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Syd Sep 2014
yes all women

because people cringe at the word "feminism".
because I am not a feminist, I am a woman.
I am a human being.
because this poem is a one-sided sexist rant.
because I was fifteen years old when my mother first taught me about how to hold car keys as a weapon in case anyone ever attacked me.
because teenage girls are taught to never walk alone in a parking garage.
because in elementary school I was told to switch which side of the street I was walking on while going home if a man was approaching me in the same direction.
because when I was twelve my parents gave me my first cell phone for when I was out riding my bike, or taking a walk.
because I can't wear a spaghetti strap tank top to school, as it will "distract the boys".
because boys are distracted by a bony girl in a spaghetti strap tank top.
because freshmen girls are taught not to date senior boys, instead of senior boys being taught not to go after freshmen girls.
because senior boys go after freshmen girls.
because when I was ten years old I told my dad that my grandfather made me feel uncomfortable, and he got angry at me for making such a blasphemous statement.
because even after I told my mother, and she talked to my father, he ignored it completely.
because my grandfather made me, at ten years old, feel uncomfortable.
because when I was fourteen my boyfriend broke up with me since I "didn't put out".
fourteen.
because by ninth grade I had received my first unwanted and unwelcomed advance.
because I didn't tell anyone.
because school administrators turn the other cheek when a girl is ***** in the stairwell.
because **** charges are being dropped by judges.
because victims are being bullied into silence.
because a hashtag is the most sincere form of activism.
because **** is a crime no matter what color you try to paint the picture.

because I will go to bed tonight, after posting this poem, after telling my story, and I will wake up tomorrow.
and nothing will change.
Syd Sep 2014
we floated around in an ocean
of mediocrity
sharing poems etched into the skin
on our wrists
wondering when the weight of the world would drown us in our own thoughts
thoughts of people who didn't even know
we existed
places we would never go
and things we would never say
no one knows I still sing you happy birthday
in the room where you died in my arms
its only a metaphor, of course
I'm sure you're out there somewhere
in a city that could never care
about you
like I did
tattooing your skin with her bed sheets
and kissing over coffee tables made
of all the ways I'll never get to say
I love you
the coffee table you lay books on top of
but never read
or run your knee into and curse
under your breath
I imagine this is what loving you
would have been like
and still
the thought is enough to keep me up
at night
Syd Sep 2014
it was late one winter night
when I first realized
I was fighting a war I would never win
a fight that was fought within my own skin
skin that I realized
I would never feel comfortable in
now
I look at freckles like name tags
scars like reminders
and bruises as memories
that I wish I did not remember
I've since become accustomed to
long sleeves and blue jeans
and people asking things
like "how did you get that one?"
"oh, the door," I would quietly say,
never to tell that the door
had a name.
Syd Sep 2014
the invisible struggle that exists between wanting to write and not wanting people to know is named after you. late nights and sharpie scrawls on crumpled pieces of paper that will never see the outside of a trashcan. the insides of my eyelids and the paper slips kissed by dull pencil tips are the only ones who will ever know. 3 a.m is the closest thing I've ever had to a friend. the silence is deafening and sleeping is an impossible paradise because I belong on the opposite end of the world. somehow I know that no number of miles will suffice in the category of distance between our bodies. its been months but I still smell the alcohol on your breath that is a little too close to my ear. your hand by my thigh. a warmth on my neck that shouldn't even exist and I can hear myself saying no but my mouth isn't moving and I dont even ******* want to sit here and make rhymes about that night because you aren't ******* worth any of it. you aren't worth a ******* rhyme or a poem or a metaphor because you ruined *everything.
Syd Sep 2014
I'm lost in the land of whiskey and lies
trying to refamiliarize my hands with your skin
its been months
maybe years
since we've touched
each shot makes it that much harder
to remember
the freckle on your wrist
the creases in your palms
I can't seem to recall
and I was never a fan of alcohol
but forgetting for a night was never as bad
as remembering the next morning
waking to an empty bed and aching heart
breaking bones and throwing stones
didn't even come close
to the relentless pain
washing me away
with the january rain
that made a home inside your veins
and in a way
this makes me miss you more
Syd Aug 2014
it’s 2:42 a.m
late july
early august
i’m tired of something bigger than sleep
the kind of tired sleeping pills
will always fail to fix
no number of pillows
will make up for the emptiness
in my bed
and i remember laying my head
on your chest
at this very time
listening to the constant
and reassuring sound
of your heartbeat
there’s something about
feeling human flesh
a warmth
that no number of blankets
could ever hope
to recreate
every single morning
i would stumble to the shower
tracing over the towels
you used last
and there was something
beautifully poetic about
your inverted shampoo bottles
that lined the shower wall
turned upside down
they said
he used me most
so really
it comes as no surprise to me
that when you left
i basically
turned my whole life upside down
looking for answers
inspecting every scar and asking
which one scared you off?
the curling iron on my leg
the stove on my palm
the you on my heart
they never tell you how lonely
your own bed can feel
when you wake and realize
we hold pillows like warm bodies
we cocoon ourselves in bed sheets
to resemble a human embrace
we wake up in a tornado of emptiness
that we created ourselves
we so seldom take the time
required to understand that
we did this to ourselves
looking at heartbreak
as if it were an opportunity
to stand back and say

*he used me most
Syd Aug 2014
a special kind of hell froze over
the day you died
and there are so many ways
to grieve the loss of a loved one
so many different ways to say
"I'm okay,"
so many different faces to paint
and rainbows to wear
yet there i was
bearing the weight of the world
which was one person less heavy
and marrying my fist to a wall
breaking knuckles and nails and
drowning like a sailboat in the midst
of a rainstorm
there's a time in the ocean
measured not by minutes
but by waves
or the lack thereof
where all is calm and still
peaceful
sailors call it slack-tide
and this time only exists between breaths
between collapsing lungs and
breaking hearts
the moments among screams and silence
because we all must eventually stop
and take a breath
so here i am
wearing rainbows with my feet in the sand
of a shore not far from the coast of a beach
named after the peak of your shoulder blades
the arc of your neck
and the curve of your spine
more often than sometimes
i find myself wondering
if slack-tide exists in your ocean of blue
if i go out to sea and breathe in
what's left of you
if i'll wake up
to see you
wearing rainbows, too.
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