“What are those marks on your arm?”
Instincts pulled the fabric of my sleeve over the evidence and
I thought of giving my normal excuse:
My car scratched the hell out of me.
Most people didn’t know that I actually had a dog,
But they never questioned the lie.

I didn’t answer the girl’s question right away
And the silence that filled the space between us
Reminded me of when a stranger enters the elevator;
Neither of us talked or looked at each other.

I thought of telling the curious girl about my teenage years
And how it seemed a dark cloud hovered around me,
Reigning over my head and sliding beneath my feet
Like a magic carpet, taking me to places I didn’t enjoy going.

I thought of telling her that often times I felt
That terrible cloud becoming stronger, overwhelming me
Like turning on a faucet, warm water covering the bottom
Of the bathtub, inch by inch, creeping over the surface like the tide drowns the sand.

I could feel it like that eerie feeling that comes
Before a big thunderstorm, starting near my feet and seeming to
Crawl up my legs like a gust of wind creeps under a sundress
And I tried to hold it down or push the cloud away.
But pushing it was like pushing a cloud of smoke. It swirled
To other parts of my body but still it lingered around.


I thought of telling the girl that while growing up,
When it rained, it poured.
One thing went wrong and five others went wrong,
Like a design of dominoes. One tips over and soon
You’re left with too many pieces scattered over the floor.

I thought about telling her that I often
Laid in bed at night, a staring contest with the ceiling,
As I imagined myself floating around the high walls of a church
Where my funeral shouldn’t have even been held
Because of all the sins I’d dreamt of committing.

Suicide is considered a sin.

I pictured my mother crying, my brother trying to keep his composure;
My friends who’d dressed in black and sat in the church pews,
Keeping hold of the secret they’d refused to do anything about.
I imagined a lot of hugging and tears, but mostly I heard the lies
That they’d say about me:
“She had so much going for her.”
“It’s really too bad.”
“What a beautiful girl she was.”

I saw myself lying inside the casket, one half of it open,
Revealing my arms crossed in front of me,
My fingers laced in between the spaces of each other
As if I was praying, but it was much too late.

After discovering the scars upon my wrists,
I would be clothed in long sleeves to hide what everyone
Had been pretending not to see.

I didn’t tell the girl that I’d already seen my funeral.

She continued looking at me, waiting for the answer
To the question I’d hoped would never be asked.

I thought about telling her how I kept a thin, silver
Razor blade hidden inside my purse so when the dark
Cloud threatened, I could slice my way through the roaring
Smoke harboring rain droplets that wanted to fill up my body of a bathtub
And consume me.

I thought of telling her that there was a time when I depended
On such a small, dangerous object. I thought about telling her that
I often held the metal like a lifejacket to keep me afloat
Amongst the raging flood waters that wanted to drown me.

I thought about telling her that late at night after I was sure the house
Was asleep, I cried huge, heaving, silent sobs.
My pillow caught my tears and my blankets severed as Kleenexes.
It was all I could do to hold back the truth of telling her that
I grabbed my life preserver many times and would drag the blade
Across my flesh, creating a ripple of red ink over my pale, white wrist;
A tear in the shower curtain that protected my body.

I thought about telling her that many nights
I drank too much alcohol and digested too many pills
And cut myself too deep into what seemed like my own burial,
To where I couldn’t see the light at the other end and it felt
Like the casket lid had closed over me.
I didn’t tell her that I tried to climb to the top of the hole
Where I was buried, only for it to feel like someone had
Stepped on my fingers, the pain making me let go and fall again,
Deeper to the bottom.

I thought about telling her that I’d been lost and tried
Finding myself by drawing maps over my wrist with a
Car that had seen too many miles in such a short amount of time.
I thought about telling her that I made too many mistakes that I couldn’t
Take back; ones that I couldn’t hide or cover all the time,
Like tattoos that wouldn’t wash away.

I thought about telling her that I stopped wearing my seatbelt
When I drove anywhere because if I was in an accident,
I would have a better chance at dying.
But she wouldn’t understand.

So instead, I pushed my sleeve back up to the middle of my
Forearm where it’d been when she’d first asked,
Exposing the straight lines of flesh that had healed over but
Left a permanent scar of elevated skin.
I ran my fingertips over them, feeling the wounds
Like a train moving over the ridges of a railroad.

The girl’s eyes studied my scars that I showed her.
I took her arm in my hand and traced my fingers over
Her skin, smooth , without any ripples,
Then told her to do the same.
She did, then repeated the same motion on mine.
Her cold fingers touching what I’d never wanted her to see.

We made eye contact again.
“Do you see how your skin is soft and smooth?”
I asked her. She nodded her head in response.
“That’s how it’s supposed to be. Don’t ever think about ruining it.”
I whispered,
Wishing my mother had said the same to me.

When I was in kindergarten
There was a boy that pulled my hair
And took my juice boxes
I told my parents
And I’ll never forget
The way they looked at each other, knowingly
My mother smiles and says,
“Oh, he probably likes you”
Sixth Grade and I’m in math
The boy behind me
has told all of his friends,
To tell me,
That he likes me and he’d like to go “out”,
But he’s only ever ask me if I was a lesbian
I told him I didn’t know what a lesbian was
He said than I must be then
I tell my parents
And again, they shared a knowing look,
Only this time, my dad says,
“He probably doesn’t know what they are either.
He just knew you were smart and thought you would know.
Oh, he probably just likes you, don’t worry about it.”
Ninth Grade and I’m in high school
And boys who aren’t boys anymore,
Tell me I’m the prettiest girl they’ve ever seen
And they want to hang out, just the two of us
Tenth grade and I’m on my back on a couch
His hands are up my shirt
And I don’t know what they’re doing there
He says it’s okay, he’s done this before
We’ve only known each other for a few months,
But I thought that if I told him that I liked him back,
That he would stop calling me names
And pushing me around
He’s pulling at my pants
And I start to sit up
I say, “Let’s just finish the movie”
I don’t want to finish the movie, I want to go home
He sits up too and says,
“I really like you. I thought you liked me too, but I guess I was wrong.”
I remind myself that he does like me
Even though he teases me sometimes,
I know that he doesn’t really mean it,
And he always says sorry
And besides, who kisses someone who they don’t really like?
I lay back and his hands are at my pants again
Eleventh Grade and I’m a *****
Everyone hates me
Even the teachers look at me
Some with pity,
But most, with disgust
Apparently, I slept with half of the football team,
Some at the same time
I don’t deny it
What’s the point, I think,
Regardless of what I say,
That’s how and what they’ll continue to think about me
Twelfth grade and I’m the suicidal ****
When you down a bottle of sleeping pills
And chase it with a bottle of *****
People think you’re a suicidal freak
When your parents use the gps in your phone,
To find you in a sketchy hotel room,
They call for help,
Unbeknownst that they’re not really helping their daughter
They’re only prolonging another attempt
When waking up from getting your stomach pumped,
Your mother is crying and your dad is pale and shaking
They ask, “Why’d you try to leave us?”
After a few attempts to speak around the hoarseness in my voice,
I reply, groggy and unaware of who is who,
“I thought that since he was mean to me, it meant he liked me.
He said he liked me.”
This time instead of looking knowingly at each other,
My dad looks down so I won’t see
His lips quiver and the tears roll down his cheeks
And my mom tries to smile sadly, but her tears win,
And pour out of her eyes and she sobs loudly into her hands
I realize my biggest mistake of all,
When I hear my dad’s quick intake of breaths as he sobs
And when I see my mom run out of the room
The things that they don’t teach you in school
Are that when a boy pulls your hair or takes your juice boxes
Or calls you mean names, but tells you that he likes you
It may mean that he likes you,
But what they didn’t teach me to understand,
Was that
Those aren’t the boys who you should
Ever
Like back
-{ksf}

you wrote a poem once about how i was a flower and you were a monster and you dropped your grape juice on my white peddles
you spelled petals wrong
and that bothered me
but the idea that i was beautiful enough to be somebody's muse
well
i was willing to overlook the fact that you weren't good with hearts, so of course your faults with words meant very little to me
i dreamed in purple once
and grape was the taste on my tongue when i woke, which was silly
because your poem didn't really say anything about knocking a glass onto me like a paperweight to watch me suffocate as its juicy contents stained me violet
i just thought it sounded lovelier as a white lie
like you didn't mean to hurt me and it was just an accident

you told me later you made me a flower because they are at the mercy of whoever plucks them from the garden
and that's when i knew that you knew you had bruised me purple on purpose
i just don't like to think about the part where you are a monster

We ran out of things to talk about.
So I sipped my cold coffee instead, waiting for something to happen.
Anything that'll make the entire thing less awkward.
I caught you staring with that goofy smile and that's when I knew
That instead of anything,
Instead of something,
I got everything.