The Stanford **** Case
Statement from the Young Woman Who Was *****
June 10, 2016 | Revolution Newspaper | revcom.us

Editors Note: The following harrowing and courageous "victim impact" statement was read in court by the woman who was assaulted and ***** by ex-Stanford student Brock Turner. It has been released widely and revcom.us is reposting it here. As Sunsara Taylor said in "The Stanford **** Outrage: Reason Enough to Make Revolution": "Her letter is 13 pages long and everyone should read it. In its entirety. Out loud. In classrooms. In church groups. In families. On sports teams. On air. Her pain must be seen. Her battle against despair must be supported. Her courage must be multiplied."*
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Your Honor, if it is all right, for the majority of this statement I would like to address the defendant directly.
You don’t know me, but you’ve been inside me, and that’s why we’re here today.

On January 17th, 2015, it was a quiet Saturday night at home. My dad made some dinner and I sat at the table with my younger sister who was visiting for the weekend. I was working full time and it was approaching my bed time. I planned to stay at home by myself, watch some TV and read, while she went to a party with her friends.

Then, I decided it was my only night with her, I had nothing better to do, so why not, there’s a dumb party ten minutes from my house, I would go, dance like a fool, and embarrass my younger sister. On the way there, I joked that undergrad guys would have braces. My sister teased me for wearing a beige cardigan to a frat party like a librarian. I called myself “big mama”, because I knew I’d be the oldest one there. I made silly faces, let my guard down, and drank liquor too fast not factoring in that my tolerance had significantly lowered since college.

The next thing I remember I was in a gurney in a hallway. I had dried blood and bandages on the backs of my hands and elbow. I thought maybe I had fallen and was in an admin office on campus. I was very calm and wondering where my sister was. A deputy explained I had been assaulted. I still remained calm, assured he was speaking to the wrong person. I knew no one at this party.

When I was finally allowed to use the rest room, I pulled down the hospital pants they had given me, went to pull down my underwear, and felt nothing. I still remember the feeling of my hands touching my skin and grabbing nothing. I looked down and there was nothing. The thin piece of fabric, the only thing between my ****** and anything else, was missing and everything inside me was silenced. I still don’t have words for that feeling. In order to keep breathing, I thought maybe the policemen used scissors to cut them off for evidence.

Then, I felt pine needles scratching the back of my neck and started pulling them out my hair. I thought maybe, the pine needles had fallen from a tree onto my head. My brain was talking my gut into not collapsing. Because my gut was saying, help me, help me.

I shuffled from room to room with a blanket wrapped around me, pine needles trailing behind me, I left a little pile in every room I sat in. I was asked to sign papers that said “**** Victim” and I thought something has really happened.

My clothes were confiscated and I stood naked while the nurses held a ruler to various abrasions on my body and photographed them. The three of us worked to comb the pine needles out of my hair, six hands to fill one paper bag. To calm me down, they said it’s just the flora and fauna, flora and fauna. I had multiple swabs inserted into my ****** and ****, needles for shots, pills, had a Nikon pointed right into my *******. I had long, pointed beaks inside me and had my ****** smeared with cold, blue paint to check for abrasions.

After a few hours of this, they let me shower. I stood there examining my body beneath the stream of water and decided, I don’t want my body anymore. I was terrified of it, I didn’t know what had been in it, if it had been contaminated, who had touched it. I wanted to take off my body like a jacket and leave it at the hospital with everything else.

On that morning, all that I was told was that I had been found behind a dumpster, potentially penetrated by a stranger, and that I should get retested for *** because results don’t always show up immediately. But for now, I should go home and get back to my normal life. Imagine stepping back into the world with only that information. They gave me huge hugs and I walked out of the hospital into the parking lot wearing the new sweatshirt and sweatpants they provided me, as they had only allowed me to keep my necklace and shoes.

My sister picked me up, face wet from tears and contorted in anguish. Instinctively and immediately, I wanted to take away her pain. I smiled at her, I told her to look at me, I’m right here, I’m okay, everything’s okay, I’m right here. My hair is washed and clean, they gave me the strangest shampoo, calm down, and look at me. Look at these funny new sweatpants and sweatshirt, I look like a P.E. teacher, let’s go home, let’s eat something. She did not know that beneath my sweatsuit, I had scratches and bandages on my skin, my ****** was sore and had become a strange, dark colour from all the prodding, my underwear was missing, and I felt too empty to continue to speak. That I was also afraid, that I was also devastated. That day we drove home and for hours in silence my younger sister held me.
My boyfriend did not know what happened, but called that day and said, “I was really worried about you last night, you scared me, did you make it home okay?” I was horrified. That’s when I learned I had called him that night in my blackout, left an incomprehensible voicemail, that we had also spoken on the phone, but I was slurring so heavily he was scared for me, that he repeatedly told me to go find [my sister]. Again, he asked me, “What happened last night? Did you make it home okay?” I said yes, and hung up to cry.

I was not ready to tell my boyfriend or parents that actually, I may have been ***** behind a dumpster, but I don’t know by who or when or how. If I told them, I would see the fear on their faces, and mine would multiply by tenfold, so instead I pretended the whole thing wasn’t real.
I tried to push it out of my mind, but it was so heavy I didn’t talk, I didn’t eat, I didn’t sleep, I didn’t interact with anyone.

After work, I would drive to a secluded place to scream. I didn’t talk, I didn’t eat, I didn’t sleep, I didn’t interact with anyone, and I became isolated from the ones I loved most. For over a week after the incident, I didn’t get any calls or updates about that night or what happened to me. The only symbol that proved that it hadn’t just been a bad dream, was the sweatshirt from the hospital in my drawer.

One day, I was at work, scrolling through the news on my phone, and came across an article. In it, I read and learned for the first time about how I was found unconscious, with my hair dishevelled, long necklace wrapped around my neck, bra pulled out of my dress, dress pulled off over my shoulders and pulled up above my waist, that I was **** naked all the way down to my boots, legs spread apart, and had been penetrated by a foreign object by someone I did not recognise.

This was how I learned what happened to me, sitting at my desk reading the news at work. I learned what happened to me the same time everyone else in the world learned what happened to me. That’s when the pine needles in my hair made sense, they didn’t fall from a tree. He had taken off my underwear, his fingers had been inside of me. I don’t even know this person. I still don’t know this person. When I read about me like this, I said, this can’t be me, this can’t be me. I could not digest or accept any of this information. I could not imagine my family having to read about this online. I kept reading. In the next paragraph, I read something that I will never forgive; I read that according to him, I liked it. I liked it. Again, I do not have words for these feelings.

It’s like if you were to read an article where a car was hit, and found dented, in a ditch. But maybe the car enjoyed being hit. Maybe the other car didn’t mean to hit it, just bump it up a little bit. Cars get in accidents all the time, people aren’t always paying attention, can we really say who’s at fault.

And then, at the bottom of the article, after I learned about the graphic details of my own ****** assault, the article listed his swimming times. She was found breathing, unresponsive with her underwear six inches away from her bare stomach curled in fetal position. By the way, he’s really good at swimming. Throw in my mile time if that’s what we’re doing. I’m good at cooking, put that in there, I think the end is where you list your extracurriculars to cancel out all the sickening things that’ve happened.
The night the news came out I sat my parents down and told them that I had been assaulted, to not look at the news because it’s upsetting, just know that I’m okay, I’m right here, and I’m okay. But halfway through telling them, my mom had to hold me because I could no longer stand up.

The night after it happened, he said he didn’t know my name, said he wouldn’t be able to identify my face in a line-up, didn’t mention any dialogue between us, no words, only dancing and kissing. Dancing is a cute term; was it snapping fingers and twirling dancing, or just bodies grinding up against each other in a crowded room? I wonder if kissing was just faces sloppily pressed up against each other? When the detective asked if he had planned on taking me back to his dorm, he said no. When the detective asked how we ended up behind the dumpster, he said he didn’t know.

He admitted to kissing other girls at that party, one of whom was my own sister who pushed him away. He admitted to wanting to hook up with someone. I was the wounded antelope of the herd, completely alone and vulnerable, physically unable to fend for myself, and he chose me.

Sometimes I think, if I hadn’t gone, then this never would’ve happened. But then I realized, it would have happened, just to somebody else. You were about to enter four years of access to drunk girls and parties, and if this is the foot you started off on, then it is right you did not continue. The night after it happened, he said he thought I liked it because I rubbed his back. A back rub.

Never mentioned me voicing consent, never mentioned us even speaking, a back rub. One more time, in public news, I learned that my *** and ****** were completely exposed outside, my ******* had been groped, fingers had been jabbed inside me along with pine needles and debris, my bare skin and head had been rubbing against the ground behind a dumpster, while an ***** freshman was ******* my half naked, unconscious body. But I don’t remember, so how do I prove I didn’t like it.

I thought there’s no way this is going to trial; there were witnesses, there was dirt in my body, he ran but was caught. He’s going to settle, formally apologize, and we will both move on. Instead, I was told he hired a powerful lawyer, expert witnesses, private investigators who were going to try and find details about my personal life to use against me, find loopholes in my story to invalidate me and my sister, in order to show that this ****** assault was in fact a misunderstanding. That he was going to go to any length to convince the world he had simply been confused.

I was not only told that I was assaulted, I was told that because I couldn’t remember, I technically could not prove it was unwanted. And that distorted me, damaged me, almost broke me. It is the saddest type of confusion to be told I was assaulted and nearly *****, blatantly out in the open, but we don’t know if it counts as assault yet. I had to fight for an entire year to make it clear that there was something wrong with this situation.

When I was told to be prepared in case we didn’t win, I said, I can’t prepare for that. He was guilty the minute I woke up. No one can talk me out of the hurt he caused me. Worst of all, I was warned, because he now knows you don’t remember, he is going to get to write the script. He can say whatever he wants and no one can contest it. I had no power, I had no voice, I was defenseless. My memory loss would be used against me. My testimony was weak, was incomplete, and I was made to believe that perhaps, I am not enough to win this. His lawyer constantly reminded the jury, the only one we can believe is Brock, because she doesn’t remember. That helplessness was traumatizing.

Instead of taking time to heal, I was taking time to recall the night in excruciating detail, in order to prepare for the attorney’s questions that would be invasive, aggressive, and designed to steer me off course, to contradict myself, my sister, phrased in ways to manipulate my answers. Instead of his lawyer saying, Did you notice any abrasions? He said, You didn’t notice any abrasions, right?

This was a game of strategy, as if I could be tricked out of my own worth. The ****** assault had been so clear, but instead, here I was at the trial, answering questions like:
How old are you? How much do you weigh? What did you eat that day? Well what did you have for dinner? Who made dinner? Did you drink with dinner? No, not even water? When did you drink? How much did you drink? What container did you drink out of? Who gave you the drink? How much do you usually drink? Who dropped you off at this party? At what time? But where exactly? What were you wearing? Why were you going to this party? What’d you do when you got there? Are you sure you did that? But what time did you do that? What does this text mean? Who were you texting? When did you urinate? Where did you urinate? With whom did you urinate outside?

Was your phone on silent when your sister called? Do you remember silencing it? Really because on page 53 I’d like to point out that you said it was set to ring. Did you drink in college? You said you were a party animal? How many times did you black out? Did you party at frats? Are you serious with your boyfriend? Are you sexually active with him? When did you start dating? Would you ever cheat? Do you have a history of cheating? What do you mean when you said you wanted to reward him? Do you remember what time you woke up? Were you wearing your cardigan? What colour was your cardigan? Do you remember any more from that night? No? Okay, well, we’ll let Brock fill it in.

I was pommeled with narrowed, pointed questions that dissected my personal life, love life, past life, family life, inane questions, accumulating trivial details to try and find an excuse for this guy who had me half naked before even bothering to ask for my name. After a physical assault, I was assaulted with questions designed to attack me, to say see, her facts don’t line up, she’s out of her mind, she’s practically an alcoholic, she probably wanted to hook up, he’s like an athlete right, they were both drunk, whatever, the hospital stuff she remembers is after the fact, why take it into account, Brock has a lot at stake so he’s having a really hard time right now.

And then it came time for him to testify and I learned what it meant to be revictimized. I want to remind you, the night after it happened he said he never planned to take me back to his dorm. He said he didn’t know why we were behind a dumpster. He got up to leave because he wasn’t feeling well when he was suddenly chased and attacked. Then he learned I could not remember.

So one year later, as predicted, a new dialogue emerged. Brock had a strange new story, almost sounded like a poorly written young adult novel with kissing and dancing and hand holding and lovingly tumbling onto the ground, and most importantly in this new story, there was suddenly consent. One year after the incident, he remembered, oh yeah, by the way she actually said yes, to everything, so.

He said he had asked if I wanted to dance. Apparently I said yes. He’d asked if I wanted to go to his dorm, I said yes. Then he asked if he could finger me and I said yes. Most guys don’t ask, can I finger you? Usually there’s a natural progression of things, unfolding consensually, not a Q and A. But apparently I granted full permission. He’s in the cl

this morning I awoke
with gum abrasions
and let me tell you
it wasn't the happiest of occasions

the bottom set of false teeth
were ripped out
as they'd been wearing
the gum line about

some gum gel
was duly applied to gain relief
the bottom set of false teeth
had given me enough grief

at lunch time
I shall pop the teeth back in
so I can restore
my toothy grin

should the **** teeth
abrade my gums anymore
I shall have to get the dental mechanic
to realign the bottom draw

A dads uniform
                          (Now my own)


           On any given day I saw the many faces of a man.
I watch him play his roles like they were well rehearsed scenes.
He was a star in his own actions, drama, thrillers and romance.

         He wore his soldiers uniform on sunday, torn jeans, white T-shirt with no sleeves and abrasions and scrapes gave stripes to his big arms.
He had oil on his hands and grease on his chin, barking orders as he worked on the car.
" Hand me that 3/4 standard and torque it to the 5th notch"
"What!? What the **** language was that?" I thought to myself as I awkwardly reached for the 1st thing my eyes spotted and held it up.
"That's a hammer Alex!" He said shaking his head as he smiled and walked toward me. He rarely had a disappointing tone. Later he explain the workings of a standard torque wrench Vs a metric wrench with converter. 10 years later I used that wrench to change my Edelbrock Electronic Carburetor 400 series twin stoker all by myself.

    I once saw him defend his honor. That day he wore  his heroes uniform as he leaped from person to person striking, grabbing, kicking, and throwing the 3 large men who underestimated his ferociousness. His tank top was ****** from the wound on his nose. His hat fell to the dirt next to the beaten, unconscious, and humiliated foes that once stood before him.
I could see that he intended to continue his lesson in respect but as he glanced over to see my wide open mouth and unmoved stare he quickly contained his aggression. He picked up his hat and shook it a few time to knock the dirt off. In that moment was another unexpected act. He help the worst of the men to a sitting position and asked him if he was ok. He was genuine in his concern that he may have been excessive in his judgment.
Later that night he explain to me that violence should never be the 1st choice for a solution and our actions should reflect the person we want people to see.
I would remember this 15 years later when sitting with the man I just choked unconscious, letting him drink my gatorade and catch his breath moments after he attempted to robbed me at knife point. In that few minutes I learned his life story. My friends said my actions were foolish.

            Duct tape and crazy glue are the tools of every street born medic.
T-shirt gauzes and boiled stones often made his grace when he wore his First aid uniform.
      
        As a kid I did DUMB very well, from gun powder soup, to a game of dart board hands. One of the more gruesome moments was my apple cutting malfunction. I severed my finger at the base pretty good. I cut right through the knuckle at the base of the index finger. It was the 1st time I fainted. Its still a debate weather it was the loss of blood or sight of it. Like a seasoned veteran he jumped into action. While most doctors would  use a coagulant like Lanxess, iodine and 22 gauge suture for this injury but not this man. He opted for all purpose flour, beer and duct tape to disinfect and seal the wound. Even though it was 3 hours before the emergency room would clean and repair the damage, I didn't shed another drop of blood while his homemade fix was in place.
I learned a lot of (what his friends called Ni**a rigging) first aid tips from him.
12 years later, while on a training exercise with  my CCC group in the forrest, a grade worker suffered a compound fracture from a slip and fall while hiking. I used a heated licorice root as antiseptic and 2 flat rock, my shoe in soles and a belt to mend and set his arm well enough to hike 2 miles back through the trail till we found help.

          When I write my poetry I never know what it is people see or interpret from it. I know the workings of romance and I know the power of its application. The day he wore his Casanova uniform I witnessed 1st hand the great reward a little effort can bring 2 people in love.
         On a normal day in the park us kids ran around yelling and screaming while him and mom sat on the grass watching us play. In the moments of a physical dilemma I sat next to him to catch my breath as he talk to her about random things. I knew my presence was interfering with whatever moment him and my mom were having but I was too intrigued by the task he was performing on the side to care.
On the reverse of a box top he drew a picture of a monkey sitting on a tree in the middle of the water. It was handing a flower to a mermaid sitting on a rock. I never forgot the joy on my moms face when he handed it to her and said "this is us."
I saw that picture everyday displayed on her mirror. Here I am 25 years later looking at my own art and words displayed across the walls of my home. My wife often looks at her description in the words and her name in the titles. Our own son invades our personal space as we sneak kisses and exchange affection through his predictable intrusions.

        My own uniforms hang in my closet waiting for interpretation from onlookers.
Suit up and be seen, or close your eyes and remember his many suits. Your in my thoughts. I hope this finds its way to you.
        Love
              -Alex J Meighan-

Tired of the ways of men
Desperately I turned toward nature
I watched a butterfly ascend
Yet I'm a different nomenclature
Of a solemn glacier
Standing on my own
In an arctic cone
Not protected by the ozone
So I search for a new home
But can only find loans
My venture for my own real estate
Exposed me to the realest hate

I'm the roaming gnome
With a groaning tone
All alone
With a roaming phone
So I can't call home

My will I leave
When still I see
A killer bee
Filling me
Willingly
Its invasion's
Abrasions
Left a sensation
With a duration
Of unending inflation
On a descending station
Of no impending relation

I felt the nature
Of a desolate crater
When I met a great hater
Who told me to get straighter
So I could be a steel freighter
Carrying my load on my back
Without polluting the air
I decided to cut him some slack
Forgiving his impossible dare

I must gather grace
At a faster pace
To finish this race
Of a top notch
Hot crotch
Stopwatch
Ticking down
Into the ground
Without a sound
Or warning
Of acid rain forming
Until I see myself melting
From the savage belting
Of your death sting
You called the best thing
Like a divine blessing
Only seen after *******
Like a politician deflecting
For the constituents electing
To forego dissecting
The issue at hand
By not taking a stand

My world is crumbling
Because of you
And myself stumbling
In society's glue
As the sky is tumbling
I see I'll lose
Yet instead of rumbling
It's love I choose

sometimes an acrid heat
rises in my vocal cords
it tells me to do things
i don't want to do
but i do want it
i just wish i didn't.

it steals my voice
it masquerades as honor
it whispers justifications
it reveals itself to me
in a way i can't refuse

it tells me
it reminds me
how sweetly it stings
when i drag my fingers
against my skin
how could i say no?
i am weak

it wants me to hurt
i want to hurt
it wants me to hurt
i want to hurt
i(t) want(s me) to hurt
because it never was anything
but my own desires
i just didn't want them
to be mine

I used to think in numbers.
1: There’s one of me. Alone. Plus
4: my family. Still 1, but 5, or
4 plus 1; that’s me, alone.
I used to think in numbers.
36: That’s weeks of school;
That’s weeks of math class,
math class, calculator;
Father, Son, and Calculator.
Trinity: the holy three, the three, the
3 times 36: that’s 108.
I used to think in numbers.
Math class, algebra, room 108.
I hate, I hate, I love, I hate,
I hate the way they look at me.
They look at me like man at dog,
like planet hogs,
throw books at me like cannons cogged
at ninety-minute intervals at cinder walls
until I fault and cringe and fall, and fall
like London Bridge and crash, and fall like
Blown-out glass gone back to class. I pass the
tests and cash regrets like rent checks
bounced across the bridge that they knocked down.
Because I used to think in numbers, yeah,
but now?

        Well, sure. Abrasions hurt.
And yeah, we all want friends.
But at least equations work
and keep their balance on both ends.
So I will rock this scatter-plot of
social contract to its peak until
my hands are red meat.
I am no dead beat;
I hold the world record for blood lost
to a summer camp spread sheet.

But then,
but then somewhere along that number line,
a 6 stared down its stage fright when just
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 days before the show,
I met a girl who barred my better judgment
like a cage fight,
and thank God she did,
because for once, I put away the calculator,
and I listened to her voice,
and it sounded like…
well, it sounded like it sounded.
And for once, I sat and wrote about the things
that can’t be counted.
I surrendered to the cage fight,
and I fell into a deep hole.
And to be honest,

I don’t miss spreadsheet summers,
‘cause it’s easier to keep cool.
I used to think in numbers,
yeah,
but now I think in people.

Everybody’s going nowhere and I am far gone
I can’t even see the ocean the motion was all wrong
Just a sea of broken bottles and cigarette models
On the floor, so high I had to clean the sky
Never been an existentialist, cynic, or a pessimist
Just another body on the edge of metamorphosis
Clinging to a rope I hope will not snap
Like my neck if I hit the ground, oh crap!
I’m apocalyptic fresh and I can’t say why
If I do it’s a lie, see the needle in my eye?
Meditation, preparation, or a conscious legislation
Couldn't help the fact my words are often littered with abrasions
As if shock rock poetry could save me from my death
It could possibly enlighten but I wouldn't hold my breath
Now I’m frightened by the notion of a new world order
But anarchy is hip if you’re on this side of the border
I digress, what a mess if you know what I mean
But I've burned out quicker than gasoline…

The elegant madwoman with a golden valor.
Louder than the falling trees
stumbling everywhere around her feet!
The spiritual mother, everyone's empress,
a concrete rose blooming over every obstacle
as if she were a one-woman, 21st century dynasty
with no malfunctions in its empire.

But, there's something writhing its way out
from the cellar reserved for her scathing history.
Past the cobwebs and futile pretensions of valiance
lies this warrior queen's greatest desire:
shrouded in shame, the need for love still haunts.
But it won't some accessory amid the ninth cloud!

Hard work and minimum wage flow much more smoothly.
She's known this since she discovered the world,
since she entered a home full of broken furniture
and reeking of alcoholic breath and stagnant, bitter tensions
that were released when father's fist met daughter's face,
and her bruise-soaked body became the symbol of her innocence.

That must be why she spends so much time
in the darkest Brooklyn alleys, selling her self-respect
to any man feeling particularly kind that night,
and letting any detrimental cycle resurface
for just one rush of vulnerability.

This contemporary queen dons a crown bejeweled with more grit
than the streets of three New York boroughs,
yet all she requires of the world that she holds in her hand
like a ruler deciding the fate of her people
is someone to transform adoration from myth to reality.
Will she ever find light from the alley?

MY TREE HOUSE 12-02-09

Hi. I’m hyper-active. I also don’t pay attention very well. They say I have “attention-deficit” but I’m starting to think that it’s not a deficit, it’s an attention overload. I get distracted easily because so much flows through my brain at one time. Add that to hyperactivity, it’s no wonder I’m accident-prone. They wanted me to wear a helmet but I flatly refused.

I have a tree house. I’ve always had a tree house or a fort of some kind. I’m not a kid anymore, but each year that passes by; I get younger, by one year. If I get back to age 30, I’ll be amazed. But that’s a long ten years away. It’s better than turning sixty.

I’m short. I’m small, and I can climb like a monkey and drink like a buffoon.
Sometimes this combination is very entertaining. Sometimes it’s just completely annoying…to others.

There was only so much I could do as a kid. By the time I was six, my younger brother, at age two and a half, was as tall as me. I punched him regularly, if he annoyed me. But I took up for him, a lot. He remembers me wailing on a kid twice my size, because he’d hit my little brother. I don’t remember, but my brother recalls me swinging and yelling “You don’t hit my brother! Nobody hits my brother, ‘cept me! Take that, you *****!”

As the giant fell from a kick to the groin, I’d haul my little brother home, by his ear, telling him to STAY OUT of trouble. I couldn’t be there every time he needed me.

I’m not 6 years old anymore, but explain that to the neighborhood kids. Each year, they get taller and I get smaller. Time and again, I am outgrown. When they get to a certain height, they try to lean their elbows on top of my head, or tussle my hair. That’s when they learn what I’m really made of! These are kid’s I’ve been scaring at Halloween since they were toddlers.

Even though my tree house is for me, I must say it does attract a lot of attention, from adults and kids alike. There is not one neighbor, young or old who has not climbed up there.

With a whimsical fascination, a whisper comes out….”I’ve always wanted a tree house…just like this…”

Yep, me too. That’s why I keep working on it. That’s why I have more scrapes, scratches, abrasions, tears, bruises and bug bites than anyone I know. And I wear shorts all the time, so they show. I sometimes appear to have chicken pox. But it’s just poison ivy.

Everyone that knows me doesn’t really notice; it’s just a part of me. But sometimes, strangers will look at my tanned, scraped, burned and just plain injured skin and gasp.

Before they know it, they’ve commented behind their hand. “Good Lord, child, what happened to you?”

“Ooooohh, just life”, I say as I scamper out of the liquor store.

icy shards are left in
my heart: once
it was filled with the
soft radiance of something
special;
you: an icicle piercing
on my heart insistently
until you yanked it
With your own words. it was to be
a heap of pieces of abrasions
littering at my feet; yet it melted
into a cooling puddle of water

The pendulum swings its wide arch, cutting through the air with threatening strokes.
Its sharp blade is ever present and always moving closer in arks of fear.
The pit lies below in dark, endless depths of nothingness.
Its cry is one of forever and silence.

I am in between, and I must choose between the sharp abrasions of the ever threatening pendulum, or the hollow death of the pit.

Each moment the pendulum sweeps closer, and I dodge it, but not before I have felt the hair shaved from my arms or the air stir from its movement.

And I am relieved and safe for a while until another choice must be made, and the pendulum moves another notch closer.

The pit is always waiting.  I have poked my head inside, but have never wholly ventured into its permanence.  The pit is always the last escape and awaits if the pendulum cuts too deep.

Each time I must decide.  “Will it be the pit or will it be the pendulum?”

Two weeks ago I got in an accident while mountain biking. I broke my collar bone and fractured my sternum. Abrasions covered my back, my hip had a puncture wound that turned into a hematoma and was swollen 2inches (I couldn't wear pants for a full week). I hit the ground with such force that air was forced out of my lungs and into the sack around my heart. I spent 18 hours in the ICU and three more days in the hospital after.

A long time ago I crashed. I crashed after you left. My ribs were caving in and making it hurt to breath, my cheeks burned, I swore to god my heart was never going to be okay again. The pain in my chest was incredible. The worst pain I have ever felt was when you left.

I flew over my handle bars two weeks ago and rolled down the mountain and still your absence hurts me more.

The hallway seemed to sway with the motion of the tears filling my eyes. I tried to keep going to get to the door, but I collapsed there in the hall. The weight crashing down on me. She was dead. My only love was dead. I’d been with her for six years and we’d been waiting to get married. That was all over now. They had killed her. I laid my head in my hands and let it all go. I fell spiraling down into the darkness at the edge of my consciousness. My very last thoughts echoing in my head as I slipped into this grief coma, they would all pay, they would pay.

The clock on the wall ticked loudly as I made my way to Mr. Jefferson’s office. The hallways were empty, an unusual thing for a Monday morning in a business firm. I tried not to let it get in my head. I had a job to fulfill. If I didn't get this one right the boss would surely wring my neck. She wasn't the most understanding person, and tolerated no mistakes. A dark cherry wood door lay at the end of the long hallway with a silver plate spelling out Mr. Jefferson’s office. All the other doors I had passed had, had similar ones.
I knocked on the door quietly waiting for an invitation inside. I took a deep breath and steady myself. Telling myself I had to do this. There was still no beckoning to come in so I knocked louder, but was only greeted by silence. I opened the door quickly and peered in. Mr. Jefferson laid slumped over his paper work in the messy piles on his desk.
A bullet through his head. Well this was just great now the boss had another reason to chew me out. I closed the door quietly and made my way to the body. Blood spilled from the back of his head and off his shoulders dripping into the puddle on the floor. I took my phone from my pants pocket and called Leo.
“Hey, Leo we got a problem, Jefferson’s already dead. They’re a step ahead of us. What’s my next move?” the line was silent for a minute until he replied, “what was the cause of death?” I looked at the back of Jefferson’s head one more time to make sure that was no other abrasions. “Bullet wound in the back of his head, no sign of struggle either.”
“Alright, I’ll inform the boss. You should probably make your way back to the headquarters. I can tell you now the boss isn't going to be happy.” I sighed I already new that. The ***** had been riding my *** all month now. It wouldn't hurt her to give us all a break once in a while. I closed my phone. I made my way out the door. No doubt someone else would find Jefferson and would immediately go for the video tapes.
Luckily I didn't come here alone, I brought my computer genius along, that could erase us from every tape and cover his tracks. I gave a polite smile to each person I passed and had to fight to walk calm and smoothly out the front doors. Brain already waited inside the car looking anxious. We were both fairly new to the working in the field. Usually the boss assigned me on small assignments. I got inside the drivers side and pulled out right away. “Jefferson was already dead when I got there, bullet wound to the back of the head, what I don’t understand is how no one heard it, or why he didn't struggle,” I told Brian. “Maybe a silencer on the gun? And perhaps his lack of struggle was because there was a gun pointed at his head?” I thought it over. It was possible but that was different from all the others. “They usually cover their tracks better than that though,” I looked over at Brain whose face was crinkled by his deep thoughts. “Maybe they were in a rush?” The wound had looked freshly made. “Perhaps,” I said still mulling it over. “I suppose we’ll just have to wait for the police reports.”

As I had figured Liana was furious. “How is it that four out of seven of the people I've told you to get information from then take out have ended up already dead when you got there?” She spit angrily in my face. Liana was a scary lady but she didn't scare me.
“I don’t know you tell me,” I said and smiled at her. I could feel the audience behind me stop what they were doing and cringe. “Do you think this is funny?” Liana said quietly.
Her face had gone rigid and her fist clenched so tightly at her sides, the knuckles had turned a ghostly white.
I knew which battles to fight and which to surrender. “No, nothing is funny,” I spat out clenching my jaw. I really hated this stupid job. If it wasn't for Liana keeping my brother alive I wouldn't be here. And just as I thought it Liana cheerfully reminded me, “do remember darling, your brothers life lies in my hands. One wrong move and it’s bye bye brother, understood?” Her dark eye’s drilling into mine. The feeling of hatred seeped from my body as it was overflowing inside me now. “Understood,” I growled.
“Good, now get out. I’ll call you when I have your next assignment.” She turned but stopped to look back,
“ and next time do not mess up,” then walked back into her office slamming the door.
I let the breath I had been holding out and left quickly before they all burned holes into me with their heavy glares. I made my way to Kyle’s room. The walls were painted dark blue with small silver stars painted all over. I had painted it for him, he loved the stars. “Kyle?” I said shakily looking down at the boy. His tiny body shaking in pain. He wouldn't eat. The vomiting broke his bones sometimes. His bones stuck through his skin like his skin had only been draped over his frail bones. The tears flowed from my eye’s and down my face. He was only fifteen.
He was so sick, I just wanted him to be okay. Healthy again. The reason I’d signed up to join this place was because they promised to save him. They said as soon as I finished the biggest assignment they would heal him. But I grew more and more doubtful.
Kyle had been infected, by the scientist. A super parasite they’d created. It caused brain disorders, like anorexia. Kyle’s brain was being attacked making him suicidal and making him believe he was anorexic. Making him believe he had to do these things. When it first started he was only depressed. He began cutting himself. When I saw the deep cuts in his arms and on his stomach  I asked him about it and his answer had been, “I didn't want to do I just had to“ . At the time I’d misunderstood him.
Now I knew. He literally had been forced by the parasites inside his brain.
His eye’s were closed and I could see the struggle it took for him to intake each breath. His arms, thin ropes, laid at his side. It took a massive amount of energy and strength for him to even turn his head. “I will fix this Kyle, believe in me when I tell you that, I love you.” I kissed his cold forehead and left shutting the door slowly.

Mathilda is brutally murdered
Udolph is the obvious suspect
remembers everyone how she jilted him
David her last lover is inconsolable
Evan’s appearance raises suspicion
right before the ****** he met her
Ergot the butler had seen him going out
Rocky was with him could be an accomplice
Inspector Brown finds it a tough case
so many suspects but all with good alibi
Dr. Thomas isn’t sure about the cause of death
autopsy is necessary for the confirmation
visible though are the abrasions on her neck
Inspector Brown interrogates all the suspects
dogs are brought to find smells of trails.

there is a crusted-
over, nasty-
looking cut
on
my left
knee
from a bike
accident
I had the
other
day

both of my
big toes have
calluses that
size of quarters
on the
inside-back
parts
of
their
undersides

tiny sunburns
from where my
feet stuck
out of
the sand
decorate my left
and right
feet

my pale belly
and legs
seem ever whiter
in comparison
to my sunburnt and
darkening arms

there is somebody
out there who thinks
I am beautiful

how have stayed strong
all these years?

I can see my ugliness,
my scars, and my abrasions
just the same as everybody
else

they are there
they are morbid
and disgusting
they are who
I am and I act
as such

I know exactly why
and how people hate
me

yet

I’ve never faltered

in a hurricane or
the breeze

I am who I am
I say
and nothing more

still stories flutter,
rumors fly, and
I can’t help but
notice the stores
and tales that
circulate

I’m lucky someone
still finds time to look
at me straight

perhaps the strongest of men
are only left with the opportunity
to gain

Give me..
Give me that good ****.

You know, that good ****

We're handed pipes instead of pills.
Told to smoke pain away something that's been breed 4 generations deep.
A poverty in the sheets.
An allergic reaction,
nuclear,
biochemical -
skin abrasions, lacerations -
3rd degree burns on our hearts.

Drink away the pain  to sooth the burn.
To silence the scald.

No one even teaches you to hold yourself.
Instead they tell you to find someone else to do it for you.
Make you unable to be whole.
To be three fourths **** up.

Bandaging your own self inflicted scars in the bathroom sink.

To be metal jackets made of sorrow.
To be blacked out Saturday nights, too hung over to go to church with your family in the morning.

To be so high, you never even get low.

To be light bulbs busted, stayed bright too long.

That good **** ain't good **** when it turns you into the kind of slack jawed, numb monster your mother is ashamed of.

We are a generation self mutilated - no, no - self medicated.

Raised by television sets, they made cigarettes look ***.
They made suicide look pretty,
And binge drinking look cool.

They made it normal for kids to pass around bottles of liquor at 14.

You're too young and too fast, and you're trying to not ******* feel ****.

I've been you.
I am you.

So no, it ain't no good ****.

I don't have any good ****.

Cause nothing is good, if it's never been bad first.

If it's never been broke, and broken, and sick.
If it's never cried itself to sleep.
If it's never seen its own reflection in broken pieces of glass and felt akin to the shatter.

You have to feel every inch of the low to make any high worth it.

And let it be a homemade one.

Let it be love.
And lust.
And the sun, and good art, and loud music, and jukebox laughter, and your family telling you, you matter.

Don't let it be synthetic and manufactured. Don't let it be bought on street corners, let it be home grown, and natural.
Raised in the corners of your mother's smile.

Let those good moments be you.
Let those moments be life.
Let them be the warmth before the scald, let those be the moments before you fall.


And I know it hurts.
It hurts to be a volcano victim.
To be so irrevocably in love with life when it can burn you so badly.

Believe me, being numb means nothing.

And yes, I know it's hard.
Hard to be 14,
And 17.
And 21,
And 45.

I know it's hard, so ******* hard to exist every single day.

I know the bouquets of heart break, feel like chainsaws and forest fires.

I know the boys hurt your feelings.
I know your parents don't understand you.
I know your teachers don't listen to you,
I know you hate yourself

And I know you shouldn't.

Because baby,
A pipe,
Or a pill
Or a bottle
Won't ever do any good **** for you.

An absent father's failure with an inhaler in hand

Insecurity seething from his skin

Manifesting it's self as bulbous red abrasions on his forehead

A heavy breathing child who's eyes were often aimed low

His expectations for life even lower

A little over weight but not enough to concern his pediatrician

He cut gym class a lot because of the showers

Now fourteen he had seen a few ******

He knew he didn't match up

It was better that no one knew he thought

He went on living like this

A pale shadow hovering in the halls

A faceless nobody in the background of someone else's group photo

A ghost who was only noticed by those who tortured him

Bullies like sharks can smell blood in the water

And he was chum

I still vividly see the feeding frenzy

I still remember the day we were told he took his own life

NO shrieks, NO cries, NOT even a whimper was heard

Almost a concerted sigh of boredom

That night there was a party

Not to celebrate his death

But an apathetic gesture of his nonexistence

I attended as was socially expected of me

Even wore a smile

But my mind wrestled with his suicide

I thought of how much I hated him

I hated the smell of his weakness

I hated the 'poor me' attitude

I hated him for taking his own life

Leaving me to feel guilty

That I had done nothing to help him

As if I was responsible in some way

...

Abraham Horowitz thought he was dead. Maybe this was what death was like, desolate and bleak, no different than his last few years of sheer misery, humiliation and pain.  He already felt he was in Hell, for Buchenwald was a Hell on earth, but what was going on now?  Just where was he exactly? His glasses had been smashed by a **** guard months ago, and now he couldn't understand why he could not make out the hazy figures of the guards barking out orders and smashing the butts of their rifles into the heads and backs of tormented inmates.  All that seemed to exist were walking skeletons aimlessly drifting about in the blowing wind.

His situation was always dire, but today was an indescribably odd day.   It wasn't good or bad. Lately, little aroused Abraham to ponder upon as he had long ago begun to believe that he was an animal and not a man. After all, different walks of life were thrown away like subhuman trash—left for the flies to feast upon—and it had powerfully defined the ghastly surroundings of his disgraceful existence. People who once were somebody to someone had soon become nobody in the world.  The rotting corpses proved that out. Since he was deemed as a beast, Abraham no longer thought or reasoned like a human being. There was no longer any reason to think or to feel or to imagine anything that could inspire his will to thrive.

The inhumanity had taken its toll. Too weak to stand, he had been fading in and out of sleep and consciousness when much of the chaos of forced marches took place. The Nazis were desperately trying to avoid encountering the allied forces that opposed them. They weren't going to give up easily as they'd sooner shake their fists and make all the prisoners suffer to the bitter end. Many of prisoners were moved out as possible, but not all went willingly. The remaining prisoners—those who weren't half dead—now had their chance to resist.

Abraham's back was leaning against the splintered, wooden wall of one of the barracks. He had tried to prop himself up in an attempt to sit up and then stand up. He only succeeded in sitting up in an awkward slouch, much to the discomfort to his bony backside. The sun beat down on him, his only solace to warm up his frail, battered body, his only comfort in his state of wasting away to the shell of the man he once was. Soon the sweet sun was quenched as he was engulfed in the shadows of a soldier standing before him.  

There was nothing left in him, no more will to live. He was done. No more fear flooded his mind, only thoughts of nothingness that gave him an actual period of relief.  If he was still alive—he had thought—the best thing to happen would be that the soldier now in front of him end his miserable life with a bullet to his head. What once was deemed a horrendous fate now seemed like a welcome surrender

"Hey there... sprechen sie Englisch?", the man asked him. It was the worst German accent that he ever heard, but it might as well have been the voice of God.  

Did he speak English? Oh, yes, he did! "Ja…Englisch", he managed to utter, in sheer bewilderment. He struggled for words to say, but they could not leave his mouth.

The man crouched down and said, “It’s okay now. You can say whatever you want, buddy.”

Abraham still struggled to speak. "That is yes...I...I... do....I do...and Hebrew... and Yiddish... German and… a bit... Polish", he answered with a parched, throaty voice.  Abraham had enough strength left to place his quivering hand up to his eyes. He simply cried as the light went on in his mind. The rumors going around the camp were true! The Americans had come!

Tears are for little boys. The image of his father, scolding him for crying as a youth, dashed into mind. Abraham tried to contain himself. Weeping was one satisfaction that the inmates wanted never to give to the Nazis. Only the irrevocably broken ones begged for mercy, wailing uncontrollably as they were laughed at, mocked and scorned by their enemies.  Conditioned to show no emotional response was one up on the Germans, the only control and dignity that a man had left.  Self-restraint meant you were never owned by anyone.  

Soon a slightly cool cup of water was placed upon Abraham’s shaking lips. He slurped at it—getting more on the ground than in his mouth—like a man coming out of years in the desert. Oh, how precious was that water! He could have drunk it by the gallons, splashed in it, played in it—danced in it!  If he could only stand and be given the chance!

"Easy now, buddy”, the American advised. "My name's John, by the way". The young, freckled-face private smiled proudly, stating,”John Dunn from the good, ole USA—from Jersey...New Jersey, that is."

He was only the second soldier that Abraham ever met in this entire ordeal of brutal capture and madness of war that had a heart. The soldier was rare sight in that he showed him even an ounce of kindness. John Dunn reminded him so much of Otto Brumler that he began to weep, again. He didn't know he even had it in him, for he had stopped crying so long ago that it was as if he had forgotten how.  Lately, there just weren't any more feelings left—not even hate. Oh, how he used to hate! There were only numb movements of a dead man walking about. The tears felt cleansing upon his dry and ***** face.

Otto Brumler was a rare anomaly. He just didn’t seem to make sense in this sea of insanity. A **** guard, he liked to talk with some of the inmates, discreetly giving them gifts to pass around—some cigarettes, chocolates, cheese, bread and sausages. How peculiar to be coming from a German soldier!  Some of the inmates were suspicious that he was a spy that was out to trap them and feared him even more than the most loathing of the guards. Abraham was one of them who at first thought the man was purposely trying to get them in trouble.

Trouble abounded in the camps. If the men couldn't work hard enough, they were daily beaten and tortured, so badly beaten down that many could not get back up again. If it wasn't an act of harsh aggression, it was starvation and disease that got them. Herded up like animals, the filth from their ****** fluids and human waste was an ever noxious presence, their ragged clothes soiled in the foul mess. The stench that was once unbearable eventually became to define them as trash to be thrown away, and they had forgotten what a clean existence smelled like.  

Abraham would sometimes wake up in the morning and find the one next to him had not made it through the night. Sometimes, it was on both sides that dead bodies had sandwiched him in-between. If not those succumbing to the horrible conditions, the weaker ones were taken away while alive, never to be seen again. And some would give up the will to live by refusing to press on, passively taking a bullet or a fatal beating. Then there were those who would end their own lives as the only means of escape. It seemed one less triumph for the Nazis, to deny them the sick satisfaction of killing yet another, wretched soul. Yet the Nazis always won the victory of a victim’s life ending.  Regardless of how the death of any of the undesirables occurred in the camps, it fed their ideology of superiority just fine. Many of the prisoners lay awake at night wondering how this barbarism could flourish and go unnoticed.  When would it end? Had the whole world gone mad?  

"We survive and that’s how we win”, one of the Polish prisoners, Jan, encouraged some around him. "We make it to the end because they will be defeated. They cannot last forever. You mark my words!"

"And how do we do that?" “a doubtful Jewish teen, Eli, insisted. He once was so spirited, and he had great plans to travel the world one day. "I lost my whole family. I'm the only one left and it will just be a matter of time before they get me, too. We are all doomed!" His gaunt face and hallow eyes spoke for themselves.

Abraham needed to believe he'd have even a glimmer of hope to be free one day, or he'd have lost the battle by now. His sanity would not hold out. Many already had no hope and that was like a death in itself.  Most of the men knew that to hold on, they'd have to defy logic and hold out for hope. They'd pray with each other, regardless of being a Jew or Christian or even the agnostics, sometimes losing the meager hope that they were had. It grew as scarce as their rations of crusty bread. Nevertheless, they prayed.  

One time, Abraham was grabbed by a guard by the throat and hurled to the ground for being too slow. He had been dumping out human excrement from the campgrounds. The guard berated Abraham as he kicked him over and over again while the poor man curled up into a ball in helpless submission. Protecting his face and head, he soon found himself sheltering his groin, writhing in  pain in that sensitive area that had been attacked by a heel of a boot.

It was Otto Brumler who astounded him. Why wasn't he like the others? As a Jew, the disgust the Nazis had for Abraham was as obvious as the gloom hanging over the camp. Hatred defined Abraham’s world ever since ****** took power and convinced the people that they would be better off without his kind.  Otto was looked upon as being too soft on those he guarded, reprimanded for not being too tough and rough on the prison ****. He did not go above and beyond his duty, nor did he take pleasure in anyone's pain and suffering.

"My best friend was a Jew", he confessed to Abraham one night, sneaking him some salve for his cuts and abrasions from that last beating, providing him some meat to satisfy his longings to fill his stomach.  

Abraham actually showed a real emotion that was a rare sight these days, a slow expression of surprise. "So why are you here at the camp?" he asked him.

Otto puffed on his cigar and passed it to him. He laughed a little, replying, "I think ****** is a little man...but a big bully. I would have gladly be no part of this greedy thirst to devour other nations, but I was forced into it." He looked at Abraham and smiled a bit with sad eyes. It was quite the contradiction of mirth. Otto had a ruddy complexion and dark blonde hair. In his youthfulness, there still an air of innocence about him, a kindness that the ugliness of the war had not killed in him.

"I love my country", he admitted.  "I just hate what they are doing now and how blind we have become. It will be to our ruin."

Abraham admired his honesty. "I guess there are a few good men in this world", he admitted. "My father taught me that it isn't where you come from but who you are that counts."

"That is true, my friend." Otto patted him on the back and added, “My old friend, Avi, had saved my life."  He was speaking of his Jewish friend from childhood. "Many years ago, he rescued me from a lake in my hometown. We went there to cool off from the summer heat.  I couldn't really swim, but I became overconfident and dove in like I was the best swimmer in the world.  There, I found myself in water over my head and didn't end up so well.  I would have drowned without Avi rescuing me. Unlike me, he was fearless."

"So now you know we Jews aren't devils." Abraham remarked, with a hint of a twinkle in his eye.  

"Of course not! Avi was like a prizefighter, a real proud kid. He never backed down from a fight, and there was always a challenge for him..He had to fight off the boys who picked on him for being different from most of us—for being a Jew. So he learned how to stand his ground. I was a fat boy, and Avi would defend me from the bullies who picked on me, too. He was a good friend to me. I know a a bully when I see one, Abraham” He pointed his finger all around, “Bullies everywhere, but they are not men…just weak, little boys who need someone to kick around to feel better”

Abraham knew he had a genuine friend in Otto. “What happened to your friend?”he asked about Avi.

Otto just shrugged his shoulders. “I hope he hasn't lost the fight. I wonder what has happened to him quite often...if he is alive now…if he has made it this far."  

It was nighttime, but it seemed even less secure to come together like this than if mingling in plain sight.  There was never a time where anyone could feel safe, not one minute. Abraham knew this encounter was risky, deadly for sure if caught. He talked about his lovely, young wife, Rivka, and how she felt she was not blessed with having a child. Now it seemed like it was a blessing not to rear up a child, not to have it cruelly ripped away from them and mourn the aching loss and its tragic demise. Rivka was already dead, herself,. Women and children were often the first to go. All Abraham had now was her memory, the image of her sweet face in his mind. Otto talked about his young sweetheart, Gretchen, and his dream of starting a life with her once the war was over. He still believed in a bright future.

That wish would never come true.  It wasn't long before Otto was found out about for his secret encounters with some of the prisoners and shot before a firing squad as a traitor. When Abraham found out, he wanted to weep over the loss but the tears wouldn't come. They couldn’t even come for his lovely Rivka. They only came now when Private John Dunn had given him water, mirroring the same kindness that Otto had once done, redeeming him from an animal to a man  once more.  

Abraham was eventually placed on a truck with other survivors and transported to more humane conditions. Allied soldiers were fully in charge the camp now, and there was no going back to that hellhole ever again. At last, he was truly a free man, though a heartbroken one who was not the same man as he arrived. He had not died—this was not just a dream—but he still was not convinced he would have the will to go on. The breeze on his face felt wonderful, the sun in his eyes, miraculous. That held some shred of promise for him. He passed by trees and mountainous views that he was never convinced he would ever see, again.  No more smell of death, but even the most fragrant flowers could not mask the memory of the horrible stench of his war-torn memories. Some things did just not die away that easily. Memories had a stink of their own that could not be masked by beauty. He had seen things that few could bear, much less go on to tell about it.  He'd never forget being penned up like pigs for the slaughter and made to have no hope. But by the front of the truck, there was Jan, the Pole who once said that the Nazis would be defeated and everyone could mark his words.  

Abraham looked at him until Jan's eyes met his and they both managed a smile. He had come too far to give up. He would not win the victory if he did not survive. He owed it to those who did not make it—to his people, to his fellow inmates, to Rivka, and even to Otto Brumler.  He had no clue, no answers of where to go or how to conduct himself in the world, again, but he would continue to hold onto hope that he would make it.

It suddenly dawned on him that his wife had a few cousins in Chicago that she grew up with. His mind was alerted with the remembrance of Rivka exchanging pictures, postcards and letters throughout the years, All he had of her was robbed from him in the war—everything. To lay eyes on her image—once again—and the possibility of maybe holding her actual words in his hands began to overwhelm him. His imagination could barely contain the thoughts, and he began to weep yet again. As once, crying was weakness to a man, the tears just now meant he was alive. To be counted among the living—to belong somewhere—it was the closest thing to pure joy. Thoughts of America started a small spark within—just enough to start a little fire in his soul—to lead him on to a path with a hopeful purpose. There was no turning back now.

i put on my
****-me eyes to play
the game again

i knew what i was doing

it shouldn’t be this easy still
15 years past the time
i could move men with my eyes

just call me the pied piper

so easy to slip inside
this mask still fits like a second skin
molten flames lick through my veins

i have some **** bad intentions

my advantage is
i’m going into the first hand
without holding my heart

you might as well just fold right away

beautiful boys have always been
a weakness - i still have the upper hand
though your pooled eyes try to tell me otherwise

you were mine before you even knew i was there

you lean close - whisper in my ear
i let you feel my heat
i don’t have time for conversation

i’m looking for my **** of the night

pull away to pull you in
i lean close - whisper in your ear
“is there an alley out back?”


“because i’m going to ******* against that brick wall”

I'm guilty of admiring my works and not others, that's what's silly about my self compassion dance
When the only thing I've got left is the narcissistic klaxon that my self-righteous ambulance horn trances

If it's killing me, Bukowski would be proud, because he loved his liquor, but he loved killing himself more
He'd say, "**** your religion! Pour this! This will bring you closer to God!"
It's hard for an atheist to swallow, and to dabble in the tasting of sin,
But Jesus was famous for turning water into wine, with no grapes mashed or thinned

The shield of amaretto is strong and smooth
You can put your cruise control on if you feel amused and soothed
But in darker times it will make your feeling woozy and moved
But **** does it make you feel more like yourself
The you'est you can be, with impeccable speech craft and gentlemanly muse
Helps you pay the dues that you have abused in your passive seasonal attitudes

So what say ye Devine for thou'est darkest temptations, when you've created your own demons, hells, and abrasions
Seems like you're the one holding the power ***** of creation
Ye 'ol Devine *******

I've had this
sharp piece of bark
between my throat
the back side and the front.
It would close my throat
if I sang.

I had to sing.

I would feel my throat
closing
feel it hurt
make myself
believe that it would be fine.

I had to be fine.

I wonder how people yell
do their throats not close up?
I hear my mom yelling
over the phone
a different kind of sickness.
She's unhappy with a life
she is not living.

She's living here.

With me. But her rage
shot through continents
found it's way back where her mind lives.
That's a sickness.
Your mind and body being in different places.

Sickness is living here.

I can't tell her about
how my throat closes
how loudness
isn't possible for me.
For I must have swallowed
every tooth pick
to feel the abrasions in my throat.

I swallowed every toothpick.

I let myself swallow further.
Let that bark fall farther in to my stomach.
Wake at night when it hurts,
when it begs to wake.
Let myself be hurt.
I don't tell her how I close.

I close my eyes.

I dream that I am living elsewhere.
I am sick. My mind is living where my body
is not. I am dreaming
of a world where
I can be sick.

Written about a car accident on May 21, 2014

The phone only rings once
but I don’t even pause for that
I just sputter out the sobs
and sloppy descriptions of a flipped car
and cross streets where she can find us.

I remember to assure her
that me and Cyra – yes she is with me – are fine
and we turned down the trip to the ER
in the cramped ambulance
with the neglectful girl
that might have a broken arm,
probably from the nearly fatal
death grip she had on her navigation
through that red light.

They ask me the same questions
at least four times
but I can’t possibly remember
which direction I was driving
because we flipped twice in the air
and shattered my windshield in the process
and I’m not sure how we got all the way
across the intersection
because now I’m sitting on Walnut
but that’s the opposite of
the direction I was headed.

I reach for her hand because I’m just glad for two things.

I took most of the impact
and the seatbelt abrasions
and bruised bones
are mostly on my limbs
and not hers.

I looked over to my passenger seat
in fear of what I would find,
and saw her looking back at me,
scared, but alive.

May 23, 2014 3:48:40 PM

Kept in front of me is a rough handmade paper
Its furrows are similar to my unsettled life
The thick graphite pencil I hold up to sketch
My anecdotes that has made an impact on me
As soon I start sketching, the graphite smudges
Leaving dark and ugly patches on the paper
And an indelible mark between my fingers
Depicting the dark shadow that has followed me
Everything I hope for, is daubed by overcast setting
When I take up the erasers to wipe off the mishaps
The friction creates a colossal mess on the dreams
I realize that I have distorted the sketch I started
But the deep lines of graphite stare at me sullenly
Such indelible sketches hover in my mind
Not even the best of erasers can wipe them off
I tried in vain, only to be left with abrasions
I have given up on drawing up any dreams
No longer, the handmade paper allures me to sketch
For I have used up all the graphite, drawing, failures
So many failures already etched in my memory
Left with nothing but the memories of defeat
Like the dark smudges of graphite, hovering my mind

Don't go barefoot in the snow,
if you have no where to go;
like a sauna, good for Flora and Fauna,

Don't run naked on the ice,
slipping is not to nice,
abrasions sting, make you sing, in the hot tub.

Don't live your life carefree,
or fuel your God given creativity,
dig your hole then be brave,
climb in to make sure if it fits
                        it is your grave,

after all

if you do nothing, nothing at all.

These tears aren’t for you because you don’t deserve them
They are for me because I earned them
Breaking free involves examining one’s self
Being stress free is a choice regardless of color, creed or wealth
When I consider the things that I’ve lived through
I realize what love can make me do
I realize my strength and dedication
I realize the extent of your mental manipulation
I realized the effect of waiting in the wings
While you continually did your thing
Steadily putting me under scrutiny
Like I was the one who did not know monogamy
I have but one question and in my soul it itches
Its how many countless nameless *******
Have you let your manhood reside in their britches
Meanwhile your mood switches just as easily as the wind blows
Cause liquor and **** makes your heart bleed
Black blood, green envy, blind jealously
Seeking foolishly to control me with suspicions and accusations
Branded with heartache and pain like abrasions
I’ve never been one for control
But being pushed past my limit is like Chicken Food for the Soul
Cause I have to consider my life, my health, my sanity
At the brink of no return
I stare into the abyss and see all things about myself I miss
I see how life is passing me by
No matter what I do or how hard I try
It’s to no avail and every effort ends up in fail
This pain is too much for me to bare
It’s like my self-esteem, my confidence, my respect
It’s barely there and it makes me flee
I am too low on the totem pole
And like "X" I am at my rock bottom
“like ****, look at how a ***** gott’em”
So God here I am on bended knee, stretching out both hands
Cause I can’t take another second how I am
Father help me to get back to me and on the path to where I should be

Paper cuts on wrist linger:
     like trickles of pain,
     bearable to hold;
     with trickle of tears,
     little to be told.

Invisible abrasions:
    on skin so precious,
    patches of triumph;
    the battle rages on,
    wince at every sting.

Unnecessary bandages:
    don't elevate pain,
    hide struggles under;
    to embrace each scrape,
    takes more than courage.
    
Petroleum jelly helps:
    fingertips cover,
    dollops to ease itch;
    sometimes humans need,
    catalysis to heal.

at this point in my life I still haven't figured out my purpose yet. Some of my friends act like they do, but probably don't. Some of my worst flaws is my obsession with escaping reality which usually causes problems, but who can blame me? Nobody will ever understand how difficult it is to live the way I do, everything I try I eventually hate. I haven't been proud of myself since late 2014 for taking a step towards my pursuit of happiness which got me out of the rut I'd call depression and suicidal tendencies. It's been two years without a suicidal thought and honestly life is great, however The difficulty of living for me is truly my anxiety and probably undiagnosed behavioral issues I probably should seek guidance on but, who knows. My anxiety isn't a crutch for me to build excuses for my actions, it's far worse. My anxiety causes me to feel tense constantly and causes my constant paranoia, it makes me skip meals, and eventually ruins just about everything for me. It causes me to constantly complain and it causes me to never truly rest. My anxiety is the devil on my shoulder and I just can't get him to leave. It truly digs the deepest when I am confronted about the issues it causes for me because I too want to change those things about me that it brings out but I can't, and that's what scares me. I can't figure out how to fix these flaws. Most recommend medication and prescriptions for it but prescription dependency is too much of a dark road for me (not that I've ever had an addiction problem). Some people think anxiety is an excuse but it's not. It's the reason I haven't had fingernails since I discovered biting them off helped me not shake. It's the reason why the inside of my cheeks have abrasions since i constantly chew on it when I get nervous. It's the reason why I can't figure out what my purpose is, Because that devil tells me everyday, give up.

This devil
Ball and chain
A key made of addiction
that only works temporarily
I want him to go away
But I'm scared of him
And what he would say
His hands clenched tight around my neck
But left no mark
His tail drew a trail
To lure me in the dark
I wish he'd tell me everything is alright
But he won't
Because if he did
he'd eventually just tell me he's lying.
I want this devil to leave
I want this devil to let me be
I want this devil to give me my thoughts
I want this devil to stop




*Disclaimer: this isn't a cry for help, this isn't woe is me. These are my thoughts.

Hello, Lad. Months-by-Months your Frame stood last
Seemingly asking why I took to Stare
Earlier in White; Then later in Suave
Probobly asking why I must Compare
Yet shrug my Sides as I beg your Aplomb
As much as Bob's Uncle be so Polite
In fairness, Conscience reprieve this draft Comb
Hoping which Minted Dames nip you in-spite
Now that's Blokey! Ferment this Promised Man
Yet set your Seeded Expectations flow
Take it from me; Less Abrasions you can
And trust the Seasoned Youth in your arms Grow.
Well, be Well. To which I pray your Joy's Ripe
To weave your Dogs; And in design a Knight.

more than anything

i’d sit in the greenery

while it wraps up to my knees

and you’ll speak in unfinished messages

and we’ll all glisten with a shining aura

and a mask of invincibility.

the epic drag of nights past will diminish

and bleed out of our pores

as we gaze towards the sun

and

burn white holes into the picture we perceive.

there wont be any eerie waves of emptiness

because the grass will grow into our bones

and flow in our veins

while we feel the soothing abrasions from the

scalding black top beneath our feet.

it’ll warm our souls for eternity

and we’ll feel every heavy word

enter our minds

in different shades of color.

we can find contentment in ourselves

as we scream for an eternal happiness

that fills our lungs with every struggle for air.

surviving will become more real

and will heal our aching bones

and pluck the embedded thorns of regret

from our numb eyes.

we’ll feel whole.
we’ll feel whole.
we’ll feel content.
we’ll feel whole.
we’ll feel real.

the sun will radiate

an incoherent essence

that blesses our eyelids.

we’ll bury the bullets that we kept

on our nightstands

for a rainy day.

i’ll feed the flesh of my sorrows

to the once rabid creatures who lay

in the river banks.

they’ll engulf it like

it once did to me and i’ll

throw my mistakes downstream.

There are fires raging inside me
Flames so fierce and abundant
Mistaken for warmth
By you
Yet so eager to burn
Your fingertips
As you reach into my soul with every
Glance in my direction
Every utterance
And every breath you take

I am not golden
I do not mold and melt
Under the pressures
Of your condescending gaze
The etching on my naked body
Pay tribute to the electricity
Running through my veins

What you see as a natural disaster
Is but a natural wonder to another
My fury floods
My passion flows
But enough about the me that you didn't --
Bother to get to know

I am not a force to be reckoned with
The coals of my pain are everlasting
Full of the cracks and abrasions
Of acquaintance's past
I am volcanic
And not afraid of harming you

Paper cut.                            On a dry cracked finger
Bit my lip.                            That same spot over again
Jammed my toe.                 In the dark on the old iron chest
A boiling sip.                      Skin on the roof of my mouth peels away
Slammed my finger           The tailgate of my truck
Hit my head.                       On the corner of the open cabinet door
Sprained my ankle.            With a crunch that says "ER"
Bruised and bled.               inside the car on its back in the middle of nowhere
Shiver out loud.                  So cold, knowing its hours to dawn
Burned my back.                Bright red and translucent blisters
Tingling spine.                    In the dark, certain evil is there
Cough and hack.                 Needles stuck in my lungs
Curled in a ball.                   Because nothing matters
Long thin abrasions            Cowering  below his anger
Crackling cartilage              A powerful fist to my nose
Fevered equations.              Crazy dreams to sort out nonsense
Human condition,
Follows no law.
In everyday living,
Life can be raw.

But it's brutal when someone you trust is the perpetrator
.

I wanna say ghost crumple but fear the retribution for assuming something other than

something I vaguely remember no that's a downright lie as flagrant as a flag flapping

in defiance I remember so well as if branded by that moment scalded by my focus

your post-****** scent and that smile in both your eyes and your own cascading

laughter the honest laugh done in private when truly experiencing wonder and the

baby smell in the crater where your neck joins your skull to that body your body

young and heavenly unspoilt like a river's passion cresting itself and returning to

your carefully manicured shores I wanna say paper cut but anticipate the ache the

burn that will cause me my body my brain my heart we called it spleen in previous

times something other in the future no doubt in my mind my heart my body the echo

of recollection of a different color and a different flavor than the original worn into

something other by the abrasions of both time and nostalgia a different shape all

together taken by this memory but its intensity a twin identical and more perfect in

reflection of your reflection in a sunlit moment the denim blue of curtains unable to

contain the refraction sliced delicate by the broad leaves and your bare skin still

glowing from a washing and a shaving and you are lost in your own reflection

humming songs and curling your hair bleached shocking white with blonde intention

natural roots so Nancy Spungen but more or less that much more careless and

ruthless a thing you were in that moment only I couldn't and didn't know it I wanna

say please just leave it, but I daren't and I shouldn't and at the time I couldn't couldn't

bear to think it but really just like cancer I just knew it and I didn't and you didn't and

we stood there and I wanna say we let it but we didn't and it happened and now it's

just reflection recollection and despair

There is so much of you,
so little of me.
Feeling quite encumbered.
Your touch envelops my senses.
Eyes of fire, ignited.
I might be somewhere flying,
when your wings lie still--displaced.

Confusions of sudden fervor.
Listening, waiting, informing.
Nevers happen when cement dries.
Abrasions don't wash away.

I'm climbing up the traces.
The world's parade of faces.
Searching, never finding hope.
So much of you,
so little of me.

Sad abrasions, that is how you wish to end it? If you can't carry that with you, that unholy insecurity, without tossing it at others, others just like you, how can you be expected to be admired? That way, though seemingly popular amongst outlaws who have popularity, is still a ne'er-do-well way. You're lighting your own pants on fire.

Ballsy as it may be, singed ***** is all I see.