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Nina Apr 2016
She was fifteen and messy haired, a sweet girl you would call "honey" without a tone of patronage, fuzzy pink sweater and braces and eyes that folded when she smiled, so much so we called her Squints McGee.
But what could so easily be hidden behind eyes crinkled with laughter and warm purple slippers were the names others whispered as she walked by, snakes that slithered out of slit lips and silent stealthy glares,
Names that hurt me as I walked beside her, protecting her as a younger sister, my beautiful best friend. Begging others "don't judge her, you don't understand, just get to know her"
Parked outside the football field on January or was it November ish evening- fingers nervously tapping out confessions on the dashboard, honest melting eyes, she told me everything. What he promised her, what he stole from her, unwrapping her like a Christmas present, greedily, gift paper in strips on the living room floor.

I was seventeen and tall, with brown hair and hips that led boys in Whataburger late at night to make sounds as I walked by. I wore combat boots and wrote poetry on my phone and was known as the worst driver in my high school. But what could so easily be masked behind thick glasses lenses and chunky earrings was the ****** war raging in my brain
And laying backstage at theatre rehearsal, I told her. Whispered I loved him and he was the one, he just made a mistake. He would come back, I was sure of it. But at home I dug razors into my thoughts and screamed emptiness into my pillow.

If he loved me, why did he hurt me? Break my body into pieces and choose the parts he wanted, squeeze my trust between his fingers, paint my mind with his anger and his drug addiction.

If he loved her, why did he hurt her? Kidnap her innocence and stamp her with a fragile mark, make her body a punchline to his friends, publish her secrets to the football team.

Because of him the word love will forever be associated with pain, the act of *** tainted with punishment, the idea of a companion smeared with abandonment.

Because of you I had a panic attack in my shower on Christmas Eve, naked and shaking on the cold tile floor, where blood looks oddly orange and my hair swirls into lines that look like a map to my messy mind.

And when my mother found me. And I told her the truth. Two years from the day she picked me up from the park late at night and begged me to tell her if I was hurt and I lied.

She told me the same thing had happened to her once too.
slam- ive performed this piece several times the last few months
Nina Jul 2015
"I've been doing so well," I type as I slide a thin silver blade down my hipbone. "I'm clean and I've been taking my medication and I've even been running." Blood gathers at the edges, draw swirls in the warmth.
Bright blue screen lights up my hopes and my heart does a flip.
"Can we talk later? I'm really tired."
"Of course! Sorry for keeping you up."
It's 3:49 in the ******* afternoon.
Remember when you were my best friend and you walked two miles to my house in the middle of the night because I told you I felt alone?
Remember when I was out of town for a day and you missed me so bad you bought me cupcakes?
Remember when you told me I was the only person you'd ever been in love with?
I'm so sorry.
I miss you.
Nina Jun 2015
I would trade my future for one last minute with you,
Cut into my memories and give the best slice to you,
Dance in the street wearing only my flaws for you,
Buy the finest brushes to paint my thoughts for you.


But life isn't fair, and my ****** job can only buy so many plane rides a year to see you.
And all of the love in the world from me can't generate love from you.
If I wrapped up the galaxy in a fancy box with a bow, it wouldn't mean a thing to you.
I could hide myself in my broken pieces, but I would have to send a map to you.

Nina Jun 2015
From her dark purple lips hangs a cigarette with pink smoke, and headphones with no music play a tune inside her head, and she paints bright red words loud as a FRAGILE stamp on her skin, and maybe on yours too, but only when you seem particularly insightful. She knows every word to every song of a band you’ve never heard of, and when they play and she’s driving the car, she will literally pull over and close her eyes to absorb the sound into her bloodstream, which seems to be composed of tiny bits of the galaxy and maple syrup and diary entries she never lets you read. She will kiss you in the movies, but only in parts heavily dripping of gore and violence, a metaphor she’s explained countless times but you will just never understand. She will paint her nails with your name sprawled across the *******, hold your hand in the gas station while shaming glossy magazine covers and everything that’s just soooo wrong with societies expectations of women today (despite the fact she’s somehow maniacally maintained her perfect body in the three weeks you’ve known her), and tell you that you’re her favorite season, a thought that your mind will spin around in its head like you ran around your 3rd grade classroom when your teacher was introducing concepts of matter and announced “now switch from a solid to a gas!”
But she will never tell you she loves you.
She will curse under her breath when you climb your courage without a harness to break the cold silence of the night, while laying on your back on the street under the stars. She will whisper “I’m so sorry” and speed off into the night, running with an elegant skirt she found in a thrift shop- made in 1956 or some other far-off year- flicking like a black-and-white movie behind her, the last thing you see before she disappears into the night, before she disappears from the audience’s cares and back into your mind.
She was everything I wanted to be for as long as I could remember, a terrible destruction of the human mind, a horrific enigma that perfection was so messed up that perfection itself could never learn how to love. Manic Pixie Dream Girl was my role model, Manic Pixie Dream Girl wore shirts from France hand-painted with Swedish fables, Manic Pixie Dream Girl knew every Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros song on the xylophone but only played with her eyes closed, Manic Pixie Dream Girl hated her sister and her parents and told everyone she was a mess they didn’t want to clean up. A disgusting idea that a woman only exists to make a man happy, to cure a man of his dark cloud of spinning inhibitions, and if she dares become real then she no longer is deemed entertaining. Manic Pixie Dream Girl was my goal, and with this in mind I embarked upon puberty with a music taste straight out of a Wes Anderson movie and teal eyeliner and the idea that being broken was desirable.
Until I actually was.
Manic Pixie Dream Boy refused to listen to the radio, wanted to be a famous actor, planned days to simply lay in bed all day, and smoked over a pack a day despite asthma so bad I worried every time we went up the stairs. Manic Pixie Dream Boy wore clothes with animals on them, but said he didn’t believe in giraffes, Manic Pixie Dream Boy hated school but loved to learn, Manic Pixie Dream Boy was perfect. Until he became the thing I so desired, telling me relationships weren’t for him and he couldn’t possibly ever fall in love, he was too broken.
But now I was Manic Pixie Dream Girl, wasn’t I? Broken, just as she was? Just as I had so desired to be when re-watching The (500) Days of Summer over and over again in middle school?
I hate you Manic Pixie Dream Girl. I hate telling the kind boy with the good grades and nice intentions that I couldn’t possibly love again, I detest the enigma I now am.
But when new boy with blue eyes darker than the Pacific coast tells me to lay down with him in the gravel and tells me that he hates the number 63 more than wheat-brewed beer, I say yes and give into manic dreams again.
  May 2015 Nina
Prepare for cocktails
Blue versus green ink
******* tape sits so carefully in the corner
My eyes so heavy but unwilling to slumber.
Sleeping such a chore, but once my eyes are so closed
The light from my windows egg me on.
As I heard myself whimper and coo your name
As though searching, looking for you
Through a walkie talkie
Or a paper cup connected through string
But I knew at the end,
I would never hear your

Kitty cat slumbers on 3 suitcases
As I recall how you didn't want to hear my mind
My philosophy
"Have you played out all the scenarios in your mind?"
It never goes the way I fantasize.

Perhaps you won't show up
With your scraggly beard and worn down clothes
A hobo clown, the damsels and I would jest
A silver screen starlet
I imagine us arm in arm
Neck to neck
Tied and tangled
Because neither of us can seem to forget.

Those blue depths I would plummet into
With a short blonde bob
I would cry and cry when your skin
Left mine
I would cry and cry
When I felt neglected by you
Night by night.

But there is something different in the air
Something different in the sea
Something so ******* different in me

"We love each other"
I can almost hear myself say
Lingerie mirroring my face
But just because we love each other
That doesn't make us right for each other
I would so famously,

I wonder if your knock, kn-kn--kno-knock-knock
Will pound a few times on my door
Like you use to before
When we would laugh and laugh
We never grew bored.

Cat nip and our own fantastical fumes
I was your crack for a while, you still exclaim
I hope I leave you with withdrawal

But I digress
The cat on all those suitcases--
She soon will belong to another
The suitcases--They will be stacked and packed
Rolling on carpeted floors
A fedora on my head
And new opening doors.

The Goodbye Dinner
You would look at me with that coy
Icicle heart fire grin
As I remember all the times I tried to erase
That face from my mind.

I don't try anymore
I don't fight anymore
I don't erase anymore
I just live.

Maybe this is dumb
Maybe this is the stupidest thing I've ever done
Maybe we are ******* so dumb
"But we love each oth--"
I start to hear myself say, in my day dream
Of us on a roof top
Unable to escape

And then I remember,
I go my own way.
Nina May 2015
Today I want to die, but tomorrow I may be fine.
Such is the constant battle in my heart and on my mind.
I'm falling in love with the idea of being sick
I'm comfortable dating a guy who is a real ****
I see myself as nothing but my illness and my pain
My mind can only be described as unfriendly and insane
I ******* hating rhyming
So I'll stop all this **** now
Today is a bad day.
Written from my math desk while my boyfriend sits in front, oblivious to the fact I want to throw myself off a cliff. Or maybe he knows but doesn't care.
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