Hello to the 3-year-old who lost innocence early,
Losing a world of purity and light.
Now grown, shedding a face set to default
For one deemed "acceptable"

What does your true face resemble now,
As you mold to fit in?
Do you still grasp the understanding of your expressions?

The thoughts haunting your mind,
Are they the norm you perceive?
Staring at the ceiling,
Heart fluttering in panic.

Is it fear that grips you,
Or a fleeting relief?
Does the weighty silence
Lead you to seek solace in music?

Where do you wander
As rhythms loop endlessly?

A day will dawn, breaking
This cycle of self-neglect.
How will transformation manifest?
A lily in hand, turning crimson,
Or finding peace amidst wilted petals?

Eyes meet with supposed warmth,
Yet fear misconstrues as judgment.
The first syllable of your name
Raises goosebumps of dread.

Visible and heard, unwanted,
In the unmerciful words of others.
Sinking deeper into masks,
Straying from true selves.

Why are your smiles held with
Scotch tape and glue,
Holding despite the cuts of insults?
How do you continue
As a mere stepping stone for others?

Answers unfold within the hourglass
As we journey on, unsure.

Escaped from fears
Smiles hiding tears
Yet Unable to sleep
Emotions Buried so deep

Losing a friend
Trying to comprehend
A candle snuffed out
Turning away in doubt

A father deceased
Farwell, We feast
Another sky turned gray
Hearts left in disarray

Return of Wrongdoer
Smiles become fewer
Drugs to help cope
Losing what little hope

Feelings to address
Family in distress
A mother points blame
A heart left maimed

Apology never received
False affections believed
Silent the line stays
As I've departed ways

TW: r#pe culture

anxiety-riddled,
my head is a constant battle of sounds
and feelings crashing
like waves into each other;
interference scares me.
as does being out of rhythm,
missing too many beats — i am
conflict-averse but i am also
realistic:

i know that
sound travels faster
through solids and liquids
than through the air,
can be distorted
and interfered
into oblivion—
that when
push comes to shove,
whisper networks
can only reach so far.

scores of screaming matches
between metoo advocates and r#pist apologists
crescendos of nails
scraped across a board
feel a bit too familiar
like listening to white noise and broken records on repeat
while scrolling through toiletpaperworthy nonapologies
witnessing victims collectively crying in an orchestra of agony
and then be blamed for attention-seeking at best,
of causing their own suffering at worst.

although it pains me to listen to these tragic tunes,
it is amusing how so many mishear this collective choir as
survivors celebrating with silly receipts in cancel parties
serving blistering hot tea sweetened by revenge - no

all this is anything but
cathartic.

it’s to make people aware
that the same melodies are sung or screamed
  by those who suffered similar pains
and so that those of a similar frequency know
there are those who listen
that their voice matters
and we are not alone.

- 20210315

when i was eleven
older men always complimented me
i was apparently so mature for my age
yet so young and docile.
when i grew,
men stopped liking me.
too outspoken,
they'd say.
too difficult,
they'd say.
no fun,
they'd say.
and now often i wonder
why it the beauty standard
reflective of a little girl?
hairless,
soft-spoken,
dependent,
innocent.
yet they are the ones who have made us so
outspoken
independent,
mature-
women, now and then,
were not allowed
to be anything besides a ****** object
we were denied
the simplicity of childhood.
we were blowing bubbles on the sidewalk
when men drove by
catcalling us.
society hates our displays of sexuality
when they were the ones who sexualised us.
funny
isn't it?

i kept your compliments in a locket
your sweet whispers wrapped in lace
i did not care about the harsh words
even when they ran down my face
and the blood trickled down and mixed with my tears
you still said i looked pretty that day
and i know it’s been two years
but do you still want to be my prom date?

Before that August--

(strange month                                        echo)--

bloomed in the east
sunrise bomb                                           sunset dawn

you sometimes
                                                                   rose
(unbidden)

to the surface
of my mind.

These were some of my triggers:

Calgary                                                     (always Calgary)
me too
Christmastime.

And all the times                                     you attempted
to reach out to me

(sucker punch                                          sleep ****).

And then that August--

(good mornin'                                         bombshell)

the news--
for shame.

For I had fallen for the lie
(while you talked all the while
                                                                 in your human voice).

So you like 'em young.
So you like it rough.

August sun                                            beat me down.

It took this glaring
of a light

to show me
the darkest                                             of men's natures--

and that I knew them
intimately.

Not all flowers have thorns
but roses do

roses are special, they are beautiful
just to the likes of you

so many flowers are pretty
but nothing compares
to the aesthetic of roses

and that's why they are aware.

their thorns protect them
they are born to fight

but they keep us silent,
cut our voices
they make us die

some people don't like roses
or don't like their thorns
they'll cut off their leaves
because they aren't thorns
and they'll cut down the thorns because nothing should be in the way

of their love

or so they say

when they cut our thorns
they are so proud
but do they know they take the rain out of clouds?

they break the spell,
they obstruct the beauty
sometimes they go ahead and just shoot me

I wonder, I wonder
oh dear rose of mine
why you die, oh you die
without your thorns sublime

not all flowers are roses
but none wishes to be
for the life of a rose

is as miserable as torture makes us be

i remember confiding in you.
telling you about the men who stole from me,
tore apart my flesh,
took everything i had when i was too young to understand i was losing something,
and i remember your face.
your face was filled with pain as you told me it wasn’t my fault,
that i did nothing wrong and there was nothing more i could’ve done,
you were going to be the good i saw in men.

i remember when i told you about the boys who asked me for pictures.
and all of the lies they told to force me into doing it,
saying they would come to my house and do the things that those men had done,
i was afraid.
but when i told you there was promise and hope in your eyes,
comforting me telling me that once again,
i was not to blame.
you were going to be the good i saw in men.

and then you became worse than the men i had told you about.
each and every one.

you said it you wanted me to become comfortable in my body.
you said that you knew how insecure i was and wanted to make me feel better about myself.
you said i had to because if i could do it for other guys, i owed it to him.
you said you were going to **** yourself if i didn’t.

i loved you,
and i think i always will.
you made me realize that there is no good in men,
and for the two years you forced me into submission,
i will never get the part of myself that you stole back.