"She's cured!"
Then how come my mind still screams
"You fat disgusting pig"?
And I still cringe every time I hear your name?
How come I still etch red tally marks on the top of my thighs
And, I still keep the pills
In a bottle under my dresser
And they still call my name begging me to take them
all at once with a big swing of whiskey
Why am I still counting every calorie
And drowning my sorrows with the sting of alcohol?
Is this what its like to be cured?

You pull me down
Never letting me go
No matter how hard I try to get away
You always seem to grab me

He might still think about you each night
That reminds him of the ones you used to share.
He probably is just too scared,
To tell you he still cares.
Even in the first place,
He never once said
"I care about you".
That doesn't mean he never felt it,
And it doesn't mean he ever stopped
Loving the way you laughed,
Joked around with his friends,
And held his hand too tight.
He probably still wants to wrap his arms around you
And take you to the movie theater.
He still thinks about the way you made him feel.
That you made him feel at all.
He's still there,
He's just scared that you're not.

We've become cliché,
And not just one,
But a multitude.
The forbidden romance.
The older man.
The late night phone calls.
The cigarettes after ***.
The hopeless romantics.
The songs we sing to each other.
The late night drives to nowhere.
The fling that never ends.
We've become cliché.
And I couldn't be happier.

I threw a little funeral for us.
Gathered our things.
Photographs and poems.
Your bra and tinfoil and straws.
All tucked tightly in a little oak box
lined with all my hopes and dreams.
And I buried them in the backyard.

I’m not sure of her name, but her name isn’t really important anymore…it’s what she did to me everyday, without fail, while I stood at my locker in 6th grade. I don’t remember when it started, I surely did nothing to provoke it, but the girl who had a locker directly next to mine would find a way to ‘nonchalantly’ smash me into my locker, as if by accident, each day at school. She would kind of smile and laugh to herself afterwards, and then actually strike up a conversation with me as if nothing had happened. And like some frightened, pathetic little puppy I would just go along with her sordid charade.

It became a love/hate relationship of sorts, the victim and her oppressor. A sickening ritual, day after day, pain and then a small shred of humanity. I don’t know why I never spoke up, I never snitched, I just took the abuse, over and over and over again. I was angry, afraid, hurt, and yet for whatever reason I never lashed out, which was odd because we were both the same size…she just seemed a lot stronger. She probably was. She probably still is.

What was truly incredible to me though was not the fact that I survived this ongoing, relentless, blunt force trauma, but that on the very last day of school, out of nowhere, she turned to me and apologized.

I remember just standing there at my locker, dumbfounded. I don’t remember if I said anything back to her and it’s not like we became friends that summer, or ever actually spoke to each other after that school year, but to this day it is something that still takes my breath away.

Maybe she was being hit at home, or someone was picking on her. Maybe she felt angry, worthless, afraid, and I was someone she could safely and quite easily take those feelings out on, I don’t know…but I forgave her back then, and I forgive her still.

I wish I could say I’d do things differently today. I wouldn’t take that crap from anyone, but I often still feel like that wimp of a girl, too afraid to speak up, too afraid to hit back…but I’m ok with that.

I’d rather be remembered for the love I tried to share than for the scars & bruises I could’ve left.