that majority of her family is overweight. The **** up who gets blamed for confrontation she gets into with her sister. The **** up who can't play sports and is just plain clumsy. The **** up who can carry a pitch, but will never be a star. The **** up who can't cook, dress or act right. The **** up who will never honor her family. The **** up who's always been subpar in every area of life. The **** up who has nothing to offer the world.

Knives in my knee
Needles in my wrist
Everything feels wrong
My knuckles turned white
So I stopped holding on.

Don't show your scars
They say
You're doing better on your own.*
But life's waves consume you
And the brokenness enthralls you
Bit by terrified bit
Is it possible
To just "fake it til you make it"?

So you try to just move on
But you're doing everything wrong
No one can hold you back
Because it feels like your world
Is under attack.
Deception is not your intention
But face it, you're fake
Soon enough you're bound to break.

You can't do this any longer
It's not going to make you stronger
So darling, let it go
Let the ink and the tears begin to flow
You don't have to be heroic
When it's making you so stoic
You can fight this emotional plague
Once you realize
That you don't need to be okay.

Anxious hand
Stop shaking.
They can hear it rattling in your bones
All the broken pieces of your soul
Clanging together
Like chimes in the wind.

Nervous heart
Stop beating.
I want you to move
Only less.
Make me remember the times you beat
Because I was excited
The times I was able to feel something
Before this disease took me hostage.

Twisted mind
Stop falling.
The trap is holding you in it's talons
Like a wounded child
You cannot fight the claws
Attempting to grind you into bits.
You are sick
But they only see
Your clutter.

Broken body
Stop fighting.
When you try to resist the disorder
This dysfunction
This conqueror
You only hurt the very one
You have been trying to save.

Why does it make me
So ******* angry
That you died so soon?
You were not supposed to leave
But you didn't suffer
So why do I worry?
Why do I cry and scream
Even when I think I'm happy?

----

You can burn in Hell
For what you did to me
Your mere presence makes me ill
And the fact that I am keeping your secret
Is more than devastating.
But I'm not keeping it for you

You **** me off
Because you are alive
But you don't scare me
So why do I cry and scream
Even when I think I'm happy?

------

I'll never tell, darling
Because that's what you want
Is for it to destroy me
But its doing that anyway.
So which is worse, baby?

I'll never tell, honey
That the loss of your life
Is eating my heart away
So which is worse, sweetie?

Anger or sadness
Which is worse?

Dear you,
I miss you.
The name of a spice that smells so sweetly in the spring
Your name was so fitting.

Dear you,
How are you?
I live in my own pain that smells like a sewage plant
You have nothing do with it
You were always kind.

Dear you,
How dare you be so kind?
How dare you believe me
The person who accused your son of being a child molester?
Although, I never spoke poison
Everything I said was true
Why did you believe me?

Dear you,
I had trouble believing myself.
Knowing this happened
I detached so eloquently from the event
For seven years
I formed an alter ego
In which I could live comfortably

Dear you,
Are you comfortable?
I really do hope I didn't tear your family apart
As I seem to be so privy at
Why, just look at mine.
I played a heavy hand in the way
It's pretty ****** up

Dear you,
You are the only person who didn't treat me like a **** up
When you had every reason to
You never blamed me
You apologized for him
So why am I still holding onto this guilt?
Why am I so ashamed to see you?
Why am I so fearful?
Because, even though you never blamed me
I have always blamed myself.

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.

The amount of nicotine I ingest
Is more than enough
To send a small child
Into a lengthy coma.

Although it helps me relax
For but a moment
As I take them by the pack
Chain smoking just has a way
Of sending a person down.

Passing out is a means of sleep
But when all you do is shake
And your heart may as well burst
Is it worth the risk
And the headache that forms shortly after
The buzz wears off?

Absolutely.

i.
In the shower under cold water, I scrubbed and scrubbed
I wanted to rid myself of my own skin
Escape into a mine so I could live among the coal
A fuel almost as ***** as I felt.

ii.
As he pulled away from me
As he broke me into pieces
Shattered glass lay upon the seat of his car
I know what it's like to escape into a stranger's hot breath
The weight of a warm wash cloth upon my back
Pressing down again.

iii.
I prayed my wings would grow back in time
For me to fly to places I could never see
Before, my vision was black in white
Suddenly, I could see in color
His memory continues to pluck the feathers
But once again, I see the value of bone.

iv.
I tried to move on
Forget the thrashing of your memory
Like a gong, clanging symbol
Leave my mind alone
Leave me be

v.
Free me of broken pieces of the years I lost
Minutes, I lost bleeding from the inside out, razor eloquently in hand
Hours, I lost to purging myself of your uncleanliness
Days, I lost dredging my soul in therapy, hoping to dig up something that would do me some good
Years, I lost to the talons of PTSD
Depression
Anxiety.

vi.*
Finally, some hope
I taste it on my tongue like raindrops after the drought
Sunlight after the storm
I find myself
And lose the taint of you, heavy laden upon my skin
You are a cavity
Filled by love and support.
And finally, there's beauty in the struggle
It's anything but brief
Because the fight goes on
Forever.

They tell me I should draw my feelings
As a means of coping.
They do not realize
How scared I am
Of what my hand may scribble.
My art would be too dark
As I still have thoughts of relapse
And worse.
If I drew
They would send me to the hospital
Once again.
But why?
I have not acted on these impulses.
The drawings would show
The demons that lurk inside of me.

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.

i.
I am a short, stout girl in the corner of the room
my arms were much smaller last June
I search for reasons not to relapse in shadows like corpses
they're all dead, anyway
because my roommate is obsessed with the gym
because my best friend is obsessed with fad diets
even though I have at least fifty pounds on both of them.

ii.
I am forcing myself to use recovery speech
because it gets me through therapy more effectively
"fat is not a feeling"
my mind scoffs as I speak
every word copied and pasted from someone else's recovery blog
but my recovery is not avocados and yoga mats and veganism
it is complicated
it is painful.

iii.
I am the small, queer girl in the pew at church
so nervous as the skin around my nails begin to bleed
the scar on my ******* says "*******"
to American evangelicalism
and yet my lips still sing the loudest
the product of the "moral right"
how lovely it is to pretend to belong.

iv.
I am acting like my body knows what it is doing
as I reach for the hands of my most recent lover
I drop hints to my Republican parents
church members
best friend
but still,
I am struggling.

v.
I am trying to undo the codification of bulimia
from the fibers of my bones
I relearn daily
spun like wool through the continuum
of someone else's broken body
I become a success story
for some
but for others
I am still fat.

vi.
I want my eating disorder
my abuse
my queerness
to look normal
to be typical
some say
assimilation is liberation
so why do I still feel
chained and bound?
why am I still
unfinished?

Most people hear about it on the news and they think "what a shame, how sad." They think it is some creepy dark stranger on the street of a major city who captures a young girl whose parents are too naive or busy or negligent to walk her home from school. That is when she is eight. When the girl is 25 and stumbling out of a bar right into the arms of some awful man who is out to prey on her trembling hands and glassy eyes then suddenly, the same breed of creep who attacked the little girl is no creep at all but, in fact, just an ordinary man. It is her fault, after all, what did she expect after consuming enough alcohol to drown a small child or wearing a skirt that clearly gives him permission to force himself onto her unprotected and unassuming body as she lay there lifeless, either passed out or staring up at him helplessly from below? Well, what they don't tell you about ****** assault is that usually it is not a strange character at a club or on a street corner but someone who is in your life, has gained your trust and has taken it and pitched it out an open window the second he lures you into his dark, ruthless eyes. They brush it under the rug of society and leave out the details that it does not usually take place in an abandoned warehouse or on concrete but rather in a bedroom or a hallway in your workplace or school that you have walked through comfortably with him so many times before and now you can barely approach the scene of the crime without having the stench climb up your nostrils and paralyze your body until the feeling nearly sends you to the floor. They fail to admit that the victim -- who is not truly a victim at all because society smacks that label right onto her forehead, implying that the survivor is weak and the attacker won whatever sick game he was playing-- frequently wishes that she had not survived so she would not have to grapple with the pain of living with this secret and seeing his face every day, knowing that should she say a word he has an arsenal of evidence against her and she has none to back her story. They don't know that she knows in the back if her mind that she does not deserve what he did to her but in her eyes, she froze and let him use and abuse her, so how could she not owe it to this man who extracted every bit of joy from her soul and gutted every bit of life from her being? He asked me why I am so sad after he apologized to me, but did he forget the harassing texts he sent me when I would not sleep with him or the way I froze when he made me do other things?  No.  And no, the public does not hear that side of the story that so desperately needs to explode and immerse every area of society that permits **** culture rather than attempts to bring it to a screaming halt. How can society condemn assault victims and coddle assaulters after a guilty verdict is reached? As misogyny prevails, I am asked why I let this happen, told to just get over it, and questioned as to why I am so pessimistic. I am not an optimist, nor a pessimist: I am dead inside after being murdered in a culture that insists on calling it suicide.

Once upon a time
There was a girl
Who was grieving
There was also a boy
Who took grave advantage of her situation.

Get away from me.
I never said yes
Did I say no?
I don't know
I don't...

No.
You don't get to blame your mental state
For what you did to me
I have depression too
And I would never do that to someone.

So then there was today.
When I had to train you at work
I saw you walk in for training
And prayed to God she wouldn't say my name.

"Sarah! Can you train _ on register?"
****.
*******. **** this. **** my life.
My anxiety has suddenly spiked through the roof.
I start shaking and digging nails into my wrist.

"Sh-sh-sure."
I st-stuh-stuttered like a scratched CD
This isn't fair
Why me?

I was impressed with myself
And how professional and cordial I was
I wanted to tear your eyes out
But I managed to tell you how to do your job effectively
And even was almost supportive when you got it right.

If that wasn't traumatizing enough
You have to try to flirt with me
Or act like we're friends
Well **** that.

You were never my friend.
I may have thought you were
But you were the opposite.
Besides,
You told my friend who's stuck on you like a sick puppy
(God knows what she sees in you)
That you hate me
That I cause drama
Etc.

At one time, I assumed you really did.
And I was okay with that
I lived with that perfectly fine
But now I know you see your fault
You know you did something awful
But you will never admit it.

So, in conclusion
Go ahead and stick your dagger in my chest
I won't even feel it.
I'll walk on pretending I'm fine
Even if I'm dying.

And finally**
***** you.

When a life is taken
So tragically
So prematurely
How are we supposed to react?

I have lost friends
And acquaintances
Who were in their teens
Their early twenties.
The circumstances were ruthless
Two suicides, an overdose.
How does this happen?

The worst part is
I would have never expected it.
Colin, you were perfect
Literally, that is the only word that comes to mind
When I think of you.
I miss you so much it breaks my heart.

Michael, you were right up there with him.
I just remember how when
You used to teach Sunday school at church
And a child was absent for several weeks in a row
You went out of your way to call their home
And make sure things were okay.
I can only aspire to be like you.

Both of you were the last people
Who I would expect to do this.
Everybody loved you two,
I guess you didn't see it that way.

Conor, most recently deceased.
I know I did not know you very well
But I have met you a few times through friends.
You always seemed like a great kid
And I know that my best friend and her family
Loved you.
So many people did.

The thing I have taken away from these tragedies
Is how short and precious life really is.
These three wonderful people have taught me
That no matter how early your life is curtailed
It is crucial to live while you are alive.
Would we remember you the way we do
If all three of you had forgotten to do that?
It is not your passing that serves as a teacher
But your three distinct and brilliant lives.
Rest in peace, my friends.
I will see you soon.

From the outside,
No love is present
And no love is received.

I am cold,
Stone hard.
I want to let you in
But is there anyway I can guarantee
That it will be okay?

I don't want you to see
The goons that lurk beneath.
You will run, turn and hide
It seems to be a common theme in my life.

There is no way that anyone can love me.
I am not pretty to look at
And am even messier underneath.
I don't deserve to be cherished.

Discomfort in my own skin
Has caused me to desperately search
For alternative ways to change me
But to no avail.

I have secrets that run like rivers
Through the depths and canyons of my soul.
Things I carry in suitcases
Everywhere I travel
Holding my breath that no one will open them
And that they will not burst.

Soon enough, however
I am going to burst.

Point the barrel of your gun
Directly at my head.
I can feel the metal
Still hot from your last victim
I know you mean business
So why don't I get scared?
I just want this to be over.
But no,
That would be too easy for you
You want to watch me continue
To suffer and pine for the old me.
You don't **** me
As that would ruin your fun.
You simply torture me
With the option of death.
But is it a threat or a temptation?
Who am I kidding?
You would never let me die
As if you did
You could not admire what you have destroyed.

In 2002
Christina Aguilera released a single called
"Beautiful."
Do you remember how revolutionary those words
"I am beautiful
No matter what they say
And words can't bring me dow-own"
Seemed to be?
Well, it still seems visionary
As to many
I am only as beautiful
As a man says I am.
Only reduced to pretty face
Only reduced to **** body
Only reduced to nothing.
My mouth
Do they call that beautiful?
Only if the paint spilling from it
Comes in the shades "sorry" and "yes"
Because rewind to the time I was sixteen
And two men at my job deemed it fit
To tell me explicitly what they would do to my body
In front of a room full of customers.
So I told them exactly what my fist would do to their face
And penalized for it.
They said I was rude
They said that while it was vile
It was not my place to fight back.
Well, I am fighting back right now!
To not be reduced to pretty face
To **** body
To nothing.
My mouth
My mind
My heart
Is beautiful
No matter what they say
Even if they tell me to say nothing
At all.

I use pain for inspiration.
Because something that is terrible at face value
Can be used to create
Beautiful masterpieces.

At the bottom of the ocean
In a city on a hill
Caught in the throws of any cliche
But it better be extreme.

They left you
Wailing and afraid
I still hear your screeching voice
In the middle of the night
Or in the dawn of morning.
Is she yelling out of pain
Or out of excitement and delight that it's over?

I can't get it out of my head.
A young kid, standing in a field
Abandoned and unveiled for all the world to see.
A preteen, climbing a mountain
Built out of quicksand and depression.
An adolescent, tripping and stumbling
And not just because of the substances
That impair her fading judgment.
Yet, she's not knocked down.
She still believes in love.
Why?

Sick and jaded you
And unassuming me
Meet at some crossroads
Or maybe it's just a street.
The similarities are awe-inspiring.

Really, the poem has no reason
It makes no sense
Just as life should be.
And I love it that way.
But so many people are so serious
We have looked the other way
And decided that our existence is nothing special
But in reality, it is beautiful
Beautiful and forgotten.

Floods of the unforgiving tide
rush in to captivate our feet.
Knee-deep in this hateful sand
we stand, our feet planted firm.
But it was always easier to fall
than to be thrown to the ground.
You were the first one who taught me
just how to be a beautiful fool.

I pretend I do not know what it's like
to grow up with two people
who hurl words like knives
who use their daughter as the scapegoat
for the problems they do not wish to deal with.
They have taught her to conform
but as she refuses
and so, she is tortured emotionally.

For then she hits thirteen
and she is awestruck by some devilish boy
who takes her on her first trip that she experiences
while intoxicated by love.
One of the side effects is blindness.

He knows exactly what she wants to hear
and he sings it to her, ever so delicately.
She will never want to let him go.
As he wraps her around his finger
she begins to see the danger
but she wants nothing more than to indulge.
She loves him, forever and always
and desires, hopes and wants nothing more
than to be his
*beautiful fool.

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.

You are
The sun-kissed skin that had an iridescent glow
That time we went to an ice cream parlor
For your birthday
The time I almost drowned in that community pool
The game we played with your Mom
An extension of her auburn-soaked locks
Although yours are blonder
But you have the same ruby red smile.
A kind spirit in a tiny body
The eyes that flared with the flames of a gentle spirit.
Days spent as we played with animals
On farms, at the pumpkin patch
We loved them so dearly when we were young.
A two and a half hour commute, yet worth it every time.
Horse riding with our sisters
As we complained about how annoying they were.
The first time we made ceramics
Yours, of course, were better than mine.
The way our parents would tell us
Of memories of ski trips and college endeavors
That made us hope to be university bound
Even though we were in grade school.

Things have changed.
Now you are motherless
As lung cancer took her life
Eight years ago in March.
Which also happened to be the last time I spoke with you.
I remember,
Dad wouldn't let me go to the funeral.
He said I was too young
I couldn't miss school
The usual.
At the time,
I didn't know if I longed to go to honor her
Or to see you.
It wouldn't be the last funeral he denied me
For various reasons.
I still miss her
But I miss you more.
We lost contact
And the questions I had for you at eight
Still resonate in my overbearing brain.

What was it like to lose her?
How did your father cope?
Did your grandparents move in
To take care of you and your young sister?
Do you remember these memories like I do?
Do you ever think about me?
Do you miss me at all?

New questions compete for their spots.
Do you have a boyfriend?
Do you plan to go to college?
Do you still love to draw?
I would assume you are still putting that angelic singing voice
To good use.
I hope I'm right.

Sometimes, I wonder.
Wonder what it would be like
If we still kept in touch.
Dad said your father
Lost contact with him after your mother's passing.
I know, this is petty
But I still miss every summer day
For the first eight years of my life that I spent with
My very first best friend.

I said
"No."
So why didn't you
Leave me
*alone?

Take me away
So I can silently break
Let me shatter
Away from all of this clatter
I can't stand the sound
Of a life going down
I allow myself to sink
And before I can blink
I am at the bottom of the sea.
Won't someone save me?
They think I'm pure as snow
Not that I am boiling and smoking
And they will never know
That I am beyond broken

I want to be okay
I just want to give up.
I hate drama
I find it amusing.
I am trying to get better
I am not trying at all.
I like myself
I'm a stupid *****.
My friends are my rock
No one likes me anymore.
I can block out flashbacks that I don't care to remember.
I think about what happened to me every second of the day.
I'll get over this.
I don't know how to move on.
I've got it all together
I am falling
           A
        P
              A
              R
        *T

I thought the ***** would make me stop feeling it
But instead I just felt it more intensely.
I kissed a girl and I liked it
Not like that Katy Perry song describes.
I am not some **** straight girl with a boyfriend
Who is trying to impress other dudes at a washed up bar.
I just don't get it
Maybe I never will
How I can be some Christian child of God
And feel this simultaneously?
I will never understand
How some will continue to harp on the idea
That this whole spectrum is a plea for attention
And does not exist.
What the hell are they talking about?
Do they think I like walking around every day
With a stigma attached to my chest
Even though most people do not even know the truth?
Do they think I enjoy
Lying to my parents, day in and day out
Saying I am this pure, straight Presbyterian teen
Who's secrets are all out in the open?
There is a ton they do not know
This is just the tip of the iceberg.
Do they believe that I find pleasure in
Hiding a huge part of who I am
From my school, my church and my community?
They cannot judge me
That is God's job.
These are just a few of my classic gripes
About being a closeted bisexual
In a conservative family.

The speed limit was 50,
And we were climbing 85.
You pushed me to go faster.
We knew we were in too deep,
Demolitions only lasts for so long.
It was too cold to take such risky measures.
We lived fast and loud,
And we never saw this disaster coming on,
Head on.
Freeze, spin, collide, blackout.

You spun me out
And totaled the mechanism of my heart.

Disappointing you
as only you can see me through
is the only thing I'm mildly good at
I hope if you think of me, you forget that
so I take this razor to my skin
I let myself feel the sting
regretfully, I let this blade
dance it's way across my wrist
my worries start to fade
finally, I have my fix.
in love, in lust, in hate
it carves a phrase
**** up
is what it reads
dear god I miss the old me
the one who would never harm herself
the one who was not a living hell
the one who would never punish a child
for the way her body was defiled
something that was out of her control
but she refuses to let go
so now she falls to her knees
as her every emotion bleeds
from every gaping hole in her body
her tears sting her arm so harshly
for as she loses her will to fight
an angel goes back to heaven tonight.

When I tell my little sister I got a pet mouse
She's asks "why didn't you get a hamster like a normal person?"
Her voice poisoned with disgust
When the guy at the pet store says he didn't expect me to be a snake person
Says he didn't expect to sell a mouse to someone like me so quickly
I know he means little girl, breakable woman
Little girls are not supposed to be into snakes and scraped knees and oversized tshirts
But I, I always have been
And yet my friends who have the best intentions
Tell me if people saw my accessories they'd never assume I'm queer
But they don't say queer they say gay
But I'm not gay
But I'm not straight
And I keep teetering between too much and not enough
Always in this heat of this new game
And I was never taught how to play
I was never given a rule book to my gender
To my sexuality
Because they never tell you how to be in between
I never correct people when they mislabel me in one way or another
Because I've learned people hear what they want to believe
It means I will be wasting the already fleeting breath in my lungs
To explain something to those who will never embrace it
My gay friends debated over whether bisexual people are actually gay in front of me
And wondered why I walked out of the restaurant
They didn't see the lava bubbling with anger and shame at the back of my throat
I cannot even call myself bisexual
Because that implies too gendered
That implies too simple
For my hopelessly complexed identity
I find myself somewhere on the border
And some days this body serves its purpose
Other days it is violently trying to escape itself
Not quite enough to mention to anyone but me
Not quite enough to matter to anyone but me
But I see these binaries as a prison
And most days it seems like I am in solitary confinement
Too much, not enough
Always in between

I was born in a rich kid's body,
With a poor mentality.
I was born nonconventional
In a land full of people hoping to change me.
I was born a free spirit
Surrounded by clones.
And I was born an avalanche
As I have come far from infancy,
I have grown into my skin.

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.