Feb 2013
I am a ******.
That is a powerful word
a putrid, painful word
a psychotic thing to say
out loud
to know
about myself
to admit
to You.
This is the worst thing I know
about myself
that I ***** a girl once
without even realizing what I was doing.
I don't know why I'm saying this now.
I know a lot of people will hate me
for saying this
for admitting this horrible thing I did
for displaying this
repulsive
repugnant
piece of my personal history
like picking up a piece of my ****
and showing it to You.
I don't know why I'm saying this.
I don't know why I'm telling this.
I guess because
after all these years
more than half my life later
I still haven't forgotten
I can't forget
I still regret
so I guess it simply
needs to be said.
So call it a confession.
And now the bargaining begins.
The inevitable qualifications.
Because while it is true
I am a ******
that powerful, putrid, painful, psychotic word
calls forth to mind an image
of violence and brutality
that is not me
and is not what I am trying to say
and is not what happened that night.
We were very young
not even twenty
and stupid
clearly stupid
and we'd been "going out" for years
Homecomings and Junior Proms
we'd taken each others' virginity
many years before
this was not our first dance.
And we were drunk.
Blind drunk.
It's not an excuse
but it's a fact
and it's relevant
and it needs to be said.
We had rented a hotel room
away from our parents
alone
free
and we were *******
joyously
terrificially.
Young
Free
Drunk
*******.
It was a glorious night.
At some point
she said,
"Wait, stop."
I don't know why.
To this day, I have no idea
what happened
what was wrong
why she wanted me to stop.
But I remember
what I said.
I'll never forget
never be able to forget
what I said
what I did.
She said, "Wait, stop."
And I said,
"No,
I'm almost done."
There is no apologizing
for that
no accepting it
no getting over it.
Not for her
or for me.
Some things just become
a part of you
forever
and you can't hide them
no matter how much you want to
or how hard you try.
Some words weigh on you like Marley's chains
and you carry them for the rest of your life.
And you should.
I'm not seeking sympathy
or solace
I deserve neither
and I wouldn't want them
even if I did.
I want to carry this chain.
I have to.
Because it is the only way
I can attempt to
balance out the equation
and even have a hope
of trying
to begin
to make up
for what I did
to her.
I guess I just needed to
acknowledge the chain
admit it
make it real
so that I could keep carrying it
a little longer.
That is a powerful word
a putrid, painful word
a psychotic thing to say
out loud
to know
about myself
to admit
to You.
This is the worst thing I know
about myself
that I ***** a girl once
without even realizing what I was doing.
I don't know why I'm saying this now.
I know a lot of people will hate me
for saying this
for admitting this horrible thing I did
for displaying this
repulsive
repugnant
piece of my personal history
like picking up a piece of my ****
and showing it to You.
I don't know why I'm saying this.
I don't know why I'm telling this.
I guess because
after all these years
more than half my life later
I still haven't forgotten
I can't forget
I still regret
so I guess it simply
needs to be said.
So call it a confession.
And now the bargaining begins.
The inevitable qualifications.
Because while it is true
I am a ******
that powerful, putrid, painful, psychotic word
calls forth to mind an image
of violence and brutality
that is not me
and is not what I am trying to say
and is not what happened that night.
We were very young
not even twenty
and stupid
clearly stupid
and we'd been "going out" for years
Homecomings and Junior Proms
we'd taken each others' virginity
many years before
this was not our first dance.
And we were drunk.
Blind drunk.
It's not an excuse
but it's a fact
and it's relevant
and it needs to be said.
We had rented a hotel room
away from our parents
alone
free
and we were *******
joyously
terrificially.
Young
Free
Drunk
*******.
It was a glorious night.
At some point
she said,
"Wait, stop."
I don't know why.
To this day, I have no idea
what happened
what was wrong
why she wanted me to stop.
But I remember
what I said.
I'll never forget
never be able to forget
what I said
what I did.
She said, "Wait, stop."
And I said,
"No,
I'm almost done."
There is no apologizing
for that
no accepting it
no getting over it.
Not for her
or for me.
Some things just become
a part of you
forever
and you can't hide them
no matter how much you want to
or how hard you try.
Some words weigh on you like Marley's chains
and you carry them for the rest of your life.
And you should.
I'm not seeking sympathy
or solace
I deserve neither
and I wouldn't want them
even if I did.
I want to carry this chain.
I have to.
Because it is the only way
I can attempt to
balance out the equation
and even have a hope
of trying
to begin
to make up
for what I did
to her.
I guess I just needed to
acknowledge the chain
admit it
make it real
so that I could keep carrying it
a little longer.
I really wasn't sure whether to post this one or not. I knew it could make some people feel some very negative things, and quite probably at me. But it's real, it's honest, it's from the heart, and it is likely to make people feel something, and as that's all I'm aiming for, I felt that I had to call it art, and put it out there. Art shouldn't be about only expressing what is safe, or acceptable, or what is likely to only make people feel positive things. It is often controversial, or provocative, and that's as it should be.
Another concern I had, was whether I was right to use the word "****" in this way. As I tried to express in the poem, that word conjures up images of violent, brutal ****** assault that is not even close to what I did. I was a stupid, drunk teenager, having *** with my girlfriend of several years, and when I was just about to come, she said "stop," and I didn't. It was absolutely wrong, and I have regretted it ever since, but that is, literally, as technical as **** can get and still be considered ****. So, am I doing a disservice to victims of actual violent ****** assaults, by using that term, by equating what I did with the horrible trauma they had to endure? Am I just taking a mildly traumatic event from my youth and blowing it up for maximum drama and artistic gain? I honestly don't even know anymore.
All I know, is that for my entire life since that night, every once in awhile, the first line of this poem has flashed through my brain. It happened again this morning. I was lying on the couch, trying to catch a few more minutes of dozing before I had to get up and go to work, and a story came on the news about a ****** assault in my area. There was something about the story that resonated with me in some way, and the thought "I am a ******" flashed through my brain again, and that whole night came flooding back to me. And at that moment, I knew I had to get it out, and onto paper.
Another concern I had, was whether I was right to use the word "****" in this way. As I tried to express in the poem, that word conjures up images of violent, brutal ****** assault that is not even close to what I did. I was a stupid, drunk teenager, having *** with my girlfriend of several years, and when I was just about to come, she said "stop," and I didn't. It was absolutely wrong, and I have regretted it ever since, but that is, literally, as technical as **** can get and still be considered ****. So, am I doing a disservice to victims of actual violent ****** assaults, by using that term, by equating what I did with the horrible trauma they had to endure? Am I just taking a mildly traumatic event from my youth and blowing it up for maximum drama and artistic gain? I honestly don't even know anymore.
All I know, is that for my entire life since that night, every once in awhile, the first line of this poem has flashed through my brain. It happened again this morning. I was lying on the couch, trying to catch a few more minutes of dozing before I had to get up and go to work, and a story came on the news about a ****** assault in my area. There was something about the story that resonated with me in some way, and the thought "I am a ******" flashed through my brain again, and that whole night came flooding back to me. And at that moment, I knew I had to get it out, and onto paper.
