After you, there was nothing else to feel.
You tore me apart, my spirit and my body,
leaving me bleeding in a way I couldn’t change.
Bruises riddle my arms, thighs and face
and shame clouds my perception of the world.
A part of my insides dies with my innocence.

I am now a vessel--from filth creating innocence
I am confused about how I am supposed to feel.
Is joy the emotion for bringing life to this world?
The bruises fade but pain still riddles my body.
When I sleep I’m haunted by your face.
I hate what is in me the more my body changes.

Each month I grow and can’t deny the change
that gives away the loss of my innocence.
They tell me this tiny monster has a face-
probably one like yours. The thought makes me feel
like vomiting. Even Momma beats my body.
She doesn’t want this monster in this world.

I have nowhere left to go in the whole world.
Of course this is the same as yesterday. No change.
I am not the only one disgusted with my body.
You ravished the very essence of my innocence.
Does anyone else understand how it feels
to be rejected by even your fathers’ face?

I want to tear off your face.
I want to scream to the whole world
but instead I am silent and numb without feeling.
My own father kicked me out without any change
for the bus. He, too, forgot I was innocent.
You stole my family along with my body.

This thing inside me is yours-- this body
whose face is a tiny mirror of your nasty face.
For all I care, it is born without innocence
and should be removed, with you, from the world.
Nothing anyone says can make that change.
I refuse to feel.



I no longer know the meaning of the word innocent.
Violent shudders rattle through my body

I can’t take any more pain or feeling!
I hate that tiny face.

Today I brought your monstrosity into the world
but in your own world not a thing changed

We began innocently enough.
I certainly never set out to transform
from no one
into such a staunch example of judgment.
“confidence,” you scream,
and I cry, hoping for it.
You will never hear my respect
if you never let me speak!

And as much as the words I never said
cut you to the bone,
the assumptions you make--
that I would ever stoop that low,
bleed me dry and empty
of the blue blood that keeps me yellow.

To hear from party three and source
that you will still believe only yourself
when the evidence has cleared
a stone-faced jury
causes me to continually ponder
where I got these horns and triton.

I remember like a dream
that you yourself burned that triton
straight to my palm forever
and painted my tear-streaked eyes
to match these bleeding horns
you’ve driven deep into my skull.
They cause me to forget myself
and worship you in *******
as sacrilege sneers.

I wonder what the hell the world sees
when they look in my direction.
I mean, sure I have a bright personality
but some have seen me fiery and smoldering
and I burn those who stand too close.

I wonder what the hell the world sees
when they look in my direction.
They certainly don’t realize I hide
a much softer side behind each rant.
The fluff and feathers go unhatched in my shell.

I wonder what the hell the world sees
when they look in my direction.
My laugh certainly can draw a stare
as it rumbles up out of my chest
and tinkles to the ground like crystal.

I wonder what the hell the world sees
when they look in my direction
and the rage from forever-hurts flare.
My fire lashes out and tears betray me
as I hope to be secretly strong.

I wonder what the hell the world sees
when they look in my direction
and realize I know I’m not much to look at, at all.

I remember things being different.
The tears come and I can’t tell why anymore.
I tie these sad grey bricks to my ankles.
I bathe in puddles of my own fear.

The tears come and I can’t tell why anymore.
No one threw me a life preserver while I drowned.
I bathed in puddles of my own fear,
only wishing for change or death.

No one threw me a life preserver while I drowned.
Comfort flees from the numbness,
only wishing for change or death—
knowing now that change won’t come.

Comfort flees from the numbness.
I will rest at the bottom of this salt sea,
knowing now that change won’t come—
I breathe in as the tears hide in the sea.

I will rest at the bottom of this salt sea.
I tie these sad, grey bricks to my ankles.
I breathe in as the tears hide in the sea.
I remember things being different.

Everything: pronoun.
a.) every thing of particular of an aggregate or total; all.
This is what I’m told you are
but I’ve never been one for deities.
You hear my thoughts
but command me to speak.
You know my human ways
but still expect to have me all to yourself.
You’re jealous- a “jealous god”
but I’m to believe you’re perfect?
The book says your ways are higher
but the coincidences and rules
that surround your mystery
just don’t add up enough for me.

Enough: adverb
a.) in a quantity or degree that answers a purpose or satisfies a need or desire; sufficiently.
I have a desire to change,
I have a desire to love,
hell, I want a Ferrari!
I don’t have those so are you
really enough if I use the book definition?
But, no, seriously, some people are starving
while others cant stop killing
or lying or stealing or hating.
Are you enough for them too?
Im still waiting,
but we at least have that in common.
They say you are too.
“They” being the activists, the followers, “yours”
and yet you’re still waiting for surrender.

Surrender: verb
a.) to yield to the possession or power of another; deliver up possession of on demand or under duress
You want me ever so much
-or so I’m told.
When I want something
I have to ask or initiate.
Where are you?
Are you planning on ever
speaking to me or asking?
Where is your humility
to simply ask?
Waiting for what you don’t ever request
is more foolish than I ever assumed
a deity of great power and might
could be.
You astound me for sure,
but not in a good way.
I thought the zealous screamed
something about you being the definition
of everything,
but I don’t seem to be able to define you that way at all.
I ask these questions innocently,
yet still I hear no response.
Did you perhaps,
in your infinite wisdom
create the world
and forget to give yourself a voice?

First time, commercial coffee shop
overindulgence, over laden with portfolio,
books, purse, and now cup: underdressed.
Far too few layers for a
shower of cotton *****
sticking to eye-lashes and hair.

Journeying from coffee shop
to bus stop; urban miles away.
piles of melty cotton *****
grab at my inappropriate shoes.
Too much milk and water
turn me off to Christmas in a cup

so I stick out my tongue
and allow my taste buds a play date with Jack Frost instead.

A lifetime away
a new place with new playmates.
This time leaves and stinky berries
push me on to my destination.
A new coffee shop with bells on the door
boasts bashfully of the same overindulgence.

This one small, cozy like
a thrift store couch or kittens.
Community and friendship present
me with that first cup of Christmas.
Someone from that other world
whispers the memory to me.

Again, my tongue
experiences the most joy on this memory experience.

How I hate to write in forms for class.
Whatever was inside the poets mind
who put me in this academic bind?
I’ll try and try to write this through my stress
hoping it won’t cause me much duress.
I wonder how the greats accomplished this
without destroying something with their fists.
My frustration has me at impasse.

Procrastination will not help me victorious be.
I need to just sit down and try my hand.
Imagine my surprise when I should see
A finished sonnet here in front of me!
Now from this I can for good disband
and leave the sonnet in my poem class.