Things that turn purple:
Feet, when exposed to the cold
Food, when exposed to oxygen
My face, when exposed to fear
To my habits
To my past.
The mention of tying a noose brings pictures to my mind
Of how I used to plan my own death
While paging through a magazine in a waiting room
Ready for the doctors to see me
To tell me I wasn't that sick
Because they didn't know the things I did to myself
I covered up the sliced layers of my skin quite nicely
With different grades of fabric
The belts tied in the shape of my neck
Hung like skeletons in my closet
People kept telling me it was his fault I was so distraught
But that did not make me feel any better
They would constantly tell me there were support groups for the molested
That I was not alone
But there is never any solace in being a statistic
Numbers burn across my skin like matches
Each additional time I heard them
The skin would bubble and blister
Forming a new wound for me to later pick the scab off
If the world did not do that first.
Through therapy, I learned that
When I try to carry the pieces of me
That are bigger than my hands can hold
That are sharper than my flesh can take
That are wider than my unwieldy body
Even though I didn't think that was possible
I crumble like the walls of Jericho
When an army came rushing the city limits.
My past is an armada that rushes full speed through my chest
Piercing me with swords and muskets and bullets
Causing me to bleed and rot from the inside out
Causing me to fall away like petal from stem
Causing me to implode silently
And maybe a sign of this disaster
A symptom of this sickness
Is discoloration.
Things turn purple
As a result of prolonged exposure
To their personal kryptonite.

Think about the happy times.
You're lucky you had sixteen years with him
I never got that.
Stop isolating yourself and move on.
You're so pessimistic.
It's better that he didn't suffer.
Everybody grieves differently.*
Then why can't you just let me
Grieve my way?

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.

I write so much poetry,
That my thoughts begin in stanzas
And end in verses...

Poke, *****, stab
It might as well be a knife,
Cutting through your flesh on every fingertip.
Yet you find it on something so beautiful.
The only way you can hold a rose
Is by getting through the thorns.

I think I'll take my chances.

They say actions speak louder than words
But thoughts speak louder than actions.
Frankly, they are the ones screaming at the top of their lungs
With ghastly shrieks that pierce through the membrane of my mind
Filling it with awful ideas and even worse plans.
Thoughts do not have to be socially acceptable
As actions do.
For example,
I can consider
Sending myself off the George Washington bridge
And wonder if anyone would bother saving me.
I can plan my own funeral in my head
And ponder if anyone would even cry.
However,
I cannot attempt any of those things without intervention.
I cannot say such things without offending or concerning others.
Thoughts like these can also be unconscious
And frequently, they are.
They hurt, bang, and cause clutter in my head
But still, I know I will be okay
Because suicidal thoughts
Do not constitute
Suicidal actions.

I remember
Your laugh
Your smile
Your iridescent glow
You were stainless
You were special
Moreso than I could ever be.
We lost you
5 months and 3 days ago
So why do you still
Saturate our dreams, thoughts and feelings?
Always and forever
We miss you.

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.

It's all in the technique, they say
But if you have the desire
If you have the drive
That's the easy part.
Yet still,
Execution is key.

Let us use an example
Fibbing about your whereabouts?
Know your audience
Know what they want to hear
Know what they will believe
And how much they will believe.

Details make a scarlet deception ivory
They truly create the white lie
It becomes obvious if you are too vague.
Trust me, I know.

Look them dead in the eye
Don't laugh, but don't be too serious.
Just think about what you would say
Under normal circumstances.

If you get this far,
I pose a question of irony to you.
Why would you trust me?
After all,
I am a liar.

It's all the same,
To lie to you.
To lie to him
To lie with me.

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.

Cigarettes and coffee
At midnight every night
People wonder why I don't sleep
But I don't question it
Nor do I care at all.

Sleep never did me any good
I was always exhausted anyway.
Nightmares took my mind
And passed it between their grimy fingers.
I do not wish to be subjected to that again.

Now, as a self-induced insomniac
These nightmares merely come true
Or they show up
In the form of hallucinations.

I guess when I found slumber
I had a better grip on my emotions.
But so what?
I am still out of control either way.

Sleep or no sleep
I am a sad and lonely
Shell of a human being
And I pray every night
That I will be okay again someday.

They call you "woman"
Though you probably are just shy
You are only about fourteen
When a nation is sewn into your womb
The white men, they will call you exotic
Call your brothers savages
As they pin you to a tree
And colonize the nest below your belly
They will imperialize your body
Annex your ******
Because they can
They are above you, after all
Yet you are still looking ahead
So eloquent while under attack
Why is **** suddenly beautiful
When it is a weapon of war?
Why do we normalize
The abuse of women with brown skin?
Not pain, just literature
So darling, I am so sorry
For what my brothers, for what my ancestors
Did to you
I am so sorry that the war on your body
Is why I am standing on your homeland
Though the skin of my relatives was not on American soil
Until two hundred years later
My blood was never shed on that dirt
Anyone who came here after you
Has hands covered in red
Flash forward three hundred years
These white men whose forefathers
Made a throne for their heirs inside of you
Are accusing other brown-skinned people
Of being terrorists
Of being rapists
Did we really forget that quickly?
They will wage war for my body
Because it lacks pigment
But they will ignore
That they are the ones committing the crime.
Every time a brown person is deported
Every time we vote for someone
Who spews bile when they speak
Every time we accuse immigrants
Of advancing our **** problem
We are slicing your children from your insides
Marvelous woman
Each nation you birthed is under attack
Every time we attack another nation
Our hands are covered in red.

To the freshman sitting alone on the bus
Counting the scars on your wrists like train tracks
Creating a laundry list of the socially acceptable ways
To **** yourself.
Wondering if you'll jump off a bridge this year
Or bleed out in your bathtub next summer,
They'll be watching you.
You wish you could tell them they're wrong
You're different than all the depressed emo kids in the bad movies
Plastered to the television set like gum on the bottoms of desks
You're popular
But you're not pretty
Or happy.

To the freshman can I just tell you
In four years, you'll be happy.
To the freshman can I just tell you
You are pretty, you are beautiful, they all love you.
To the freshman can I just tell you
That the amount of likes you have on your profile picture
Equates to dust dissipating in the distance
To the freshman can I just tell you
The earth's curved wall will keep you grounded as you go through Hell
To the freshman can I just tell you
You don't know what *** feels like right now
But it is both amazing, like birthday balloons racing through your stomach
And overrated.
To the freshman can I just tell you
That a friend's overdose, two grandfathers' deaths, and one suicide later
You're still here.
To the freshman can I just tell you
Losing friends is the only way you know you can rely on yourself
It hurts like crazy, but the bleeding heals
And you find your own skin was the agent.
To the freshman can I just tell you
You'll go through horrific fashion trends
(Though none worse than the skeletons of middle school)
And still come out looking ****.
To the freshman can I just tell you
Graduation is not far away.
To the freshman can I just tell you
You're going to be ******* fantastic.
To the freshman can I just tell you
How ******* fantastic it is
To grow up to be me.

"I'm okay."
Look at me
I want you to really look at me.
Do I look ******* okay?

"It's alright if you don't get around to it
I understand you're busy."
I really need you to call.
I'm crying because no one cares
And I'm ever so used to being forgotten.

"I don't want to die."
I'm not suicidal
But that doesn't mean
That I haven't asked God to take me from this Earth before.

"It's only a test, I'll do better next time."
Expect me to obsess about this
For the next week or so.

"I like going out and being around people."
It doesn't matter if I'm home or out
I'm still isolated and lonesome
No matter where I am or who I'm with.

"Thank God it's the weekend."
My anxiety doesn't take a holiday.

"I love you."
*Please say you love me too.

I read my body like a road map
My ******* become mountains
My hips are flowing bodies of water
Here's to the not-so-lean lines
That tell me where the highways are
The railroad is the predominant form of transportation
In the quaint little town I depict on my skin
Train tracks cover inch by inch of me
From wrist to chest to thigh
Smothered in scars
That tell you where I've been
And where I hope to move away from.
Every good map has a starting point
For me, that was ****** abuse
Was verbal aggression
Was gas lighting
Then the extra distance in the middle
Was suicidal thoughts
Was bulimia
Was starting therapy
Was never being good enough for anyone
I'm not quite to where I want to be yet
But I'm progressing to the city of
I am good enough for me
Now I worship these train tracks
No more fresh blood
But I can kiss the scars
I find myself in love with my existence
Rather than ashamed of my past
I will handle my map like ancient scrolls
Like a golden altar
Not settling for any silly lover
Who does not exalt this sacred land, this body
And to love where I am going,
You must honor each and every place
I have been.

Who am I?
Trapped in this lifeless figurine
No getaway, no exit
I simply drag myself through these daily activities
But why?
Is it in order to
Impress everyone else?
To show them that I can do it
To abandon some long established inferiority complex?
Maybe, maybe.
And yet, and I am still bound
By life's broken lines and timed events.
I'm spinning a web of lies,
Thoughts like
"I'm okay"
"I can do this"
Spill from my faucet-like mouth
But really?
I'm getting tangled up in all of it.
Too bad suicide is not an option,
Self-harm is not an option,
Escape is not an option.
And therefore,
I remain caged in this labyrinth,
The deserted ruins of something resembling
A borrowed and ****** body
And my shallow and sorry soul.

Pull the trigger
Tick, tick, boom the bomb explodes
I am ticking like a time bomb
Ticking becomes tremors
Tremors become I can't breathe
Nor handle this much longer.

Pull the trigger
Touching me in certain ways
The smell of mushrooms
The anxiety that won't stop circling
All look like the barrel of a loaded gun.

Pull the trigger
Trigger warnings on songs, poems, anything
Aren't taken seriously
Causing me to have episodes
Causing me to bleed on the outside
From the inside out.
I now hardly exist
And these things make it harder
So please
Pull the trigger

Keep your eyes on the prize.
You're losing yourself in cliches
As you try to find exactly that.
Who you are , what you want
How to get it
All of these ring simultaneously in your mind
As you step up to the plate.
You're strong,
But you need to be stronger.
You're smart,
But you will only get ahead
If you get smarter.
These are the lies you have been fed.
That you will always be inadequate
And you will never be enough.
Now it is wrecking every area of your existence
You stray from your old friends
Your grades are out of your hands
And your burned out disposition tends
To be a hurtle for your failing body.
Nobody even stops to ask
"Are you alright?"
Because they don't want
To hear the inevitable answer.
You start to feel the heat
But you are denying that there is a fire.
So keep your eyes on the prize
I really hope it's worth
Your beautiful demise.

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.

So much hate in this world
Has gone unaddressed.
We hear plenty
About slavery in the early American days
And how how a civil war abolished it.

But our children do not understand
That there is still slavery today
Humans are being sold
In a secret industry that's booming
Here in the US and abroad.

We talk about racism in the 60s
And the future generation does not know
That men and women worldwide
Are being persecuted
Based on the pigments in their skin.

The Jewish Holocaust in World War II
Is discussed in classrooms
All over the earth.
Yet, the students remain blind
To the genocides that are prevalent in countries
That are flying under the radar.

Millions of people, slaughtered
Because of their beliefs and ethnicity
And we just sit back and let it happen
With our heads in the sand.

Women and children, beaten and *****
Because of their husbands' and fathers' sins.
Children being drugged
And forced to fight
For an adult's war
By those who were supposed to protect them.
And all we can say is
"How sad."

Many of us throw money in an emotionless pail
To help the causes so foreign to us.
Why can't we wake up
And help the less fortunate?
Even the most destitute of the United States
Do not know the poverty and violence
That prevail in developing countries.
And this is not solely their problem
But one for the human race as a whole.

Teachers, are you listening?
Won't you speak up
And teach the future leaders
About things less commonly discussed
Because they aren't so happy?
Abandon your pride
Because those events that go unaddressed
Leave us unaware.

Fall to the floor and scream
Seems to be some form
Of my coping mechanism.
It happens when
People die
I am assaulted
I am discovered
For what I truly am
A liar and a fraud
I don't cry anymore
I just shout at the top of my lungs
No longer do I care about
Who hears me
My mind and my trembling body yell
"This cannot be happening!"
This has to be a mirage
It's too unbelievable
To be real (my) life.

I am not a slave to circumstance
A victim of consequence
I am not,
For I have a choice.

Everyday, I decide
Whether to hold on with my death grip
Or to succumb to the mayhem which
My life at one stage depended on.

While I still
Struggle with the urges to
Revert back to old habits
I will not.

While my body
Suffers from tremors of longing
For the self induced *****
That I used to punish myself with
I cannot.

While my mind
Still hurts with the pangs of confusion
As anxiety preys on
My already feeble brain
It would be easier just to cut or purge
I do not.

While I may be
Bent, damaged
And maybe even crazy
I, at this moment, remain
Unbroken.

Who gives a ****
If I live or die?
I have become the one forgotten
And I have fallen into some peculiar space
Now no one remembers the girl who once stood
In my place
She is changed, she has become something unexpected and unforgiving.
Is there a reason to believe in myself anymore?

I have been deemed, by many,
Unlovable.
Perhaps the worst damnation of all
Has come from my inner self.

But how does the rest of the world see me?
My views have been clouded over the years
By some unwarranted opinions
Of hypocrites and bigots
Bullies and ex-boyfriends
Daddy.

Calling me names to this day
Even after some bouts of depression
Cutting
Eating disorders
Even a suicide attempt.

Although these are all in the past
I still fail to hold myself in high regard.
Did they make me hate myself?
No, but they had a weighted hand in its development.

So who could love a creature like me?
A person, or rather, a shell of one,
Plagued by habit
Submerged in guilt

Crippled by a question that has never ceased.
Does being forced into a protective armor,
Being ridiculed
Being unloved
Make someone truly
Unlovable?

When is goodbye
Ever a good thing?
I wish I could be more genuine
As I lay before You
Like broken glass
Shattered about the floor
Wondering have You left me?

I have written You off
Far too many times before
I fluctuate like the wind
In what I believe about all of this.

So can I praise Your great name
In the midst of the storm?
Or will I crumble like the mountains
Beneath my feet?
I know You're there in the shadows
When my hope drifts out to sea
You are with me
Even when I don't believe

How could You leave me
On this island alone?
To fend for myself
I'm only flesh and bones

And then You show me
The power You hold
And I realize how foolish I am
To ever doubt Your love

So can I praise Your great name
In the midst of the storm?
Or will I crumble like the mountains
Beneath my feet?
I know You're there in the shadows
When my hope drifts out to sea
You are with me
Even when I don't believe

I give You an ultimatum
Who am I to do that?
Yet You come through anyway
You see Your child in trouble
And You save the day

So can I praise Your great name
In the midst of the storm?
Or will I crumble like the mountains
Beneath my feet?
I know You're there in the shadows
When my hope drifts out to sea
You are with me
Even when I don't believe

God, You love me
Even when I don't believe

Disgusted with the way
You pulled my hair out of my face
I looked up to you
But right now
I am looking down at you.

I am seven years old
And my big Levittown style home
Surrounded by a white picket fence
In all it's ironic glory
Consumes me alive.

You always told me
This is what big kids do.
But I am not a big kid yet.

You always told me
This is just a game
But it isn't fun anymore.

You always told me
This is normal
But this is the farthest thing from it.

Now "home" and "family"
Mean nothing to me.

This is the poem I never wanted to write:
The blaming myself for things out of my control poem;
The feeling crushed by everyone's expectations poem;
The I never knew I could hate myself this much poem;
The facing my own mind is scarier than facing any demon poem;
The shameless nights I'm embarrassed to own up to in the morning poem;
The talking too fast and scaring people away poem;
The crying too frequently and wanting to waste away like a rotting flower poem;
The meaningless metaphors and stale similes poem;
The I can't see his face because it fills me with grief poem;
The I can't see his mother's face because it fills me with guilt poem;
The but I didn't do anything wrong poem;
The but emotionally I can't grasp the concept poem;
The then, hands all over me poem;
The now, hands holding a bottle of Jack poem;
The no, I'm not an alcoholic but I get tipsy to cope poem;
The I never get just tipsy anymore poem;
The lying to my parents poem;
The clinging to my parents poem;
The hating myself for every bit of it poem;
The now we're finally getting somewhere poem;
The maybe I should tell my therapist what's going on in my head poem;
The maybe I better keep it to myself poem;
The losing faith in everything poem;
The needing faith in something poem;
The needing faith in myself poem;
The wounded bird learning to fly again poem;
The maybe I can finally move on poem;
This is the poem I've always wanted to write.

With the
Desire the purge
Craving to cut
Need for escape

And the
Opportunity to drown out
My body's grievances
Why wouldn't I?

I'd be lying if I said
I haven't done it
I didn't have have weak days
My body doesn't ache for that
Lovely and disgusting
Physiological quench.

And yet they tell me
I'm lazy
I don't do enough
It doesn't matter that
I'm on my feet for eleven or twelve hours at a time every day
I'm working my *** off
I'm still recovering from an eating disorder.
But no, it doesn't matter
I still have no right to complain in their minds.

But wait**
I am a pretty good secret keeper
Sometimes.
Is it possible that
I am too talented at keeping my emotions locked away?
Maybe, just maybe,
They just don't *know.

On the morning of March 1st, 2015
At 4:03 AM Eastern-Standard Time
I awoke with a violent tremor
As if someone took my shoulders
And shook me awake
As if someone was in the room with me
I heard a loud moan, but it wasn't my own.

That morning, Dad told me you were gone
Before the words left his chapped lips
I knew.

You told me things would be alright
So why I am still grieving?
Six weeks, no relief
From the pain I try to avoid.
It seems to find me at every corner
Chasing after me
Like a snake in the grass
It constricts my body
Until I can no longer move.
My limbs go limp
And my white knuckles
Fall away like pedals
Of a dead and rotting flower.
I am isolated
From all the old friends
Who thought they knew me
Before I checked out of life as we know it.
I did not want to be a bother
As it seemed I was becoming.
So I crawled back into my old shell
Retreated to my cave
And shut my mouth.
No one wants to talk about it
And I don't want to deal with anything
So does that make me a bad person?
The fact that I will do anything and everyone
Just to repress these feelings?
I don't know.
I just... wish I knew.
Sometime I wonder if anyone can save me
And other times
I don't want a hero.

Things
Are
Bad
Right
Now.

(so why can't I fix them?)

I  
                                                    Thought
 ­                                                 I Might Die
                                         That Day As I Watched
                                   Your Lifeless Body Being Lifted
                         By Angels, and yet, lowered into the ground.
                                          Six feet deep, I refused to
                                         Throw dirt on you because
                                         I felt as though it would tar
                                         nish Your perfect complexi
                                         on The beautiful hand I wa
                                         nted to hold in mine Was n
                                         ow wrinkled and  withered
                                         I sank with you My blood s
                                         ank into my veins My heart
                                         sank into my chest My eyes
                                         sank into my head But I wa
                                         s not dead yet.  You  taught
                                         me to live So I could not fal
                                         l apart I bit my lips until  th
                                         ey bled Clenched my fists u
                                         ntil they went white Fightin
                                         g to hold on.  I could not cru
                                         mble  But as the coroner low
                                         ered you down  I realized th
                                         at I had no place to go *but up

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.

"Look in the mirror already
You're ugly, unattractive
And way too awkward
For anyone to give a **** about."

I step back, trying to whimper a reply.
All I can manage to stammer is
People like m--

"No, they don't"
She adds
"They just pretend like they do
So you don't flip out.
People don't like dealing with drama
And honey, you are drama.
People don't like fixing messes
And sweetheart, you make things messy.
You know you do."

I back down, submitting.
I think of a way to beat her
I go to the bathroom
Fix my unkempt hair
My crooked smile
My scarred and rigid skin
That has gotten that way from picking and cutting.

At this, she laughs.
"Try again, darling.
Pathetic doesn't even begin to describe you,
You worthless *******."

I face her, this time meeting her eyes.
But my voice still shakes.
I'm pretty
You know I am
I have something spe--

"No you don't, you little *****.
You're just a mediocre version of everyone else.
You have no talents.
The only thing you're good at
Is giving boys exactly what they want
Or letting them take it from you."

That one stings.
A tear rolls down my cheek
And she absolutely loves the defeat welling
Behind my bloodshot eyes.
My molestation was not my faul--

"But you could have stopped it, no?
Everything you do is a disgrace, and you know it.
You disappoint your parents
Your friends
Your teachers
Your family.
You are nothing.
No one will ever want you.
No one would give two *****
If you dropped dead right now.
They'd actually appreciate it."

This series of "you can't"'s
Gives me a sudden shock wave of confidence
Or is it bravado?
I glare at her square in the face
And say, with no stutter
Don't you dare ******* tell me
That no one would miss me if I died.

I said it, and it shut her up for a while.
Now the next step is
For me to bring myself
To really believe those words.

Every time I see you
I want to scream.
My body trembles
From my head down to my feet.
My stomach dissolves
Within my stocky shape
I try my best to avoid you
But it seems as if there is no escape.
I miss the days
That you were not around
You claimed
To be receiving "help" for yourself.
*******
But I was okay with it
Because your face did not curse me with its presence.
You treat me
Like I am ten inches tall
It makes me angry
To think about what you did to me.
I feel the sickness
Creep from my stomach
Up through my throat.
Every particle of my body
Wants to explode.
Deny the laws of science
It will.
And yet,
Nobody knows
That your perverted hands and mind
Explored my skin and my brain
When consent was not an option.
You would not let me change my mind
So am I to blame?
You make me wants to purge
But I will not
You make me want to scream
But I cannot
Sometimes,
You even make me feel like leaving this life
And never looking back.
But I do not.
After all,
That would be giving you
Too much satisfaction.
I will never grant you that victory.

I was never vindictive towards you,
Yet somehow, I wish I had been.
I saw you for seven grueling years
After the attack.
Endured every flashback, every pang of anxiety.
I would not let you get alone with me, however.
I guess in that way,
I was smart enough to get by.

Crying in my pillow
Screaming at the walls
Lashing out on others
But mostly at myself.
Yet I never once wished to harm you.
Some days I wish to want to.
But I don't.
I can't.
And I hate myself for it.

You had Asberger syndrome
And I was a child.
So who is accountable here?
I guess it is just easier to take this pain on by myself.

My parents could have sheltered me,
I suppose.
But whenever my brain creeps into that region
Of blaming them even a little bit
I feel like a *******.
They did not know, could not have known
Could they?

"*******!"
I'll belt, but it's never directed at you
Like it should be.
I say it to myself, and after my voice breaks
And I fall to my knees, sobbing
The rest goes something like
"You could have stopped it.
What the hell were you thinking?
This is your fault."

Intellectually?
I know I'm not to blame.
I was seven,
How could I have known better?

But emotionally?
All of that logic goes out the window.
I beat the crap out of myself for it.
I should have protected myself
Should have been protected
And I guess, somehow
I should have been able to control that.
I still need that control, I crave it
And I still need somebody to blame.

I was lost in the depths
Of my incoherent mind
And I swore up to You
That I was done this time.

Then I witnessed
When it seemed as though
Your life would fall apart at the seams
You made it through
Stronger than ever
And more beautiful too.

When He gave you
More than you thought you could handle
Everyone would understand if you
Fell to pieces
But you're climbing
You're a warrior
And He brought you through
Oh my Lord
The reason is You

It seems like
This change is eminent
Danger is apparent
And you're falling short
On top of it.

But you are stronger than you understand
He'll be your shield again

When He gave you
More than you thought you could handle
Everyone would understand if you
Fell to pieces
But you're climbing
You're a warrior
And He brought you through
Oh my Lord
The reason is You

You're not alone
You're not alone

You are not alone
This world is not your home

When He gave you
More than you thought you could handle
Everyone would understand if you
Fell to pieces
But you're climbing
You're a warrior
And He brought you through
Oh my Lord
The reason is You

Oh the reason is You
Oh God, You bring me through
Until the waves are few
It's what You do
Now I trust in You

Glassy eyes
Slurred speech
Delirium
Or something of the sort.

Brush my hair out of my face
I want you to kiss me
But I don't.
I'm not sure how I feel
And yet, I do not stop.
Why do I set myself up for regret?

We're ready to explode.
It's written all over our
Morphine mouths
******* cheeks
****** voices
That resonate silently.

We're so wasted
This youth
This generation
Kids these days
Or, that's what they call it.

It's all our fault, too?
Last time I checked,
You will reap what you sow.

You tell me
"you can be anything you want to
you have come such a long way
i am so proud of you."
If only you knew the real me.
if only you knew the nights spent
hunched over the toilet, gagging  
curled up in the bath tub, bawling
hacking away
at the skin i wish i could shed.
wavering between
trying everything life has to offer
and completely giving up.
You don't know where i am
or where i have been.
I am wasting that potential
that you have always known
was there.
It is rotting away within me.

We are the girls who took ourselves to school dances
Stood in the back corner eating stale popcorn
Talking **** about the "skinny *******"
Whose thigh gaps were the width of my wrist.
We are the girls who painted eyeliner beneath our irises like murals
And caked foundation onto our cracked porcelain faces
Asked to change our My Chemical Romance t-shirts
Because they were too edgy
Sorry, my pain isn't pretty
My teenaged angst isn't attractive enough for you
I won't be your success story
The one you gave a makeover
Just like they did on MTV
But even if I'm pretty in pink
I will still be pitted up against the popular girls
Girls like me don't stand a chance
Yet, still
Our bodies are made welcome mats for boys
Their eyes are invited to look us up and down
As if we are livestock or their next meal
Women become baseball cards
Passed between the clammy fingers of teen boys turned predators
The most valuable of us get treated nicely
As they violate our bodies
The uglier, cheaper we get
The more we are verbally attacked
Boys turn into men who don't know they are perpetrators
The way they get away with this
Is by turning our fingers from pointing at them
To pointing at each other
Patriarchy is very in this season
It creates entertainment for men
When girls become gladiators against one another
Remember, darling
In the game of the ancient Romans
Someone has to die.
The stakes get higher
As our names are replaced with numbers to be bid on
Is this high school or a horse race?
Watch the weakest among us fall prey
Can I get $75?
I see that hand!
The Queen Bee's own friends rip her from the highest seat
Plot twist!
Can I get $100?
Sold!
We all fall down together
The crowd goes wild.
Can you imagine what would happen
If we rose together too?
We would crash this ****** up system
The economy would collapse
If we demanded to stand with our sisters
Our Muslim, Christian, black, white, Mexican, Asian, gay, straight, queer sisters
We could literally stop the world from spinning.
Studies show
That young, single women
Are currently the most potent political force in America
This is a call
To inject our poison into the veins of this government
Overhaul and ignite gasoline
And watch this game of setting women on fire
Go up in flames.

That weekend
      I felt
Love
For my gay best friend
As he was the first person with whom I felt completely comfortable
Sharing my attraction toward a woman.
The first time I felt like a woman
And I felt like he was a man.
We laughed until sun melted into moonlight
Why would I go to prom with a straight boy?

That weekend
       I felt
Fear
Taking a serpentine system of public transportation for the first time
Getting lost in an unfamiliar state
And my parents knew about none of it.
I grew up fast that day
Swallowed my pride at the same time
Reading colorful street signs an asking strangers for directions
I met a kind bus driver who clearly felt sorry for me
Let me ride for free
And gave me his number to make sure I was safe.

That weekend
     I felt
Odd
As my best friend's church was all Asian
People looked at me a little backwards.
A mysterious boy with dark eyes was the only reason
I didn't get lost in the shuffle.
I finally felt what it was like to be a minority
And while everyone there was accepting of me
It wasn't particularly comfortable.
It was humbling for me to see
What others go through on the daily.

That weekend
    I felt
Grown
First trip on my own
Check.
Meeting my college roommate
Check.
And that same mysterious boy?
He was my tour guide
When my friend was teaching little children
About Jesus.
I wanted him to tour other things
And I fell like a brick for him
But I failed to mention
He was not just some teenage boy from a middle school dance
That's so Disney movie.
He was a man
With broad shoulders and a college education
And a faith so deep
I could only wish to swim in it.

You have these wrong judgements about me
And the haughty expectations.
I bet if someone asked a question:
"Do you know your daughter?"
You would say
"Yes."

After all,
You have lived in the same house with her
For sixteen and a half years.
But you can only begin to imagine
The life that I lead.

You know I am liberal,
But my feminist views would shock and disgrace you.
Get your conservative head out of your ***, please.
And realize that I care about people
Not politics.

You know I was molested when I was young.
You do not know that a friend has since
Abused my body in unmentionable and uninvited ways.
But I cannot tell you this.
I do not want you to reinforce the idea
That I am overreacting.

You think I am selfish and that all I do
Is pick fights.
I'm actually terrified of rejection
And have minimal self-esteem.

You think that I enjoy going to church
But truthfully, I do not agree with their theology or interpretations
Of most things.

Plus, most Christians are hypocrites.
It is so easy to point the finger
Without actually spending a day in someone else's life.
Oh did I forget to mention
I'm bisexual, I drink, and I have *** before marriage
I'm not exactly up to their standards
Or yours.

This just scratches the surface
Of the reasons why you don't know your daughter at all.

It starts with a needle.  The needle could be anything: a bad breakup, the tyranny of your father, physical bruises in unmentionable places that a person you trusted created.  Then, it floods your veins and this very thing soaks my being with a rainbow.  Now, your pasty skin is turning colors, from purple to red to green to blue.  You know that having waves in your body is wrong, but it is not from a single substance alone.  It is more of a feeling, a pulse, a sensation.  It feels like a shard of glass that saws ever so effortlessly between the layers of your flesh because it wishes to get to what is underneath.  This emotion is overcome with desire, but sometimes it still makes you want to stop breathing.  Sometimes it makes you believe that laying yourself to rest in an easy place where no one would find you or even try to is the only way to deal with it.  It comes and goes for no reason when you are depressed, and it is the factor that drives you to the edge, as well as the very element that keeps you from jumping. While, in one sense, you are no longer you, it may be changing you for the better.  After all, this type of person and item can be fixed, altered, morphed into a better human being and thing.  This creates a tighter and stronger bond between people who are in the same place.  It allows stories to be told that would ordinarily be hidden on a dusty shelf among outdated cookbooks and magazines.  Roots of intolerance can be severed when we realize that everyone experiences this, and it may cause us to view everyone as a person rather than a label.  Because we are damaged, we know that we will ascend from this place of despair. In essence, brokenness is a paradox; it makes you feel like dying would be easier, but it is also the only way you know you're still alive.

When I forget your name
like foreign venom from a foreign tongue
spit into my ear
smushed into a cut
Will it become familiar
once again?

It seems as though
the day you died
every memory of my childhood
died too
So now your name seems strange
like a different note
played from the same trumpet
like a different word
written in the same ink
like something vaguely familiar
but completely lost

In my head
you will always be Snow White
rather than the poison apple
as some have made you out to be
(ironically enough,
all the kids who made you hate yourself
who called you ****, *****, *****
they all still wept when you left us)
I do not mean that you were perfect
but you were my friend
as a little girl
as a child
and that is all I remember
your ghost looks like a nine year-old

I can't remember things the way I used to
My father will bring up times we played together
as if you're still around
I never understood how that works
how we can talk about you like you're still here
how it seems like your fate has been forgotten

I see pictures of you
when your mother posts them online
and I never know what to do.
My half-assed "likes" are my condolences
My comments are my sympathy
"I'm so sorry" has never emerged easily
from underneath my tongue
from the letters hidden in my saliva
sticky with regret

When I forget your name
I will not forget your face
Your memories are etched into my bones
your words are scars upon my skin
your breath is fog inside my mind
that makes the glass cloudy
I never want this fog to clear
I hope the weather never changes
the way we have.

Where I'm from
Most kids have never heard the words
"We can't afford that."
Where I'm from
Is marked by men in business suits
Who always seem to work a little too late
Where I'm from
No love for my curves.
"Are you really going to eat that?"
My largeness makes me a target
Where I'm from
Closet bulimics
Binge drink and purge in the morning
Fakeness is the measure of success
Why do you think the popular girls all look the same anyway?
Where I'm from
They act like choosing between a salad and a burger
Is actually a ******* decision.
Where I'm from
****** problem
Know at least three people who lost the light in their eyes
Because the monster blew out the candle
Where I'm from
It might as well be snowing year round
The people are so cold and white
Where I'm from
Nearly every parent is a narcissist
Believes their child is the next Ronald Reagan
He is their idol, after all
Where I'm from
There is no "two-party system"
Republicans win every local election
Where I'm from
They value the sanctity of life
Until one of those lives is an unarmed person of color
Then their tongues become laced with haughtiness and gunpowder
Where I'm from
Makes excuses for bad cops
Welcome to Small Town, America
Where we decorate our racism with jewelry
That way, no one knows the extent of its ugliness
Where I'm from
I ask questions, get shot down
Like Trayvon's body as it lies like an arrow in the street
Why is his life worth less than mine?
Where I'm from
Thinks abortion is ******
If we care so much about babies
Why do we not care that Tamir Rice was twelve
When his last breath was forced from his collapsing lungs?
A baby.
Where I'm from
My privilege becomes a loaded gun
But I will not fire
I try to keep the safety on
Safety on
Because I know I have the potential
To act on the only way of existing
That I have been taught
Where I'm from
At least half my friends' parents were divorced
I was told lying to get ahead
Is better than speaking up
Here is my voice for those who have been silenced by oppression
Where I'm from
Has shown me you cannot outgrow your bloodline
I have betrayal in my background
This is who I was meant to be
Where I'm from
They taught me to pray
So I pray daily
That these hands with the potential to shoot
Will instead pave roads for people
Who cannot currently walk down the street
Without the fear of taking their last steps.

This isn't me
Or is it?
Could it be
A newer version
Of me?
I really am
Not its hugest fan.
I miss
The old me
The one who
Was all smiles
All the time.
The girl who could
Cheer anybody up
Even when her own life
Was left in shambles.
That person
Who rarely let
Her personal and professional lives
Intertwine themselves
Within one another.
That lovely almost woman
Who stood for everything
Even when
It was too big for her to
Take on alone.
Where is she?
Where did she go?
She left when you
*Left her.

It started with a game.
She was innocent, but she wanted to be older.
Grow up too fast.
Be a "big kid".
After all, they have all the fun, don't they?
All her cousins were older, and she was always the one tagging along.

She hung out with an older cousin.
About seven years older than her.
Alone, in a room
A bedroom.
Just them two, and so he says
"Let's play a game."

This sounded intriguing to her seven year-old ears.
So she responds:
"Game?"

"Yes, truth or dare."
Is his reply.
They play.
Several questions in, he says:
"Crawl on top of me and kiss me."
He motions to his crotch.

The girl is horrified.
"No!  That's icky!"
She says.
He lies, tells her it is what all the big kids do.
Her seven year-old brain is confused.
"Really?"

"Yes, don't you want to be a big kid?  Oh come on."
She considers.  Considers.  Considers.
He taps into her emotions one more time.
"Fine, I'll get someone else to play then."

This child does not want to be seen as a coward.  A loser.  A little kid.
The rest is a blur.

The factors:
A bed
Asperger's Syndrome
A teen on his back
A terrified child climbing on top of him

The actions:
Hands, his on her torso
Kissing, her on his crotch
Touching, him.  Her.  Both players find fault.

The results:
Molestation.
Guilt.
Fear.
Promiscuity.
Shame.
Silence.

­Suddenly this game isn't fun anymore.
He doesn't do it again, never even threatens her.
They see each other plenty and act perfectly fine.
It accumulates in her for seven years, until she tells a guidance counselor.
Freshman year, fourteen, tender age.
She lets go of her secret, and by the end of sophomore year has become very confident.
Junior year she is flying, and that is where the story leaves off

My story, my (somewhat) happy ending.
I still struggle every day.
When society teaches girls not to be abused instead of boys not to abuse,
I cringe.
How was I supposed to know what was right and what was not at age seven?
I was not at fault.

What I would like to know is
When men are going to step up and take accountability
When men are going to say enough is enough
When men are going to stand up with their *****, molested and assaulted
Sisters, girlfriends, mothers, and friends

Guys, most likely a female you are in close accordance with has been abused
Whether you know it or not
According to some insane one in three statistic
I am asking you, begging you, pleading with you
Stand up and speak out

Educate each other
Create a new definition of "manliness"
Not just who can get laid the most
But who is the most respectful

Considering most ****** assaulters are men
Please stand up for me.
From every sexually abused woman, child and man on this planet

I just can't handle this
I am a sinking ship
Going down with every hit I give and take.

Who is this person?
Tears flow so freely
I cannot control this emotion
I am in limbo

This constant motion of
Having to be enough
Has suddenly come to an abrupt halt.

With every purge
I lose a little bit more of my control.
With every drag
I lose a little bit more of my sanity.
With every cut
I lose a little bit more of myself.

So who am I?
Who am I?
Who am I?

.   .   .

"I am not
Me"

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.

Where am I?
I've got on my new dress
I'm choking on stale cigarettes
Doing my makeup in some dude's rear view mirror
Under the visibility that a streetlight has to offer.

Do I know you?
You're some tall, unassuming figure
Who hovers over me
As though I am your prize.
Your gaze captivates me
Like I am something to be treasured.

Are you the same person?
Now, this handsome knight in shining armor
Is nothing but a monster.
"******* *****, *****, *****."
You scream as you shove me out of your way
The first day you hit me with the back of your hand.

What is this place?
I'm searching for courage
At the bottom of a glass
Of some cheap liquor
On the rocks
The bartender becomes my therapist
As words and spit are spewed.

Are you still there?
The dark man from before
Holds me down beneath his fists
As the skin of his hands and that of my face
Become one with the tile floor
Bruises bind me to his will
For he threatens much worse should I run from him

Why did I stay?
They ask
The general public refuses to understand
That defense lawyers use this as a means
Of excusing the accountability of the partner in question

Why do we ask?
After all, this is but another way we as a society
Blame the survivor
And excuse her abuser.

Let's start asking the right questions.