Hello, my name is Manipulative
Or at least that's what people call me
I'm also inappropriate.
Along with aggressive and unkind.
Those are some of my other labels.
I'm a burden and a pressure
I'm not fair to others.
What do I want to be when I grow up?
I want to be Leah.
A young woman.
A human being, released from the chains
of the words of others.
I want to be free.
But will it ever happen?
In sixth grade,
I wrote a letter to David Bowie
addressed to his New York home never knowing
a girl named Kamryn exists,
but I thought I was special enough
for a world-renowned rock star to reply
or care enough about some pre-teen angst
I shared with him how my grandma Pam
chose drugs over (I know now an addiction has many more complex layers)
getting to know her grandchildren or
to love her son, but then I remembered-
this is David ******* Bowie, he's lived life
with ******* in his bloodstream for thirty years prior
Maybe, I mentioned it all
because I wanted to feel special,
like the way, I think dying young
will create that for me. It's stupid
how I painfully so-identified as
"the girl with the mousy hair"
and the piano aiding an eloquent
discussion about the world's disarray
in which I selfishly identified as my own
"Life on Mars" always felt like a personal performance
just for me, but at twenty-one, it isn't just a song
and I still lay awake wondering if Mars and I
share a similarity, we want life to ebb
so distinctly within us both.
The answer after being asked,
"How I'm doing?" was caught in my airway.
So I take a blade
and slashed across my throat-
Ink oozed from the seeping wound,
stanzas splashed across each page,
putting a hand upon my chest,
I felt purpose-
ripped it out.
My heart it bleeds,
in truths of me and
in thoughts of you.
The wonderment of what it was
that coursed through my veins,
describing the phenomenon
of how it rains,
or we allow ourselves to express pain.
and shying away from what other's think,
when transfusion began
they gave me ink.
Speaking of honesty,
I promise you-
when fear takes over,
I'll write for me &
I'll write for you.
My body is the bird
between a dog's gnashing teeth;
feathery and tossed. Potential
bruising in need of nurturing
or some ice. Even agony requires
a place to put its' head down at night.
For the comings and goings of
loveless transactions upon myself.
My body is also a broken bone,
desperate to fashion itself back together.
The whole of me--
empty pill bottle after pill bottle
hoping to fill itself up,
full of space, so capable of suffocation.
When tipped over on its' side, it's a spitting image
of the father I've only ever known
to run from anything that comes undone
I am also the snaggletooth
belonging to the woman of whom
I belong to. I have hit the radial artery
with my eyes
Bleeding out seems titillating,
but I refuse to touch my pout to
Death's puny ****. It's a danger to touch
skin-to-skin, bound to get addicted.
For fear of closeness,
for fear, we become too much alike.
My face is the same as the blood in the sink,
inspired by neglect and the old war in my head.
For fear, sour breath can't be manipulated,
for fear, we'll share the same pair of eyes.
It starts with the difficulty
in seeing you as human,
as if sharing the same blood only
Both damaged creatures
I'm filled with love for
As if I am diseased,
having been taught many lessons
in human agony
and I am resentful of my empathy
burrowed for awhile
then gone forever
never felt entitled to any
of the tears I've cried, have never
felt entitled to
what I've been put through.
Back in the 90s, I can see
that tube down your throat
and I feel it too
vacuumed the contents of my stomach
but I doubt they were equipped to clean
up the clutter and dander
still, I write about you
in the spirit of your suffering
like the rat
who missed its'
You are a decrepit home
and I am a crowbar,
familiarizing myself with your insides.
I am not rusting from the waterbed,
my skin is not tarnished.
I am strong and bludgeoning the windows,
there's blood, beneath your gums
as I swing, knock out your teeth-
I am inside of you.
Your knuckles fail,
with the first blow;
broken, unable to push down
the folds of my underwear.
I plant a bruise like a kiss
on your right cheek, erupting
into a display of consequences
for your actions.
In my dreams, I scream
your name. Under the surface, I am your messiah
with the sunrise of bruises tracing my broken rib.
I am your adam, using my pain to create
For my ******.