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Muted Nov 2018
I won’t take showers anymore.
I won’t take them because
sometimes, when I set my Spotify on shuffle,
your favorite song still plays
because sometimes, when the water trickles down the small of my back, it feels a lot like your fingers
sometimes, soap is not enough
sometimes, I want to peel my skin up, layer by layer, until I am certain there is nothing left that you have touched
sometimes, I wonder if you still sleep on the mattress you buried me in,
wonder if there are others who share that same coffin
I wonder who I will be when I wake up tomorrow,
study my reflection in the cold, shiny shower head
with hope that one day it will change,
that i will no longer see
tongue biting *****,
key- laced, clenched fists *****,
flinching at the sight of chin stubble and strong jaws,
locked knees *****,
mace and matchstick *****,
feverishly avoiding eye contact,
temperature adjusting *****,
skin scrubbing *****,
birdcage mouth,
mascara tears,
weak *****.

I won’t take showers
because sometimes
I come out feeling dirtier
than I went in
because the condensation is enough
to fog up my mirror
but isn’t enough
to fog up my memory
because sometimes
an adams apple resembles
a fist to me
because I count the tiles and remember
that I am just a
paradoxical number,
the only number greater than zero
that still has no value

I wont take showers because
I know that is what
you would want me to do
you would want me
to cover the tracks for you

and if I
set myself on fire instead,
in order to destroy
any evidence
that you once lived here,
that would be
too obvious
Muted Aug 2018
i used to be
fond of that
light trickle,
that subdued
of rain,
the calming
sensation of
my spirit

i relished the
thought of a
grayscale sky
wrapping its arms
ever so gently
around me,
found comfort
in slick surfaces
and symphonies
in thunderous echoes

now, rain feels heavy,
feels like
i become
the bucket you
search for
when the
ceiling leaks,
like the air
is far
too dense
for my lungs
to handle,
like the rain
isn't really rain
when it
pours out of me

I used to be
fond of
rainy days
because they
remind me
of you

yet here,
i desperately
long to be
Muted Jul 2018
i want to be here for
the ****.
the inopportune,
the odious.
moments when
your back breaks
from carrying
a heavy load,
when your heart bursts
from the inside,
when your tongue
becomes toxic.

i want to
plant hydrangeas
in the crevices
of your spine,
rose bushes
in your heart,
peonies in your mouth,
so that when nurtured,
you are able to stand,
able to love,
able to speak of yourself

know that this
is not the end.

know that even when
my hands grow weary,
my knees become
scabbed and
dirt- covered,
i will happily
wipe the sweat
from my aching brow
and tend to you.

because all of the ****,
the inopportune,
the odious,
will be forgotten,
the moment
you begin
to blossom.
Muted Jul 2018
i long for pleasant days.
days that feel like new beginnings,
days when i feel as if i am floating,
when each and every
fiber of my being
feels content with letting go,
tying loose ends,
shedding dead skin.
when my body no longer
feels unworthy of
occupying a space in this dimension,
when my brain no longer
allows toxicity to occupy a space
within it.
i long for moments of silence.
solace for my soul,
a place for the skeletons
in my closet to
rest their dust-covered heads.
i long for happy summers.
when i no longer fear
the thought of love.
when i no longer imagine love
as an **** ****,
devouring a flower bed.
when i no longer imagine you
resting in someone else's.
Muted Jun 2018
polished, pressed,
well dressed boy,
i swear,
i will not move a muscle,

for this throne is dangerous.

how easy it would be
for you to
slice me open,
sever my heartstrings,
dispose of the remains
as if they were
unruly, dishwater tresses

with such little effort
and impeccable precision,
you could
snip my spirit
into thousands
of tiny, geometric pieces,

manipulate me
into something
more aesthetically pleasing

whenever that day comes,
when you detatch

a day when i
am no longer
of the sensation
of a cold blade
against my flesh,

i hope that
you'll look
at your
splintered hands,

and think of me.
Muted Jun 2018
on a crisp, clean morning in the fall of 2008,  i was happy.
i walked to class, textbooks in hand.
I could almost feel the earth shifting underneath my doc marten's.
I was ready to showcase my new haircut,
reaveal my new and improved self to the world.
I'll never forget when the handsome, bright eyed boy who sat behind me in first period told me that
my hair wasn't supposed to be short. After all, I am a girl.
You see, from the very beginning, I was taught that having a ****** made me "just a girl".
Made me just a maid.
just a cook.
just a someday wife and mother.
just a dainty, pink ribbon.
just a punchline.
just an orifice, THIS,
is an ode to the parts of me
that no soul has ever truly desired to understand.
this is working just as hard as a man.
this is ******* with the lights on,
assuming MY position,
stepping away from the kitchen.
this is burning my "big girl *******" and going commando, instead.
this is scrubbing his DNA off of my body and reclaiming it.
this is creating and birthing new life,
a generation of girls who aren't
just girls.
When you exist in a world
where you are instructed to keep your mouth shut,
your strongest desire is to open it,
as wide as a cavern.
Here, where we are told that we
think too much,
feel too much,
love too much,
we long to be enough.
this is being enough.
this is learning to love myself.
this is finding comfort in my body,
despite all of the glass shards
i find myself plucking from it.
this is loving myself into
an ******, so heavy,
that it makes me feel
like a ******
is the most profound thing
a person can have.
Muted Apr 2018
curled lashes
sprout from
feminine eyes
fail to greet
the pair
seemingly locked
on my chest,
rose petals
crushed between
my thick thighs
aren't as
as you'd
still you
become *****
at the thought
of kissing my neck,
or painted,
plump lips
wrapped 'round
the **** of
a cigarette,
because you
believe that
i am delicate,
fragile, frail,
gentle, elegant,
have faith
that ill give you
a piece
of myself
women are
porcelain dolls,
painting fair
***** hose,
silken legs,
draped in
thin laces,
encased within
a box
sealed with
a pink ribbon,
men are
for all
we've been
they say
we can be
if first,
we ask
that our place
is in
a kitchen,
raising children
in the home,
raising men
that are grown,
settling for
we fear
is a curse
we're blissfully
we walk
the same
and breathe
the same air,
god forbid
we cut
our hair,
but only
from our heads,
they say
we must
shave our legs,
so they
nice enough
to spread,
not unlike
propaganda that
they spout,
is not
is all
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