You.
When I was small, I wanted you to be impressed by me.
I wanted you to love me, fear me, protect me, believe in me.
A myriad of things come to mind when I think about you.
Most of it is abuse.
Some of it is good.
When I was a teenager, I didn't want anything to do with you.
I had already figured out what the child hadn't.
You didn't love me the way a father loves his child.
Some of that was abuse.
Most of it was really bad.
As an adult, you abandoned me. I was nineteen and running scared.
It took two years to admit what I had been running from.
It took damn near ten years to get to this poem.
Most of it is pointless by now.
Some of it is worthwhile because I feel the need.
I'm not going to say I've forgiven you, because I probably never will.
It took almost ten years to realize that I don't have to forgive you.
That I can forget you without forgiving. It's not like you asked for it anyway.
Some of that could be called childish.
Most of it is for my own protection.
If it was just me, I could've forgotten you a long time ago.
But it isn't just me, is it? There are my other halves too.
Your daughter, my sister. My brother, your enemy.
Most of this is pointless. It's not like you'll read it. It's not like you'd care anyway.
Some of it hurts more than I'd willingly admit to you.
I wish it had been just me. That you weren't a constant reminder.
A lingering memory I can't shake, attached to gray matter I can't pick at.
I'll sit with the memories though, remember and then let you go.
Showing posts with label abuse. Show all posts
Showing posts with label abuse. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 26, 2017
Saturday, February 27, 2016
Eating Disorder
One day you eat lemons, because the internet says
lemons help detox. And your thighs could use all the
detoxing they can get.
The next day you eat cake because you think skinny
could never taste as wonderful as this slice of
ultra moist chocolate layered heaven.
You obsessively weigh yourself, counting down to the
ounce just how much your belly fat jiggles over your
jeans and how much that piece of cake cost you.
You eat nothing. You don't deserve it, you miserable
waste of human flesh and space. Even the air you breathe
is too calorie dense for you and you practice holding
your breath to make yourself look smaller.
Cake, lemons (no fear of scurvy here), air, measuring
tapes, work out videos, sweat and tears of frustration.
You just want to grab a little slice of happiness,
swallow the sun in bite sized pieces until you glow from
the inside out.
You drink nothing but water, you eat nothing but lemons,
wracking your body down by a pound. Need to run faster,
eat better, swallow the diet pills, measure your food
in eighths of a cup for one meal.
Then one day, the person you so obsessively abused,
forgets how to be and simply vanishes into your punished
body. There is nothing left of you, except you. And
you don't even love you.
lemons help detox. And your thighs could use all the
detoxing they can get.
The next day you eat cake because you think skinny
could never taste as wonderful as this slice of
ultra moist chocolate layered heaven.
You obsessively weigh yourself, counting down to the
ounce just how much your belly fat jiggles over your
jeans and how much that piece of cake cost you.
You eat nothing. You don't deserve it, you miserable
waste of human flesh and space. Even the air you breathe
is too calorie dense for you and you practice holding
your breath to make yourself look smaller.
Cake, lemons (no fear of scurvy here), air, measuring
tapes, work out videos, sweat and tears of frustration.
You just want to grab a little slice of happiness,
swallow the sun in bite sized pieces until you glow from
the inside out.
You drink nothing but water, you eat nothing but lemons,
wracking your body down by a pound. Need to run faster,
eat better, swallow the diet pills, measure your food
in eighths of a cup for one meal.
Then one day, the person you so obsessively abused,
forgets how to be and simply vanishes into your punished
body. There is nothing left of you, except you. And
you don't even love you.
Sunday, October 19, 2014
The Balloon Letters: Ibrahim
"My father calls me 'youngest son.' He says it with a tone of disappointment, a tinge of shame. His deep voice practically hums with his dislike of me. He won't look me in the eyes and, for the past five years, he won't say my name.
"Its Ibrahim, though my younger sisters call me 'Ib.' They are the only good thing in my life and they will be married out before too long. Mariam will be sixteen soon. Father has already started the bargaining process for her, as if she were a piece of particularly choice meat. It was the same with Farah, my older sister.
"She is the reason my father calls me 'youngest son' and my mother no longer looks at me. Farah, beautiful and radiant as the coming dawn. I couldn't let them kill her. I could not follow them as they dragged her through the streets, screaming for her blood. They called it an 'honour' killing, but there was no honour to be found that day. Only my sister, dead. And I am alive because I am a son."
Mariam and Jinan clambered into Ibrahim's room, their sandaled feet slapping against the stone floor and echoing down the hallway. They held their breath, trying to keep their hearts from leaping out of their chests. Ib was acting oddly lately. He always grew more quiet this time of year, but this silence was punctuated with odd and jumbled bits of nonsense.
He looked at his sisters and smiled. They reminded him of Farah so much. Even now, five years later, he felt the spasmic ache in his chest for her. He still heard her pleas for mercy as they stoned her. Her cries to God as the lash settled across her bared back.
Sometimes he woke up to her screams, his tears streaming down his face. Looking at Mariam and Jinan only strengthened his desire that nothing like that happen to them. Looking at his slip of paper, he silently pleaded that someone, somewhere, remember Farah after he was gone. He could not bear the idea that she be forgotten after he had left the world.
He stood and wrapped his arms around his sisters, holding them close. His father had finalized Mariam's engagement to a man three times her age; the brother of Farah's husband. The brother of the man who forced his sister to undergo circumcision and had her murdered when she was raped. A man who beat her every day for not providing him with a son. He would not see Mariam be killed and mutilated by the brother.
He grabbed his pack, a small black balloon hed been given after a trip to the city inside the front pocket. He would take his sisters some place where they'd be safe and he would send his love, and pleas for forgiveness, for Farah to the starry night sky in a tiny black balloon.
"Its Ibrahim, though my younger sisters call me 'Ib.' They are the only good thing in my life and they will be married out before too long. Mariam will be sixteen soon. Father has already started the bargaining process for her, as if she were a piece of particularly choice meat. It was the same with Farah, my older sister.
"She is the reason my father calls me 'youngest son' and my mother no longer looks at me. Farah, beautiful and radiant as the coming dawn. I couldn't let them kill her. I could not follow them as they dragged her through the streets, screaming for her blood. They called it an 'honour' killing, but there was no honour to be found that day. Only my sister, dead. And I am alive because I am a son."
Mariam and Jinan clambered into Ibrahim's room, their sandaled feet slapping against the stone floor and echoing down the hallway. They held their breath, trying to keep their hearts from leaping out of their chests. Ib was acting oddly lately. He always grew more quiet this time of year, but this silence was punctuated with odd and jumbled bits of nonsense.
He looked at his sisters and smiled. They reminded him of Farah so much. Even now, five years later, he felt the spasmic ache in his chest for her. He still heard her pleas for mercy as they stoned her. Her cries to God as the lash settled across her bared back.
Sometimes he woke up to her screams, his tears streaming down his face. Looking at Mariam and Jinan only strengthened his desire that nothing like that happen to them. Looking at his slip of paper, he silently pleaded that someone, somewhere, remember Farah after he was gone. He could not bear the idea that she be forgotten after he had left the world.
He stood and wrapped his arms around his sisters, holding them close. His father had finalized Mariam's engagement to a man three times her age; the brother of Farah's husband. The brother of the man who forced his sister to undergo circumcision and had her murdered when she was raped. A man who beat her every day for not providing him with a son. He would not see Mariam be killed and mutilated by the brother.
He grabbed his pack, a small black balloon hed been given after a trip to the city inside the front pocket. He would take his sisters some place where they'd be safe and he would send his love, and pleas for forgiveness, for Farah to the starry night sky in a tiny black balloon.
Sunday, August 31, 2014
The Dream
They always started the same way.
She was sitting at the table in the kitchen, the round one with the crooked leg that makes the whole thing wobble. She was sipping cold coffee, the taste and texture like sludge sliding down her throat.
"This," her psychologist would say. "is indicative of your fears."
He didn't know what true fear was.
While sitting at the table, coffee in hand, she would watch herself in a mirror. It was precisely at eye level. Sometimes it seemed to ripple, ever so slightly, whenever she would turn her head away.
The dream always started this way.
Though she looked at herself in the mirror, she saw everything. It was as if she were peering through a kitchen window, watching herself struggle to swallow coffee, even as she watched her reflection in the mirror. With the panoramic view, she would watch the door behind her open and the darkness would creep in.
It was thick, like tar and it radiated with heat. It oozed into the cracks in the ceramic floor and pumped from the holes in the violet wallpaper. She would watch herself in the mirror, seemingly glued to her chair with no place to run. She would watch from the window as the darkness congealed into human like shapes and slid across the floor.
"This," her psychologist would say. "is indicative of your relationship with your mother."
It was true that her mother had abused her. That she had forced her to sit at the table, eating cold and, sometimes, rotten food that she had refused to eat days before. Sometimes she would make her sit and stare at her face in the mirror, sometimes for hours. She only did that after she'd beaten her though.
"Look at the bruises flowering on your skin." she'd say, slapping her hard across the mouth. "You look so pretty."
This was normal. For years, she couldn't look at herself in the mirror, except in her dreams. In the dream she was glued to her face.
Usually, around this point in the dream, she could startle herself awake and away from the suffocating darkness. In the quiet stillness of her childhood bedroom she would hug her knees and whisper to the darkness that she would be a good girl.
This was something she had not told the psychologist. She had been living with the darkness for years beyond when her mother had lived. And, when her mother committed suicide in the basement, she had stayed in the house with the corpse for at least a day before calling the ambulance. In the cool shadows of the basement, she watched her mother's body tremble with the weight of sins.
She kept the house because there was no other place to go. And her mother would be angry if she left her behind.
The dream started over as soon as she closed her eyes. Always the same.
She sits at the table. The round one with the crooked leg, all of the world around her wobbling on uneven ground. She stares at her face. Funny, this is the first time she has seen it un-bruised. There isn't even a cut. Why is she staring at herself, when there is no imperfection to make her beautiful?
From outside the room, she can see the creeping darkness. It flows, like molasses, shifting into figures not quite human and not quite alien. Something feels off.
She watches herself take a sip of coffee, slugging it back like a shot. She feels it, like hot coals, slithering down her throat, tripping her gag reflex. She sputters, but doesn't quite spit it all up.
The darkness glides closer and closer; evolving, shifting, changing and undulating. Its hands wrap around her throat, choking her. It slams her head into the table, cracking the crooked leg against the ceramic floor with the percussive resonance of gunfire.
Looking up, she sees her face is bleeding. Bruising begins around her eyes; the years of bruises branding her purple and yellow against the violet wallpaper. The darkness slams her face into the table again.
The table breaks under the force and she feels her face begin to cave. The darkness forces her to the floor and the ceramic seems to swallow her.
Her mother looks at her, smiling.
"Look how pretty you are."
She was sitting at the table in the kitchen, the round one with the crooked leg that makes the whole thing wobble. She was sipping cold coffee, the taste and texture like sludge sliding down her throat.
"This," her psychologist would say. "is indicative of your fears."
He didn't know what true fear was.
While sitting at the table, coffee in hand, she would watch herself in a mirror. It was precisely at eye level. Sometimes it seemed to ripple, ever so slightly, whenever she would turn her head away.
The dream always started this way.
Though she looked at herself in the mirror, she saw everything. It was as if she were peering through a kitchen window, watching herself struggle to swallow coffee, even as she watched her reflection in the mirror. With the panoramic view, she would watch the door behind her open and the darkness would creep in.
It was thick, like tar and it radiated with heat. It oozed into the cracks in the ceramic floor and pumped from the holes in the violet wallpaper. She would watch herself in the mirror, seemingly glued to her chair with no place to run. She would watch from the window as the darkness congealed into human like shapes and slid across the floor.
"This," her psychologist would say. "is indicative of your relationship with your mother."
It was true that her mother had abused her. That she had forced her to sit at the table, eating cold and, sometimes, rotten food that she had refused to eat days before. Sometimes she would make her sit and stare at her face in the mirror, sometimes for hours. She only did that after she'd beaten her though.
"Look at the bruises flowering on your skin." she'd say, slapping her hard across the mouth. "You look so pretty."
This was normal. For years, she couldn't look at herself in the mirror, except in her dreams. In the dream she was glued to her face.
Usually, around this point in the dream, she could startle herself awake and away from the suffocating darkness. In the quiet stillness of her childhood bedroom she would hug her knees and whisper to the darkness that she would be a good girl.
This was something she had not told the psychologist. She had been living with the darkness for years beyond when her mother had lived. And, when her mother committed suicide in the basement, she had stayed in the house with the corpse for at least a day before calling the ambulance. In the cool shadows of the basement, she watched her mother's body tremble with the weight of sins.
She kept the house because there was no other place to go. And her mother would be angry if she left her behind.
The dream started over as soon as she closed her eyes. Always the same.
She sits at the table. The round one with the crooked leg, all of the world around her wobbling on uneven ground. She stares at her face. Funny, this is the first time she has seen it un-bruised. There isn't even a cut. Why is she staring at herself, when there is no imperfection to make her beautiful?
From outside the room, she can see the creeping darkness. It flows, like molasses, shifting into figures not quite human and not quite alien. Something feels off.
She watches herself take a sip of coffee, slugging it back like a shot. She feels it, like hot coals, slithering down her throat, tripping her gag reflex. She sputters, but doesn't quite spit it all up.
The darkness glides closer and closer; evolving, shifting, changing and undulating. Its hands wrap around her throat, choking her. It slams her head into the table, cracking the crooked leg against the ceramic floor with the percussive resonance of gunfire.
Looking up, she sees her face is bleeding. Bruising begins around her eyes; the years of bruises branding her purple and yellow against the violet wallpaper. The darkness slams her face into the table again.
The table breaks under the force and she feels her face begin to cave. The darkness forces her to the floor and the ceramic seems to swallow her.
Her mother looks at her, smiling.
"Look how pretty you are."
Saturday, August 9, 2014
The First Time.
It was the first time I killed a man. It was an accident; that first death. It was completely unintentional. The ones that followed were much more fulfilling, but who can forget their first?
His name was Jack. He was twelve and he had white-blonde hair paired with light brown eyes. He was riding his bike by the railroad tracks that day. The sun was shining and it was a beautiful day. For him, it was the last.
I was thirteen. Gangly and awkward. I was sitting on the tracks, watching him do donuts and chewing on a piece of taffy. He was getting bored, you could tell by the way he kept stopping to stare down the tracks.
"Do you want to race?" he asked, stopping beside me. I swallowed my last bite of taffy and shrugged.
"Why not?" I replied. He climbed off the bike and we stood on the rails. He cheated, by starting first, taking off before an actual count could be made. At thirteen, this pissed me off and I ran as fast as I ever have. I grabbed him by the shirt and shoved him to the ground.
"Hey, get off asshole." He struggled, trying to shove me off. But I was bigger and I pinned him. Sitting on his chest, I held his head and bashed it against the rocky ground. He screamed only once before he began to seize under me.
His struggling frightened and intrigued me. I continued to sit on his chest and watched his eyes roll back into his skull. I left him there, ostensibly to get help. It was not my intention to kill him. He just shouldn't have cheated. When I returned, his body was pulped by the train, all evidence of my crime wiped away.
His name was Jack. He was twelve and he had white-blonde hair paired with light brown eyes. He was riding his bike by the railroad tracks that day. The sun was shining and it was a beautiful day. For him, it was the last.
I was thirteen. Gangly and awkward. I was sitting on the tracks, watching him do donuts and chewing on a piece of taffy. He was getting bored, you could tell by the way he kept stopping to stare down the tracks.
"Do you want to race?" he asked, stopping beside me. I swallowed my last bite of taffy and shrugged.
"Why not?" I replied. He climbed off the bike and we stood on the rails. He cheated, by starting first, taking off before an actual count could be made. At thirteen, this pissed me off and I ran as fast as I ever have. I grabbed him by the shirt and shoved him to the ground.
"Hey, get off asshole." He struggled, trying to shove me off. But I was bigger and I pinned him. Sitting on his chest, I held his head and bashed it against the rocky ground. He screamed only once before he began to seize under me.
His struggling frightened and intrigued me. I continued to sit on his chest and watched his eyes roll back into his skull. I left him there, ostensibly to get help. It was not my intention to kill him. He just shouldn't have cheated. When I returned, his body was pulped by the train, all evidence of my crime wiped away.
Thursday, June 19, 2014
The Meaning of being the Fat Girl
Fat Girl means Easy.
Like cookies left on the counter.
Like chips with a Fourth of July hamburger.
Like "There are starving kids in Africa, clean your plate."
Fat Girl means Low Self Esteem.
Like lower than pond scum.
Like lower than the molten core of the Earth.
Like so low I've discovered new fossils.
Fat Girl means Voracious.
Like I'll gobble your dick up like a hot dog.
Like I'll do whatever kinky shit you want if you promise to love me.
Like please love me.
Fat Girl means Easy.
Like I'll never find it anywhere else so what does it matter if you care?
Like "You're gagging for it, aren't you whore?"
Like "Sex Equals Love."
Fat Girl means Food.
Like Hell Yeah, I know how to cook!
Like I'll have another serving of dessert, please.
Like I'll have what he's having and double it.
Fat Girl means Eating Disorders.
Like I haven't eaten in two days because I can't stand myself.
Like I have thrown up three times for one plate of food.
Like I am binge eating because I am starved.
Fat Girl means Disability.
Like I can't even leave my house because of the anxiety.
Like I can't keep the razor from my skin because I loathe this body.
Like every day feels like an affront to God because I've created a new definition of "imperfect."
Fat Girl means Shame.
Like "You should be ashamed to be seen in public like that."
Like "That's never going to fit you."
Like "You'd be so pretty if you lost weight."
Fat Girl means Choices.
Like I choose food as a weapon and a comfort.
Like "If I stay this way then I'll be safe from being raped."
Like "If I stay this way I'll never find someone to love me."
Fat Girl means Horror.
Like being raped because you are "Easy."
Like being humiliated every time you try to look pretty.
Like so much disgust aimed at me I can hardly breathe.
Fat Girl means Self-Loathing.
Like looking at your reflection and wishing you could just cut it all off.
Like looking at your reflection and wanting to slit your own throat.
Like telling yourself that you couldn't possibly be worth anything.
Fat Girl means Back-handed Compliments.
Like "If only you'd lose weight, you could be so gorgeous."
Like "How much weight have you lost?"
Like "I think this would look good on you, even though you are bigger."
Fat Girl means Easy.
Like I must be dying for the attention.
Like I must be too stupid to realize you'll never love me.
Like I must be easy because who would actually WANT me?
Fat Girl means Pity.
Like who wants to be the fat girl?
Like who could ever possibly want her?
Like "Wow, I feel sorry for her."
Fat Girl means Nothing Fits.
Like being told "We don't have that in your size."
Like being forced to wait in Victoria's Secret because the cashier thinks you're too fat for that thong you're purchasing.
Like everything looks like it was made for a woman thirty years older than me.
Fat Girl means Never Being Comfortable in Your Own Skin.
Like no compliments are ever sincere.
Like no matter how pretty you feel today, you're not.
Like you will never be pretty.
Like cookies left on the counter.
Like chips with a Fourth of July hamburger.
Like "There are starving kids in Africa, clean your plate."
Fat Girl means Low Self Esteem.
Like lower than pond scum.
Like lower than the molten core of the Earth.
Like so low I've discovered new fossils.
Fat Girl means Voracious.
Like I'll gobble your dick up like a hot dog.
Like I'll do whatever kinky shit you want if you promise to love me.
Like please love me.
Fat Girl means Easy.
Like I'll never find it anywhere else so what does it matter if you care?
Like "You're gagging for it, aren't you whore?"
Like "Sex Equals Love."
Fat Girl means Food.
Like Hell Yeah, I know how to cook!
Like I'll have another serving of dessert, please.
Like I'll have what he's having and double it.
Fat Girl means Eating Disorders.
Like I haven't eaten in two days because I can't stand myself.
Like I have thrown up three times for one plate of food.
Like I am binge eating because I am starved.
Fat Girl means Disability.
Like I can't even leave my house because of the anxiety.
Like I can't keep the razor from my skin because I loathe this body.
Like every day feels like an affront to God because I've created a new definition of "imperfect."
Fat Girl means Shame.
Like "You should be ashamed to be seen in public like that."
Like "That's never going to fit you."
Like "You'd be so pretty if you lost weight."
Fat Girl means Choices.
Like I choose food as a weapon and a comfort.
Like "If I stay this way then I'll be safe from being raped."
Like "If I stay this way I'll never find someone to love me."
Fat Girl means Horror.
Like being raped because you are "Easy."
Like being humiliated every time you try to look pretty.
Like so much disgust aimed at me I can hardly breathe.
Fat Girl means Self-Loathing.
Like looking at your reflection and wishing you could just cut it all off.
Like looking at your reflection and wanting to slit your own throat.
Like telling yourself that you couldn't possibly be worth anything.
Fat Girl means Back-handed Compliments.
Like "If only you'd lose weight, you could be so gorgeous."
Like "How much weight have you lost?"
Like "I think this would look good on you, even though you are bigger."
Fat Girl means Easy.
Like I must be dying for the attention.
Like I must be too stupid to realize you'll never love me.
Like I must be easy because who would actually WANT me?
Fat Girl means Pity.
Like who wants to be the fat girl?
Like who could ever possibly want her?
Like "Wow, I feel sorry for her."
Fat Girl means Nothing Fits.
Like being told "We don't have that in your size."
Like being forced to wait in Victoria's Secret because the cashier thinks you're too fat for that thong you're purchasing.
Like everything looks like it was made for a woman thirty years older than me.
Fat Girl means Never Being Comfortable in Your Own Skin.
Like no compliments are ever sincere.
Like no matter how pretty you feel today, you're not.
Like you will never be pretty.
Sunday, March 16, 2014
Female Liberation: Part 1
In rolling red script
the declarations proclaimed that a
woman's life was profane. With
sadistic glee they began the purge,
chortling in delight as they
raped, pillaged and purged.
Some they kept alive, for how
else would their population thrive,
but it was decreed that no
female babies would be kept
alive. Mothers, sisters, aunts,
daughters and friends were
each dragged away for no
other sin than that of being womankind.
The smoke from the pillars
let off a dark and foul stench,
tangled with cries to "burn the
wretched wench!"
The gallows bowed under the
weight of so much female weight.
The ones to be kept were corralled,
collared and caged. They were
given numbers instead of names.
The were fed, but they were
starved. They were kept healthy for
breeding and when a woman was
deemed infertile she was
executed with no remorse.
For a century they were enslaved by
the men in power. For a century they
struggled. (All the centuries of female
liberation and female power shattered.)
One night, in the quivering darkness, a
woman, once named Amira now called
number 27, prayed to the goddess, her
tears pleading.
"O great and wonderful goddess, please
send a one who will save us from this
hell. We are faithful to you, please be
faithful to us as well." That night
the Goddess heard, as if for the first
time, the cries of the harmed. She
wept at the chaos caused and the
cruelty of such caustic laws.
So, when the breeding season came,
she caused a soft rain to ensure
feminine seeds. Her magic was gentle
and pervasive, calming even the most
hostile of the delegates.
the declarations proclaimed that a
woman's life was profane. With
sadistic glee they began the purge,
chortling in delight as they
raped, pillaged and purged.
Some they kept alive, for how
else would their population thrive,
but it was decreed that no
female babies would be kept
alive. Mothers, sisters, aunts,
daughters and friends were
each dragged away for no
other sin than that of being womankind.
The smoke from the pillars
let off a dark and foul stench,
tangled with cries to "burn the
wretched wench!"
The gallows bowed under the
weight of so much female weight.
The ones to be kept were corralled,
collared and caged. They were
given numbers instead of names.
The were fed, but they were
starved. They were kept healthy for
breeding and when a woman was
deemed infertile she was
executed with no remorse.
For a century they were enslaved by
the men in power. For a century they
struggled. (All the centuries of female
liberation and female power shattered.)
One night, in the quivering darkness, a
woman, once named Amira now called
number 27, prayed to the goddess, her
tears pleading.
"O great and wonderful goddess, please
send a one who will save us from this
hell. We are faithful to you, please be
faithful to us as well." That night
the Goddess heard, as if for the first
time, the cries of the harmed. She
wept at the chaos caused and the
cruelty of such caustic laws.
So, when the breeding season came,
she caused a soft rain to ensure
feminine seeds. Her magic was gentle
and pervasive, calming even the most
hostile of the delegates.
Sunday, February 9, 2014
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
The Tenacity of a Lion
I have a problem with hanging on to the things that hurt me.
No matter how small, no matter how inconsequential, I cling to those things.
No matter how hard I try to let go, no matter how I shake my hands, it sticks like glue.
I hold those things, with the tenacity of a lion, the ferocity of a tiger.
I cradle them and sing them to sleep, as though they have done anything to deserve it.
No matter what I tell myself, there is a difference between knowing and doing.
The scars, I hold them close. I reopen them to see my insides, see how they look.
I muck about with my emotions, playing with my heart strings, bruising my ribs.
I carve out the mistakes, make them deeper so that I don't forget.
If only I could forgive myself. If only I could let those things go.
If only I could love myself with the tenacity of a lion, the ferocity of a tigress.
If only knowing and doing were no difference at all.
Instead, I replay the scenes, crush my own hopes and dreams.
You're undeserving, you've done nothing right, you are nothing.
You're ugly, you've failed, you are worthless.
With the tenacity of a lion, I destroy myself, attacking as though I am the enemy.
With the ferocity of a tiger, I shred myself to bits, dragging myself down and down.
With the whimper of a child, I wish I could let myself go and forget where I've gone.
No matter how small, no matter how inconsequential, I cling to those things.
No matter how hard I try to let go, no matter how I shake my hands, it sticks like glue.
I hold those things, with the tenacity of a lion, the ferocity of a tiger.
I cradle them and sing them to sleep, as though they have done anything to deserve it.
No matter what I tell myself, there is a difference between knowing and doing.
The scars, I hold them close. I reopen them to see my insides, see how they look.
I muck about with my emotions, playing with my heart strings, bruising my ribs.
I carve out the mistakes, make them deeper so that I don't forget.
If only I could forgive myself. If only I could let those things go.
If only I could love myself with the tenacity of a lion, the ferocity of a tigress.
If only knowing and doing were no difference at all.
Instead, I replay the scenes, crush my own hopes and dreams.
You're undeserving, you've done nothing right, you are nothing.
You're ugly, you've failed, you are worthless.
With the tenacity of a lion, I destroy myself, attacking as though I am the enemy.
With the ferocity of a tiger, I shred myself to bits, dragging myself down and down.
With the whimper of a child, I wish I could let myself go and forget where I've gone.
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
The Boundaries (Trigger Warning)
I have no sexual boundaries. No idea what a healthy sexual relationship entails.
So when you touched me, sliding your hand up my leg, I told myself that I was...
Overreacting
Being stupid
You're my friend
If I didn't want it, why didn't I get out of the car?
My stomach clenched. I felt sick for the rest of the day.
You told me you were just teasing me. You meant nothing by it.
You said we were just friends.
I tried to establish a boundary; this far and no further.
I told you,
"I'm married."
"You're sweet, but you are a little out of my age range."
"Even if I were free, I wouldn't be interested."
But I didn't tell you "No," and I didn't get out of the car.
The worst thing in the world was realizing that my body was reacting,
in ways I never wanted it to,
in ways that make me feel sick to my stomach,
in ways that it shouldn't have.
You said it was an accident when you poked me in the breast.
You called me out on putting my hand in the way of yours.
You asked if I was nervous about being in the car with you.
You said it was all fun and games.
You were the one who said that "No" meant "No."
But I didn't say "No," did I? I tried to say it in ways that wouldn't hurt.
I tried to say it in ways that made it clear.
I tried to avoid hurting YOUR feelings, while you invaded my personal space.
And it was my fault, because I didn't say "No."
You took my silence as consent, when it was really no consent at all.
I have no sexual boundaries, I belittle myself into thinking its all in my head.
Because that's what I've been told my whole life.
My silence is taken for a "Yes" while my heart keeps screaming "No."
So when you touched me, sliding your hand up my leg, I told myself that I was...
Overreacting
Being stupid
You're my friend
If I didn't want it, why didn't I get out of the car?
My stomach clenched. I felt sick for the rest of the day.
You told me you were just teasing me. You meant nothing by it.
You said we were just friends.
I tried to establish a boundary; this far and no further.
I told you,
"I'm married."
"You're sweet, but you are a little out of my age range."
"Even if I were free, I wouldn't be interested."
But I didn't tell you "No," and I didn't get out of the car.
The worst thing in the world was realizing that my body was reacting,
in ways I never wanted it to,
in ways that make me feel sick to my stomach,
in ways that it shouldn't have.
You said it was an accident when you poked me in the breast.
You called me out on putting my hand in the way of yours.
You asked if I was nervous about being in the car with you.
You said it was all fun and games.
You were the one who said that "No" meant "No."
But I didn't say "No," did I? I tried to say it in ways that wouldn't hurt.
I tried to say it in ways that made it clear.
I tried to avoid hurting YOUR feelings, while you invaded my personal space.
And it was my fault, because I didn't say "No."
You took my silence as consent, when it was really no consent at all.
I have no sexual boundaries, I belittle myself into thinking its all in my head.
Because that's what I've been told my whole life.
My silence is taken for a "Yes" while my heart keeps screaming "No."
Sunday, September 8, 2013
Lost Petals
You bloom along my skyline horizon, an ever changing landscape.
Your purples and your blues make no apologies for what they are.
Your body is a visceral flower, blood stark against white sheets.
All of your dreaming is a breath on the lips of god,
all of your screaming a single note in a crashing melody,
all of your dying is reels of tape on the cutting floor.
He takes everything apart, as though you were a puzzle to solve.
He breaks you down to the basest of base components.
He tears you up and throws your bits in the air like confetti.
All of your fluidity is flowing, eternally out and never in.
All of his love is written across your skin, tattoos that fade.
All of you is nothing to him.
I see your pieces float away, flotsam on the ocean of your life.
I watch the patterns shift, the wary smiles crushed with fists.
I observe the fading of hard kisses against paper thin skin.
All of you is falling apart, breaking under the pounding hands.
All of his "love" is your poetry, you drink it in and don't cry out.
All of my begging, all of my crying, its all the same voice.
You and I are the same being, deflowered goddesses torn from pedestals.
I scream with his hand around my throat, he lifts you off the floor.
He enjoys the struggle, the faint cyan of our skin as the air rushes out.
All of our love for him isn't enough to stop the pain.
All of our fear feeds his flame.
All of our resistance is fruitless.
Your purples and your blues make no apologies for what they are.
Your body is a visceral flower, blood stark against white sheets.
All of your dreaming is a breath on the lips of god,
all of your screaming a single note in a crashing melody,
all of your dying is reels of tape on the cutting floor.
He takes everything apart, as though you were a puzzle to solve.
He breaks you down to the basest of base components.
He tears you up and throws your bits in the air like confetti.
All of your fluidity is flowing, eternally out and never in.
All of his love is written across your skin, tattoos that fade.
All of you is nothing to him.
I see your pieces float away, flotsam on the ocean of your life.
I watch the patterns shift, the wary smiles crushed with fists.
I observe the fading of hard kisses against paper thin skin.
All of you is falling apart, breaking under the pounding hands.
All of his "love" is your poetry, you drink it in and don't cry out.
All of my begging, all of my crying, its all the same voice.
You and I are the same being, deflowered goddesses torn from pedestals.
I scream with his hand around my throat, he lifts you off the floor.
He enjoys the struggle, the faint cyan of our skin as the air rushes out.
All of our love for him isn't enough to stop the pain.
All of our fear feeds his flame.
All of our resistance is fruitless.
Sunday, August 25, 2013
Seventeen
You stifle a giggle. Not because you are happy, but because you are
nervous. You hate this about yourself, almost as much as your jiggly
thighs and extra belly flab. There a lot of things you hate about
yourself, besides your nervous giggles and fat. There are things you are
too ashamed to admit because you've always been told they are wrong or
because you so desperately want to fit in. Some of this has led to
cutting yourself, some of it to the drinking, some of it to the thoughts
you are afraid to even admit to yourself.
You are nervous because this guy is flirting with you. He has glasses, black hair and he smokes. He kind of reminds you of Johnny Depp in "Cry Baby," only slightly though. You are nervous because he has already mentioned sex, you are still a virgin even though you are sixteen (almost seventeen), and you are just outside church. He is talking about how he was a masseuse in Vegas, he knows how to make a woman orgasm just by rubbing her feet, or so he says.
Sex talk has always made you nervous. It makes you feel sick in your stomach. Not just because you've never had it, but because you believe God will hate you and because you genuinely believe no one will want to have sex with you. You are so wrapped up in your fears; the fear you'll die alone, the fear that no one will ever love you because you are too fat, the fear that you will just be abused again. Its your biggest fear, that you are holding yourself back, that makes you open yourself up to this guy even though he makes you nervous.
You've only just met him, but you tell him a secret. You don't want to go to your family reunion because your grandmother will make a snide comment about your weight. She always does. Its inevitable. That's why you are outside, waiting for your mother to pick you up, because you still don't know how to drive.
He is interesting, you think. He seems to be genuinely into you too. But there is something off about all this. You don't quite know what it could be, but you begin to feel more confident and you return the flirtation. You can't wait to see him next week when you go to church, having already fallen kind of hard for this man you just met.
You are desperate for some positive male attention. Or even bad attention, at this point. Your father and mother are divorced, your step-father ignores you and you have a younger brother who just annoys you most of the time. You love him fiercely, but he is a different guilt that you carry tucked in the pocket of your, already over-burdened, heart. You are a mess right now. The one positive male role-model you have has just left for Paris. You don't know who you are, but you are so desperate to just feel normal for a bit, feel loved for a little while.
You go to the reunion, in spite of the fear. These are the things that have led to bulimia, to overeating, to overcompensating. You believe if you could just be perfect, somehow, your grandmother will suddenly realize she loves you. She'll stop making those hurtful jabs about your weight. The jabs that your grandfather tries to deflect, but never successfully quells. You think about your grandfather and how much he loves you. You believe, for a moment, that maybe all you need is grandpa and you'll be okay.
But grandpa is an alcoholic, his love transitory depending on the number of beers. Its not as bad as some of the times when you were younger, but you suspect that his love lessens depending on the level of alcohol in his system. Or maybe its just your belief that you'll never be good enough.
Its inevitable. She makes a comment about your weight. You're not skinny. Never have been, really. You've always been a little plump. Recently though you've gained and you weigh more than you ever have. You blame it on moving to the house you live in currently. Its a nice house, but it doesn't have the open landscape the last one did. You can't run or ride bikes like you used to. Plus things have gotten progressively worse at home, you're sick all the time and you hide in your room writing your crappy poetry. She always gives you that same disappointed and cruel look. Your mom tries to step in, grandpa scolds. You hold your breath, trying to make yourself smaller. Trying to stop the tears you feel building in your chest, like a scream.
You don't say anything, you take the verbal beating, like you always have, and then go to the car and cry. You think about the guy from church with his black hair and easy smile. You decide he has pretty eyes.
The next week he gives you his phone number and you find out he is a convicted child molester. This doesn't deter you, even though you liken it to your mother's relationship with your father. This guy is eight years older than you, he smokes, he is a convicted felon, he's divorced. He's smart though. He's charming. He's your father without being your father.
He has the decency to wait until you turn seventeen before asking you out. You readily agree because you tell yourself you love him. Even though you know you don't. You aren't even sure what love is, but you are still missing your guy friend who is in Paris and you are still wishing for a Mr. Right at Last.
The first time he kisses you, you feel yourself melting. He has soft lips, but he tastes of cigarette smoke. He is trying to quit, for you, he says. He is a good kisser, easy and gentle. He slips just the tip of his tongue into your mouth and you eagerly meet him. This is your first "French Kiss" and you find it isn't unpleasant. In fact it is arousing, but you don't know what being aroused means. You don't even know what masturbation is or how it works, you just know you feel warm and fuzzy all over. He is a gentleman, at first, just content to kiss you.
Slowly, however, his hand moves over your breasts, which are large and another source of frustration for you. They're always in the way and you don't even know why you need them. Something happens when he touches them though. You suddenly feel this pressure building up in your pelvis, almost like you have to pee. And the need gets stronger when his hand slides down in-between your legs. He doesn't go under your clothes, which you silently thank God for, he just rubs. It doesn't get you anywhere in particular, but you really feel like you'll burst. You wonder, distantly, if this is what sex is like. Feeling like you really have to pee, but with none of the relief you get from using the bathroom.
You date for two weeks before he proposes the idea of marriage. You agree, without hesitation. You want to be married. You want to be free of the guilt you feel for being a sexual being. You want to have children, be away from your step-father, who makes you increasingly uncomfortable. You want to escape.
You buy your engagement ring, a cubic zirconium affair that cost you less than five dollars. He slips it on your finger outside of church before sneaking a kiss from you. You know that he could get in trouble for being with you, you're under eighteen and he is a convicted molester. Everyone is warning you away from him too. Your best friend despises him. Even the pastor's wife has taken you aside to discuss the "situation" as she put it.
She warns you about how you can't trust him, especially around children. Instead of making you wary, it makes you angry. You rant to your journal about how it is gossip to discuss his conviction amongst everyone in the whole church. You rant about how he is innocent, his ex-wife set him up, the children were lying. You fight back, even though you know it isn't healthy.
In the back of a friend's car, on the way to your house, you give him an orgasm. Something you've never done before. It starts innocently, you let your hand stray to his groin and rub. You feel him "rise to the occasion," but you don't stop. It doesn't take long. Less than a few minutes, but the wet spot on his blue jeans gives you such a feeling of power. A feeling of ecstasy. You have power you didn't realize you did.
This is the day he whistles for you, like you were a dog, in front of your mother and you obey. You come to him, as though you really were nothing more than a pet. You catch a glimpse of the worry in your mother's eyes, but she never tells you to stop. She never warns you away from him. She doesn't discourage you, though sometimes you wish she would. Some days you wish she would tell you no. Partly to have an excuse to run away, partly because you want to stop, because you are starting to doubt.
One day he has a bike wreck. He cuts his upper lip, but somehow he looks even more attractive then. He talks you into a slow dance outside your aunt's house, he keeps kissing you even though it bumps his lip. You lie to yourself and say you truly love him. Maybe a part of you does, but the inner you knows this is all wrong. There have been signs along the way and you've been ignoring them. Especially the ones that hurt.
You've been together a month when you both decide to break up. Not because you want to, but because his uncle has threatened to call the police and expose your relationship. You begin cutting again. You had promised the other guy friend that you wouldn't anymore, but you can't scream. You can't cry. You have to bleed it out. You cut your upper thighs because no one will see them. You become so depressed you can't even see straight. Your mother doesn't say anything, but she worries about you.
You are only broken up a week, before he tells you that he can't do it and its too painful to be separated like that. He gallantly says he's willing to go back to jail to be with you. You love him even more. Or so you say.
You are together for another month before you discover he has been cheating on you the whole time. You have no actual proof, but you trust what you've been told. Not only that but he has gotten into some gang activity, which scares you. You don't want him to be involved with the gang, but can't stop him. You break up with him, but still cut yourself over him. He has the gang spy on you. Some days you look out the living room windows to see a black car with tinted windows sitting at the top of the driveway, just sitting.
He tries, unsuccessfully, to win you back after he gets a car of his own. He plays a stupid song about making out with a ghost. You let him kiss you, because you enjoy kissing so much. But you don't agree to go out with him again. There is retaliation from the gang toward one of your girlfriends, but none towards you.
It doesn't take long before he is caught violating his probation and he is sent back to jail. His phone isn't disconnected though and sometimes, when you are extremely lonely, you call to listen to his voice on the voice-mail. Sometimes you wish you had agreed to go out with him again. It doesn't matter though, because you find out he has a new girlfriend, a thinner and prettier girl.
It takes a car wreck and a spontaneous letter from him to make you look back on those days. You regret them with your everything. You regret the decisions you made after he was gone, decisions that you still keep hidden in the pocket of your, still over-burdened, heart. You read his letter and recognize the manipulation. You recognize it because it was there all along.
Sometimes, when you are kissing your, now, husband, you can taste the man with the cigarette breath. It always shakes you up, because you always have a reaction to it. You feel the same feelings you did then, when you were seventeen and lonely. It still shakes you up because a part of you misses the feeling of his hands on your hips as you danced in the grass. A part of you misses the power to make him aroused.
You keep the letter from him in a box, hidden in the closet, out of sight. You keep track of him on a sexual predator tracking site. You only look every couple of months, just so you know you are still safe. You are still frightened of him. Not because he could actually hurt you, physically, but because of how you will feel if you see him.
You don't love him. You never loved him. You cared about him, more than you should've. You can't forgive yourself for your foolishness though. You can't forget how you felt when he would caress you, when he would kiss you. He never loved you, but you miss him sometimes.
You are nervous because this guy is flirting with you. He has glasses, black hair and he smokes. He kind of reminds you of Johnny Depp in "Cry Baby," only slightly though. You are nervous because he has already mentioned sex, you are still a virgin even though you are sixteen (almost seventeen), and you are just outside church. He is talking about how he was a masseuse in Vegas, he knows how to make a woman orgasm just by rubbing her feet, or so he says.
Sex talk has always made you nervous. It makes you feel sick in your stomach. Not just because you've never had it, but because you believe God will hate you and because you genuinely believe no one will want to have sex with you. You are so wrapped up in your fears; the fear you'll die alone, the fear that no one will ever love you because you are too fat, the fear that you will just be abused again. Its your biggest fear, that you are holding yourself back, that makes you open yourself up to this guy even though he makes you nervous.
You've only just met him, but you tell him a secret. You don't want to go to your family reunion because your grandmother will make a snide comment about your weight. She always does. Its inevitable. That's why you are outside, waiting for your mother to pick you up, because you still don't know how to drive.
He is interesting, you think. He seems to be genuinely into you too. But there is something off about all this. You don't quite know what it could be, but you begin to feel more confident and you return the flirtation. You can't wait to see him next week when you go to church, having already fallen kind of hard for this man you just met.
You are desperate for some positive male attention. Or even bad attention, at this point. Your father and mother are divorced, your step-father ignores you and you have a younger brother who just annoys you most of the time. You love him fiercely, but he is a different guilt that you carry tucked in the pocket of your, already over-burdened, heart. You are a mess right now. The one positive male role-model you have has just left for Paris. You don't know who you are, but you are so desperate to just feel normal for a bit, feel loved for a little while.
You go to the reunion, in spite of the fear. These are the things that have led to bulimia, to overeating, to overcompensating. You believe if you could just be perfect, somehow, your grandmother will suddenly realize she loves you. She'll stop making those hurtful jabs about your weight. The jabs that your grandfather tries to deflect, but never successfully quells. You think about your grandfather and how much he loves you. You believe, for a moment, that maybe all you need is grandpa and you'll be okay.
But grandpa is an alcoholic, his love transitory depending on the number of beers. Its not as bad as some of the times when you were younger, but you suspect that his love lessens depending on the level of alcohol in his system. Or maybe its just your belief that you'll never be good enough.
Its inevitable. She makes a comment about your weight. You're not skinny. Never have been, really. You've always been a little plump. Recently though you've gained and you weigh more than you ever have. You blame it on moving to the house you live in currently. Its a nice house, but it doesn't have the open landscape the last one did. You can't run or ride bikes like you used to. Plus things have gotten progressively worse at home, you're sick all the time and you hide in your room writing your crappy poetry. She always gives you that same disappointed and cruel look. Your mom tries to step in, grandpa scolds. You hold your breath, trying to make yourself smaller. Trying to stop the tears you feel building in your chest, like a scream.
You don't say anything, you take the verbal beating, like you always have, and then go to the car and cry. You think about the guy from church with his black hair and easy smile. You decide he has pretty eyes.
The next week he gives you his phone number and you find out he is a convicted child molester. This doesn't deter you, even though you liken it to your mother's relationship with your father. This guy is eight years older than you, he smokes, he is a convicted felon, he's divorced. He's smart though. He's charming. He's your father without being your father.
He has the decency to wait until you turn seventeen before asking you out. You readily agree because you tell yourself you love him. Even though you know you don't. You aren't even sure what love is, but you are still missing your guy friend who is in Paris and you are still wishing for a Mr. Right at Last.
The first time he kisses you, you feel yourself melting. He has soft lips, but he tastes of cigarette smoke. He is trying to quit, for you, he says. He is a good kisser, easy and gentle. He slips just the tip of his tongue into your mouth and you eagerly meet him. This is your first "French Kiss" and you find it isn't unpleasant. In fact it is arousing, but you don't know what being aroused means. You don't even know what masturbation is or how it works, you just know you feel warm and fuzzy all over. He is a gentleman, at first, just content to kiss you.
Slowly, however, his hand moves over your breasts, which are large and another source of frustration for you. They're always in the way and you don't even know why you need them. Something happens when he touches them though. You suddenly feel this pressure building up in your pelvis, almost like you have to pee. And the need gets stronger when his hand slides down in-between your legs. He doesn't go under your clothes, which you silently thank God for, he just rubs. It doesn't get you anywhere in particular, but you really feel like you'll burst. You wonder, distantly, if this is what sex is like. Feeling like you really have to pee, but with none of the relief you get from using the bathroom.
You date for two weeks before he proposes the idea of marriage. You agree, without hesitation. You want to be married. You want to be free of the guilt you feel for being a sexual being. You want to have children, be away from your step-father, who makes you increasingly uncomfortable. You want to escape.
You buy your engagement ring, a cubic zirconium affair that cost you less than five dollars. He slips it on your finger outside of church before sneaking a kiss from you. You know that he could get in trouble for being with you, you're under eighteen and he is a convicted molester. Everyone is warning you away from him too. Your best friend despises him. Even the pastor's wife has taken you aside to discuss the "situation" as she put it.
She warns you about how you can't trust him, especially around children. Instead of making you wary, it makes you angry. You rant to your journal about how it is gossip to discuss his conviction amongst everyone in the whole church. You rant about how he is innocent, his ex-wife set him up, the children were lying. You fight back, even though you know it isn't healthy.
In the back of a friend's car, on the way to your house, you give him an orgasm. Something you've never done before. It starts innocently, you let your hand stray to his groin and rub. You feel him "rise to the occasion," but you don't stop. It doesn't take long. Less than a few minutes, but the wet spot on his blue jeans gives you such a feeling of power. A feeling of ecstasy. You have power you didn't realize you did.
This is the day he whistles for you, like you were a dog, in front of your mother and you obey. You come to him, as though you really were nothing more than a pet. You catch a glimpse of the worry in your mother's eyes, but she never tells you to stop. She never warns you away from him. She doesn't discourage you, though sometimes you wish she would. Some days you wish she would tell you no. Partly to have an excuse to run away, partly because you want to stop, because you are starting to doubt.
One day he has a bike wreck. He cuts his upper lip, but somehow he looks even more attractive then. He talks you into a slow dance outside your aunt's house, he keeps kissing you even though it bumps his lip. You lie to yourself and say you truly love him. Maybe a part of you does, but the inner you knows this is all wrong. There have been signs along the way and you've been ignoring them. Especially the ones that hurt.
You've been together a month when you both decide to break up. Not because you want to, but because his uncle has threatened to call the police and expose your relationship. You begin cutting again. You had promised the other guy friend that you wouldn't anymore, but you can't scream. You can't cry. You have to bleed it out. You cut your upper thighs because no one will see them. You become so depressed you can't even see straight. Your mother doesn't say anything, but she worries about you.
You are only broken up a week, before he tells you that he can't do it and its too painful to be separated like that. He gallantly says he's willing to go back to jail to be with you. You love him even more. Or so you say.
You are together for another month before you discover he has been cheating on you the whole time. You have no actual proof, but you trust what you've been told. Not only that but he has gotten into some gang activity, which scares you. You don't want him to be involved with the gang, but can't stop him. You break up with him, but still cut yourself over him. He has the gang spy on you. Some days you look out the living room windows to see a black car with tinted windows sitting at the top of the driveway, just sitting.
He tries, unsuccessfully, to win you back after he gets a car of his own. He plays a stupid song about making out with a ghost. You let him kiss you, because you enjoy kissing so much. But you don't agree to go out with him again. There is retaliation from the gang toward one of your girlfriends, but none towards you.
It doesn't take long before he is caught violating his probation and he is sent back to jail. His phone isn't disconnected though and sometimes, when you are extremely lonely, you call to listen to his voice on the voice-mail. Sometimes you wish you had agreed to go out with him again. It doesn't matter though, because you find out he has a new girlfriend, a thinner and prettier girl.
It takes a car wreck and a spontaneous letter from him to make you look back on those days. You regret them with your everything. You regret the decisions you made after he was gone, decisions that you still keep hidden in the pocket of your, still over-burdened, heart. You read his letter and recognize the manipulation. You recognize it because it was there all along.
Sometimes, when you are kissing your, now, husband, you can taste the man with the cigarette breath. It always shakes you up, because you always have a reaction to it. You feel the same feelings you did then, when you were seventeen and lonely. It still shakes you up because a part of you misses the feeling of his hands on your hips as you danced in the grass. A part of you misses the power to make him aroused.
You keep the letter from him in a box, hidden in the closet, out of sight. You keep track of him on a sexual predator tracking site. You only look every couple of months, just so you know you are still safe. You are still frightened of him. Not because he could actually hurt you, physically, but because of how you will feel if you see him.
You don't love him. You never loved him. You cared about him, more than you should've. You can't forgive yourself for your foolishness though. You can't forget how you felt when he would caress you, when he would kiss you. He never loved you, but you miss him sometimes.
Saturday, July 13, 2013
Rising Against
I am a tide, rising up, wild and free.
I crash into the hard truth of the shore,
bashing my skull against it,
trying to make some sense of it.
I am a survivor, raising my fists, fighting.
I am crumbling flesh,
divorced from the traumas,
devoid of the reasons behind actions.
I am terrified.
I can make no sense of these realities.
I can't breathe the poisoned clouds.
I don't understand the reasons,
the misgivings, the belligerency.
I am simply a tide, rising up,
eager to devour the, hard won,
knowledge of the earth. Eager to be.
I am a survivor.
I am stronger than I believe myself to be.
I crash into the hard truth of the shore,
bashing my skull against it,
trying to make some sense of it.
I am a survivor, raising my fists, fighting.
I am crumbling flesh,
divorced from the traumas,
devoid of the reasons behind actions.
I am terrified.
I can make no sense of these realities.
I can't breathe the poisoned clouds.
I don't understand the reasons,
the misgivings, the belligerency.
I am simply a tide, rising up,
eager to devour the, hard won,
knowledge of the earth. Eager to be.
I am a survivor.
I am stronger than I believe myself to be.
Friday, June 21, 2013
The Meaning of Sarah
The meaning of Sarah does not lie in the literal meaning of the name.
Instead, it resides in sun soaked meadows in September, the taste of wild strawberries and the color red. It lingers in her fractured poetry, her overly opinionated voice, her lack of boundaries. It ripens in the pools of her eyes, in her belief in the mythological.
The meaning of Sarah does not exist within the perimeters created by others.
It flies beyond the borders, open arms to embrace the earth and a heart scarred, but willing to love.
Its like standing outside of my body and watching myself. Like I don't actually belong inside of me, but I'm still a part of ME.
I have no name.
"Sarah" is too ethereal to belong to me. "Sarah" is too beautiful to belong to me. "Sarah" is autumn and blood red leaves and fields of strawberries growing wild in the sun. "Sarah" is memories that have lost their meanings. "Sarah" is hollow, but "Sarah" is full.
The meaning of Sarah is not in the name.
What is in a name? Does it belong to any part of one's body? Or does it lie at the soul?
Sarah does not have a name. Sarah does not exist. Sarah is fractured poetry and the bumper stickers of would-be presidents. She's an equal rights rally. She's equal parts Marilyn Monroe and Edgar Allan Poe. She's a love of the wild and spirit. She is obsession.
The meaning of Sarah lies in her inability to let her conscience be silenced.
The meaning of Sarah is directly proportionate to the meaning of Donnie. And the meaning of atoms and stars in rotation. And the meaning of love. And the meaning of choosing who and what you will be.
The meaning of Sarah gets lost in the shuffle, because even Sarah doesn't know the meaning. There is no dictionary to explain one's self to one's self.
The meaning of Sarah is something brilliant. Something waiting to be born, that's afraid to be born.
The meaning of Sarah has been lost in translation and translation after translation.
The meaning of Sarah is like a holy book. Abused by those who want to make it their own. Pages torn out, meanings lost. But still there.
The meaning of Sarah is not the body that houses her. It is not the body that houses me that makes me. It is the person inside of me, inside of her, that doesn't know who she is, but is willing to try.
The meaning of Sarah is flying, despite the obstacles.
The meaning of Sarah is fighting, despite all the tearing down.
The meaning of Sarah is finding yourself inside the pages of a beloved book, the words jumping off the page embracing you like long lost lovers.
The meaning of Sarah cannot be found in a dictionary, because she is more than words on a page. She is more than the loves and the hates and the cruelties and the bad memories and the bad dreams and the dreams that never came true. She is more than strawberries growing in a field.
The meaning of Sarah does not lie in the literal meaning of the name, but in her willingness to grow in spite of the tearing down of her hope.
Instead, it resides in sun soaked meadows in September, the taste of wild strawberries and the color red. It lingers in her fractured poetry, her overly opinionated voice, her lack of boundaries. It ripens in the pools of her eyes, in her belief in the mythological.
The meaning of Sarah does not exist within the perimeters created by others.
It flies beyond the borders, open arms to embrace the earth and a heart scarred, but willing to love.
Its like standing outside of my body and watching myself. Like I don't actually belong inside of me, but I'm still a part of ME.
I have no name.
"Sarah" is too ethereal to belong to me. "Sarah" is too beautiful to belong to me. "Sarah" is autumn and blood red leaves and fields of strawberries growing wild in the sun. "Sarah" is memories that have lost their meanings. "Sarah" is hollow, but "Sarah" is full.
The meaning of Sarah is not in the name.
What is in a name? Does it belong to any part of one's body? Or does it lie at the soul?
Sarah does not have a name. Sarah does not exist. Sarah is fractured poetry and the bumper stickers of would-be presidents. She's an equal rights rally. She's equal parts Marilyn Monroe and Edgar Allan Poe. She's a love of the wild and spirit. She is obsession.
The meaning of Sarah lies in her inability to let her conscience be silenced.
The meaning of Sarah is directly proportionate to the meaning of Donnie. And the meaning of atoms and stars in rotation. And the meaning of love. And the meaning of choosing who and what you will be.
The meaning of Sarah gets lost in the shuffle, because even Sarah doesn't know the meaning. There is no dictionary to explain one's self to one's self.
The meaning of Sarah is something brilliant. Something waiting to be born, that's afraid to be born.
The meaning of Sarah has been lost in translation and translation after translation.
The meaning of Sarah is like a holy book. Abused by those who want to make it their own. Pages torn out, meanings lost. But still there.
The meaning of Sarah is not the body that houses her. It is not the body that houses me that makes me. It is the person inside of me, inside of her, that doesn't know who she is, but is willing to try.
The meaning of Sarah is flying, despite the obstacles.
The meaning of Sarah is fighting, despite all the tearing down.
The meaning of Sarah is finding yourself inside the pages of a beloved book, the words jumping off the page embracing you like long lost lovers.
The meaning of Sarah cannot be found in a dictionary, because she is more than words on a page. She is more than the loves and the hates and the cruelties and the bad memories and the bad dreams and the dreams that never came true. She is more than strawberries growing in a field.
The meaning of Sarah does not lie in the literal meaning of the name, but in her willingness to grow in spite of the tearing down of her hope.
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Crying to the Phone.
Visiting with my sister is always super bitter-sweet. Like, I don't know, like the memories are about to jump out of my chest, break all my ribs. Its, its like dying. Almost.
Its like, I know there's a sweetness to it, there's a wonder to being with her. But, there's this lingering guilt and this lingering sickness to it. This... I don't even know how to explain it. Its just like, its kinda like dying. I don't, I don't know how to explain it other than that.
And its like, you know, I'm at her grandmother's and I think "wow, you were my grandmother too, once." Once upon a time, in this land called a fairy tale, because, you know, we were... we were something. What were we?
I was this step-grandchild and that was it? Is that all I was? Was I just a little girl that sometimes came over and learned how to knit? Was, was I anything? Was I anything? Anything, besides non-existent?
And it would be almost pleasant if I didn't feel like there was this knife being jammed in-between my ribs, like a bullet going through my chest and tearing everything into itty-bitty pieces because I can't believe a goddamn word she says, because she's a liar. And, and, you know, we sit there and we play make believe and we say "oh, we can trade books" and "oh, I'll bring you pictures" and "oh, I'd really like to have some of your pictures." But that's not true. Its not true at all.
Its, its as if I don't exist when I'm not there. Its only when I'm there that I matter. It, you know, I... She had my number, she could've called me. She could've gotten a hold of me, she knew where I was when I was in my car accident. They all knew where I was. They all knew. I was at that freaking hotel, in freaking _______, she lives ten minutes from there!
I didn't hear from her once. I didn't, I didn't hear from her, I didn't see her. She didn't come to visit me. I mean, I guess it speaks well of ___ that he came to the hospital when I was in surgery. But I wouldn't have wanted to see him. Wouldn't have wanted to see him at all.
And its so... fucking pitiful, being twenty-four years old and having to play make believe with an old woman, pretending that we had something when we clearly don't. Its, its one of the worst feelings in the world because I want to have some sort of relationship with her. Because I want to be able to go to my grandmother's house and spend the night. And tell her all about the stories I'm writing and tell her all about everything.
I didn't have that kind of relationship with my real grandmother. I didn't get to have that kind of relationship with Memere because she died and she lived in California. But this was a woman I had access to, this was a woman I lived, like, a hop, skip and a jump from. Literally just walk through the field and there she was. And, and I don't think she ever knew me at all. And I never knew her. And I just, I feel so stupid for wanting this relationship when it will cause me nothing but misery because I know I can't trust anything she says!
And it feels like I'm betraying my mother because, you know, she hated my mother. She still hates my mother, but you can almost pretend that she doesn't hate my mother because she doesn't have to deal with her on a regular basis. She doesn't, doesn't have to say "this is my daughter-in-law." She doesn't have to acknowledge my mother at all.
This is... its just so fucking ridiculous. Having to play make believe and the memories are building up in my chest so that they're going to break my ribs when they come crashing out. And I just... I want to have a normal family. I want to have, I want to have grandparents, I want to have a father. I... I want to have a good relationship with my sister. And I can't because, every time I see her, the memories start and I have to see her father and I feel like I'm going to be sick and then I have the nightmares because everything he ever did to us comes rushing back.
The lies, the torture, everything. Everything comes back, every cruel word. Every moment where he could've made a difference and he didn't. Where he could've made a good difference and he didn't. And I'm, I'm just some little girl to be played with, apparently. 'Cause, you know, I don't, apparently, don't deserve the truth. Apparently. And that's what hurts, one of the, one of the biggest knives dug in, is not that they lied to me, but that I didn't deserve the truth. That I didn't deserve to be loved, for whatever reason.
Even though I tried, really hard, to be everything they wanted me to be. When I tried really hard to be the perfect Sarah, whoever the fuck Sarah is. Nobody fucking knows! I don't even know. I don't know who Sarah is. Sarah doesn't exist. Sarah doesn't exist. I don't know who I am. But who I was, was apparently never good enough. So what the fuck does it matter?
It doesn't. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter, none of it matters. Why the fuck am I even recording this? Who the fuck am I going to send it to? Nobody. Its just going to sit here, on this phone, as a reminder. As a reminder of memories and pain and crying while I'm driving home from dropping my sister off at her grandmother's.
That's what this is going to be. That's all its going to be. So what the fuck does it matter?
Its like, I know there's a sweetness to it, there's a wonder to being with her. But, there's this lingering guilt and this lingering sickness to it. This... I don't even know how to explain it. Its just like, its kinda like dying. I don't, I don't know how to explain it other than that.
And its like, you know, I'm at her grandmother's and I think "wow, you were my grandmother too, once." Once upon a time, in this land called a fairy tale, because, you know, we were... we were something. What were we?
I was this step-grandchild and that was it? Is that all I was? Was I just a little girl that sometimes came over and learned how to knit? Was, was I anything? Was I anything? Anything, besides non-existent?
And it would be almost pleasant if I didn't feel like there was this knife being jammed in-between my ribs, like a bullet going through my chest and tearing everything into itty-bitty pieces because I can't believe a goddamn word she says, because she's a liar. And, and, you know, we sit there and we play make believe and we say "oh, we can trade books" and "oh, I'll bring you pictures" and "oh, I'd really like to have some of your pictures." But that's not true. Its not true at all.
Its, its as if I don't exist when I'm not there. Its only when I'm there that I matter. It, you know, I... She had my number, she could've called me. She could've gotten a hold of me, she knew where I was when I was in my car accident. They all knew where I was. They all knew. I was at that freaking hotel, in freaking _______, she lives ten minutes from there!
I didn't hear from her once. I didn't, I didn't hear from her, I didn't see her. She didn't come to visit me. I mean, I guess it speaks well of ___ that he came to the hospital when I was in surgery. But I wouldn't have wanted to see him. Wouldn't have wanted to see him at all.
And its so... fucking pitiful, being twenty-four years old and having to play make believe with an old woman, pretending that we had something when we clearly don't. Its, its one of the worst feelings in the world because I want to have some sort of relationship with her. Because I want to be able to go to my grandmother's house and spend the night. And tell her all about the stories I'm writing and tell her all about everything.
I didn't have that kind of relationship with my real grandmother. I didn't get to have that kind of relationship with Memere because she died and she lived in California. But this was a woman I had access to, this was a woman I lived, like, a hop, skip and a jump from. Literally just walk through the field and there she was. And, and I don't think she ever knew me at all. And I never knew her. And I just, I feel so stupid for wanting this relationship when it will cause me nothing but misery because I know I can't trust anything she says!
And it feels like I'm betraying my mother because, you know, she hated my mother. She still hates my mother, but you can almost pretend that she doesn't hate my mother because she doesn't have to deal with her on a regular basis. She doesn't, doesn't have to say "this is my daughter-in-law." She doesn't have to acknowledge my mother at all.
This is... its just so fucking ridiculous. Having to play make believe and the memories are building up in my chest so that they're going to break my ribs when they come crashing out. And I just... I want to have a normal family. I want to have, I want to have grandparents, I want to have a father. I... I want to have a good relationship with my sister. And I can't because, every time I see her, the memories start and I have to see her father and I feel like I'm going to be sick and then I have the nightmares because everything he ever did to us comes rushing back.
The lies, the torture, everything. Everything comes back, every cruel word. Every moment where he could've made a difference and he didn't. Where he could've made a good difference and he didn't. And I'm, I'm just some little girl to be played with, apparently. 'Cause, you know, I don't, apparently, don't deserve the truth. Apparently. And that's what hurts, one of the, one of the biggest knives dug in, is not that they lied to me, but that I didn't deserve the truth. That I didn't deserve to be loved, for whatever reason.
Even though I tried, really hard, to be everything they wanted me to be. When I tried really hard to be the perfect Sarah, whoever the fuck Sarah is. Nobody fucking knows! I don't even know. I don't know who Sarah is. Sarah doesn't exist. Sarah doesn't exist. I don't know who I am. But who I was, was apparently never good enough. So what the fuck does it matter?
It doesn't. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter, none of it matters. Why the fuck am I even recording this? Who the fuck am I going to send it to? Nobody. Its just going to sit here, on this phone, as a reminder. As a reminder of memories and pain and crying while I'm driving home from dropping my sister off at her grandmother's.
That's what this is going to be. That's all its going to be. So what the fuck does it matter?
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Losing My Religion
I am defying gravity.
I glance out the window of the Greyhound Bus. We’ve been broken down in a small town in Kansas for an hour now. Everyone else has gotten off, for one reason or another, but I’ve stayed put. My mind has been too focused for me to pay attention to anything else.
I am running away. I am seizing the day; I am a million choices and chances packed into a tiny suitcase. I am doing the impossible.
“It’s going to be another hour before we’re able to get moving again, miss. Do you want to take another bus?” a portly gentleman with a pocket watch smiles at me. His eyes sparkle out from the wrinkles and his moustache curls at the ends. He almost reminds me of Santa Claus, but this is a bus not a sleigh and its July not December.
“It’s bad luck if you don’t finish a journey the way you started it.” I reply, smiling. I must sound crazy, talking about luck when mine has already been so dreadful. This is probably my fault. Momma always said bad things followed me like fleas follow a hound. Momma also said that it was bad luck to start something and not follow it through to the end.
The bus driver shrugs and goes back to the front. He looks back at me for a moment, before shaking his head and climbing down. I look back out the window at the endless fields and dust. I suppose they call it the Dust Bowl for a reason.
Thinking of Momma makes me feel mildly ill. I can see her face, bruised, and her once brightly colored tourmaline eyes dull and sunken. She was scarecrow thin, her calico dress hanging off her bony frame. She kept pressing the rolled up twenties into my sweaty palms, whispering so that he wouldn’t hear her. All her years of taking in laundry, baking bread, wiping bottoms; all of her dreams being pressed into my hands. All of it rolled into a coffee can she had hidden under our porch. I just looked at her, uncomprehending.
“Livy, you have to take a chance.” She had whispered. “This is your chance, take it.”
“Momma,” I replied, confused. “What are you talking about?”
“You can’t stay here forever. You were born under a good sign, Livy, make the most of it.”
I wipe a stray tear from my cheek. I wonder how angry he was when he found out I was gone. I wonder how long he made her stand, tied to the whipping post. It is too late for guilt. It is too late to turn back. She wouldn’t want me to do that anyway. She wouldn’t want me to feel guilty, it isn’t as if I didn’t ask, beg, her to come with me.
I am powerless to change anything at this point. I am several hundred miles away from the back woods and dirt roads of Shawnee.
I am tired. The exhaustion of my frantic escape takes up physical weight at the marrow of my bones. I rest my cheek against the smudged glass and stare up at the perfectly empty sky. It is the bluest sky I’ve ever seen and I wonder if things change color when you are free.
A girl, about my age, climbs up and into the bus. She has short flaxen hair curling perfectly around her heart-shaped face. She has opal eyes that glitter with unsuppressed joy and anticipation. She awkwardly lugs a big black suitcase. It reminds me of a coffin and I want nothing to do with it, but I still stand to offer her a hand.
“Can I help you with that?” I ask, stretching out a hand to help.
“Its ‘may I help you?’” She replies, letting me grab the handle. “You certainly can help, but the question is will I let you help?”
“Obviously you will let me, as I just did.”
She smiles, little crinkles appearing on her nose. She has a smattering of chocolate colored freckles across her nose and cheeks. She is a hand shorter than I, but she carries herself as if she were a giant, proud.
“I’m Sadie.” She says, wiping her hand on her jean shorts before extending it to me.
“Livy.” I reply, shaking her hand. I think, after I take her hand, that I should have wiped my hand on my jeans as well.
“Short for Olivia?” she asks, settling herself into a seat across the aisle from me.
“Short for Olive.” I say, looking at the gray-green top I am wearing.
“Ah. Sadie is what my mother always called me, but my name is actually Seraphina.” She wrinkles her nose, as if she has just tasted something sour. “I prefer Sadie.”
We sit in companionable silence for a moment as she adjusts herself. She looks out her side of the bus, wrinkles her nose again and looks back at me. She seems to be sizing me up, her eyes drifting over every detail of my outfit.
“Where are you going Livy?” she asks, turning so that her back is pressed against the bus wall.
“Headed up to Maine, possibly taking the first boat I can find to Europe.”
“Maine, huh? That’s where I’m going. What’s in Europe?”
“Life.” I reply, a small smile creeping onto my face.
“Life?” She cocks her head to one side and ponders my expression.
“Well, a chance for a life, I suppose.”
She looks at me, quizzically, but doesn’t ask anything else.
“Why are you going to Maine?” I ask, mimicking her posture and positioning.
“I’m going to be a teacher. An English teacher for Miss Abernathy’s School for Girls.” She says this in a pompous tone that makes me laugh. “It’s very fancy, you know.”
“I wouldn’t know fancy if it bit me.” I say, honestly. “I grew up in the back woods of Oklahoma.”
“Ah, Oklahoma! I have been through there. I have recently come from Utah.”
“What were you doing in Utah, if you don’t mind my asking?”
She gets quiet. Her eye color shifts, ever so subtly, and for a moment I wonder if she will begin to cry. Just as I am about to apologize for being so nosy, she smiles and gives her head a saucy shake.
“Why, living the American dream of course!” she says, brightly. She shifts in her seat so that she can look out the window and that ends our conversation. I don’t try to engage her again, instead tugging my small bag closer to me and leaning my head against the window again.
The bus driver huffs and puffs as he climbs back into the bus. He is followed by two or three other people, all lugging awkwardly shaped suitcases. An old lady in a pink hat and sunglasses plants herself in front of me and a man, whom I can only assume is her husband, plops down beside her. As he sits he expels a small amount of gas, leaving me breathlessly nauseous.
I try to be inconspicuous as I carefully move from my seat. The last thing I want is a confrontation over bodily functions that can no longer be controlled. With a small smile I look at Sadie, half pleading with eyes. She seems to catch my drift and, taking her suitcase, follows me to the very back of the bus. We sit across from each other, staring out of our respective windows as the bus finally starts and toddles toward an exit ramp.
Mostly we stare out of the windows, trying to soak in all the different scenes flashing past us. Every hour or so Sadie asks me a question about Oklahoma and I ask her a question about Utah.
“Is the Great Salt Lake really made of Salt?” I ask, sipping a cola. She laughs at me and takes a bite of her sandwich.
“It isn’t ‘made’ of salt, but it is the largest salt water lake in the Western Hemisphere.”
“How do you know so much?” I ask, accepting a bite of her turkey on rye in exchange for a sip of my drink.
“I read a lot.” She replies, shrugging. She smiles between bites of her sandwich, pulling off chunks for me. I offer her my other bottle of cola, but she waves me off and just takes another sip out of the already opened bottle.
In Indiana we are stopped for routine maintenance. We leave the bus and find a tiny motel room. Collapsing on the beds, we sigh in unison, which makes us giggle.
“Did you have a boy back home?” she asks, turning on her side and propping herself up on her elbow.
“No.” I say, shaking my head and staring at the ceiling. “You?”
“Yes.” She whispers. She rolls back onto her back, her silence tearing at my heart a bit. She has the bruised look Momma used to get whenever he came home after drinking and whoring.
Without thinking, I reach my hand out and take hers in mine. And we just lay there, holding hands as if we have known each other forever. We fall asleep that way, not caring that our arms go numb from hanging off the bed.
In the morning we board the bus and race to the back. I win and we trade suitcases for the day. Inside her bag is a diary, which I don’t touch, and miscellaneous clothes. Under the clothes is a layer of books. Encyclopedias, a dictionary and a couple novels. She smiles at me and winks, holding up my own diary. She opens it to the first page and I don’t stop her. I suddenly feel lighter. As if her reading my words validates me in some way. I feel like a bird about to take off for the first time.
I let her read about the beatings, the rape, Momma’s bruises and the roll of twenties that bought my freedom. I let her read about him and the whipping post. I let her read about my own Sadie being buried before her first birthday.
She never says a word, reading quietly. Every now and then she will look up at me, a knowing smile gracing her face. The smile is tight, but kind, as if she has become too brittle to really smile.
“Well,” she says, after another hour of silence. “Aren’t you going to read mine now?”
“I didn’t want to intrude.” I reply, lamely.
“And my reading your diary wasn’t an intrusion?” she replies. She pauses a moment, before adding, “Are you mad?”
“No, actually I’m relieved. I’ve never been able to tell anyone those things. Not even Momma, even though she knew.”
“I want you to read mine, then. Maybe it will help me as well.” She makes me promise that I will, then turns to watch the Indiana countryside roll by the window.
I slip my hand into her suitcase and retrieve the diary. It is a better quality than mine, with a fine leather cover inscribed with the name “Seraphina.” I am afraid to open it, afraid to read what this young woman, this stranger, has felt. To read what she has believed, what she has done.
With a deep breath, I open it to the first page.
“I am dying.” It says. “I am wilting, like a flower in a too sunny window box with no water or love.”
She lets me read. She lets me read about her forced marriage to her mother’s cousin, a man with two other wives already. She lets me read about her love for her younger brother who has gone off to Vietnam. She lets me read about a daughter she didn’t even name before she fled. She lets me read about a young man named Carson, a man she loved enough to run away for, a man who abandoned her in the mountains of Colorado.
When I come to the end, I find a pen and write her a note.
“Freedom is riding a Greyhound bus with a stranger who becomes a friend.”
In Pennsylvania, Sadie gets off. She doesn’t say a word, but she waves goodbye as the bus pulls away.
I open my diary to write and find a note of my own. I smile and twist to catch one last glimpse of the beautiful young woman who just stepped out of my life.
“Losing your religion isn’t always a bad thing, sometimes it is a new beginning. And love is becoming friends with a stranger on a Greyhound bus.”
I glance out the window of the Greyhound Bus. We’ve been broken down in a small town in Kansas for an hour now. Everyone else has gotten off, for one reason or another, but I’ve stayed put. My mind has been too focused for me to pay attention to anything else.
I am running away. I am seizing the day; I am a million choices and chances packed into a tiny suitcase. I am doing the impossible.
“It’s going to be another hour before we’re able to get moving again, miss. Do you want to take another bus?” a portly gentleman with a pocket watch smiles at me. His eyes sparkle out from the wrinkles and his moustache curls at the ends. He almost reminds me of Santa Claus, but this is a bus not a sleigh and its July not December.
“It’s bad luck if you don’t finish a journey the way you started it.” I reply, smiling. I must sound crazy, talking about luck when mine has already been so dreadful. This is probably my fault. Momma always said bad things followed me like fleas follow a hound. Momma also said that it was bad luck to start something and not follow it through to the end.
The bus driver shrugs and goes back to the front. He looks back at me for a moment, before shaking his head and climbing down. I look back out the window at the endless fields and dust. I suppose they call it the Dust Bowl for a reason.
Thinking of Momma makes me feel mildly ill. I can see her face, bruised, and her once brightly colored tourmaline eyes dull and sunken. She was scarecrow thin, her calico dress hanging off her bony frame. She kept pressing the rolled up twenties into my sweaty palms, whispering so that he wouldn’t hear her. All her years of taking in laundry, baking bread, wiping bottoms; all of her dreams being pressed into my hands. All of it rolled into a coffee can she had hidden under our porch. I just looked at her, uncomprehending.
“Livy, you have to take a chance.” She had whispered. “This is your chance, take it.”
“Momma,” I replied, confused. “What are you talking about?”
“You can’t stay here forever. You were born under a good sign, Livy, make the most of it.”
I wipe a stray tear from my cheek. I wonder how angry he was when he found out I was gone. I wonder how long he made her stand, tied to the whipping post. It is too late for guilt. It is too late to turn back. She wouldn’t want me to do that anyway. She wouldn’t want me to feel guilty, it isn’t as if I didn’t ask, beg, her to come with me.
I am powerless to change anything at this point. I am several hundred miles away from the back woods and dirt roads of Shawnee.
I am tired. The exhaustion of my frantic escape takes up physical weight at the marrow of my bones. I rest my cheek against the smudged glass and stare up at the perfectly empty sky. It is the bluest sky I’ve ever seen and I wonder if things change color when you are free.
A girl, about my age, climbs up and into the bus. She has short flaxen hair curling perfectly around her heart-shaped face. She has opal eyes that glitter with unsuppressed joy and anticipation. She awkwardly lugs a big black suitcase. It reminds me of a coffin and I want nothing to do with it, but I still stand to offer her a hand.
“Can I help you with that?” I ask, stretching out a hand to help.
“Its ‘may I help you?’” She replies, letting me grab the handle. “You certainly can help, but the question is will I let you help?”
“Obviously you will let me, as I just did.”
She smiles, little crinkles appearing on her nose. She has a smattering of chocolate colored freckles across her nose and cheeks. She is a hand shorter than I, but she carries herself as if she were a giant, proud.
“I’m Sadie.” She says, wiping her hand on her jean shorts before extending it to me.
“Livy.” I reply, shaking her hand. I think, after I take her hand, that I should have wiped my hand on my jeans as well.
“Short for Olivia?” she asks, settling herself into a seat across the aisle from me.
“Short for Olive.” I say, looking at the gray-green top I am wearing.
“Ah. Sadie is what my mother always called me, but my name is actually Seraphina.” She wrinkles her nose, as if she has just tasted something sour. “I prefer Sadie.”
We sit in companionable silence for a moment as she adjusts herself. She looks out her side of the bus, wrinkles her nose again and looks back at me. She seems to be sizing me up, her eyes drifting over every detail of my outfit.
“Where are you going Livy?” she asks, turning so that her back is pressed against the bus wall.
“Headed up to Maine, possibly taking the first boat I can find to Europe.”
“Maine, huh? That’s where I’m going. What’s in Europe?”
“Life.” I reply, a small smile creeping onto my face.
“Life?” She cocks her head to one side and ponders my expression.
“Well, a chance for a life, I suppose.”
She looks at me, quizzically, but doesn’t ask anything else.
“Why are you going to Maine?” I ask, mimicking her posture and positioning.
“I’m going to be a teacher. An English teacher for Miss Abernathy’s School for Girls.” She says this in a pompous tone that makes me laugh. “It’s very fancy, you know.”
“I wouldn’t know fancy if it bit me.” I say, honestly. “I grew up in the back woods of Oklahoma.”
“Ah, Oklahoma! I have been through there. I have recently come from Utah.”
“What were you doing in Utah, if you don’t mind my asking?”
She gets quiet. Her eye color shifts, ever so subtly, and for a moment I wonder if she will begin to cry. Just as I am about to apologize for being so nosy, she smiles and gives her head a saucy shake.
“Why, living the American dream of course!” she says, brightly. She shifts in her seat so that she can look out the window and that ends our conversation. I don’t try to engage her again, instead tugging my small bag closer to me and leaning my head against the window again.
The bus driver huffs and puffs as he climbs back into the bus. He is followed by two or three other people, all lugging awkwardly shaped suitcases. An old lady in a pink hat and sunglasses plants herself in front of me and a man, whom I can only assume is her husband, plops down beside her. As he sits he expels a small amount of gas, leaving me breathlessly nauseous.
I try to be inconspicuous as I carefully move from my seat. The last thing I want is a confrontation over bodily functions that can no longer be controlled. With a small smile I look at Sadie, half pleading with eyes. She seems to catch my drift and, taking her suitcase, follows me to the very back of the bus. We sit across from each other, staring out of our respective windows as the bus finally starts and toddles toward an exit ramp.
Mostly we stare out of the windows, trying to soak in all the different scenes flashing past us. Every hour or so Sadie asks me a question about Oklahoma and I ask her a question about Utah.
“Is the Great Salt Lake really made of Salt?” I ask, sipping a cola. She laughs at me and takes a bite of her sandwich.
“It isn’t ‘made’ of salt, but it is the largest salt water lake in the Western Hemisphere.”
“How do you know so much?” I ask, accepting a bite of her turkey on rye in exchange for a sip of my drink.
“I read a lot.” She replies, shrugging. She smiles between bites of her sandwich, pulling off chunks for me. I offer her my other bottle of cola, but she waves me off and just takes another sip out of the already opened bottle.
In Indiana we are stopped for routine maintenance. We leave the bus and find a tiny motel room. Collapsing on the beds, we sigh in unison, which makes us giggle.
“Did you have a boy back home?” she asks, turning on her side and propping herself up on her elbow.
“No.” I say, shaking my head and staring at the ceiling. “You?”
“Yes.” She whispers. She rolls back onto her back, her silence tearing at my heart a bit. She has the bruised look Momma used to get whenever he came home after drinking and whoring.
Without thinking, I reach my hand out and take hers in mine. And we just lay there, holding hands as if we have known each other forever. We fall asleep that way, not caring that our arms go numb from hanging off the bed.
In the morning we board the bus and race to the back. I win and we trade suitcases for the day. Inside her bag is a diary, which I don’t touch, and miscellaneous clothes. Under the clothes is a layer of books. Encyclopedias, a dictionary and a couple novels. She smiles at me and winks, holding up my own diary. She opens it to the first page and I don’t stop her. I suddenly feel lighter. As if her reading my words validates me in some way. I feel like a bird about to take off for the first time.
I let her read about the beatings, the rape, Momma’s bruises and the roll of twenties that bought my freedom. I let her read about him and the whipping post. I let her read about my own Sadie being buried before her first birthday.
She never says a word, reading quietly. Every now and then she will look up at me, a knowing smile gracing her face. The smile is tight, but kind, as if she has become too brittle to really smile.
“Well,” she says, after another hour of silence. “Aren’t you going to read mine now?”
“I didn’t want to intrude.” I reply, lamely.
“And my reading your diary wasn’t an intrusion?” she replies. She pauses a moment, before adding, “Are you mad?”
“No, actually I’m relieved. I’ve never been able to tell anyone those things. Not even Momma, even though she knew.”
“I want you to read mine, then. Maybe it will help me as well.” She makes me promise that I will, then turns to watch the Indiana countryside roll by the window.
I slip my hand into her suitcase and retrieve the diary. It is a better quality than mine, with a fine leather cover inscribed with the name “Seraphina.” I am afraid to open it, afraid to read what this young woman, this stranger, has felt. To read what she has believed, what she has done.
With a deep breath, I open it to the first page.
“I am dying.” It says. “I am wilting, like a flower in a too sunny window box with no water or love.”
She lets me read. She lets me read about her forced marriage to her mother’s cousin, a man with two other wives already. She lets me read about her love for her younger brother who has gone off to Vietnam. She lets me read about a daughter she didn’t even name before she fled. She lets me read about a young man named Carson, a man she loved enough to run away for, a man who abandoned her in the mountains of Colorado.
When I come to the end, I find a pen and write her a note.
“Freedom is riding a Greyhound bus with a stranger who becomes a friend.”
In Pennsylvania, Sadie gets off. She doesn’t say a word, but she waves goodbye as the bus pulls away.
I open my diary to write and find a note of my own. I smile and twist to catch one last glimpse of the beautiful young woman who just stepped out of my life.
“Losing your religion isn’t always a bad thing, sometimes it is a new beginning. And love is becoming friends with a stranger on a Greyhound bus.”
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Blood sings to Blood
Homosexuality, Bisexuality, Transgendered, Heterosexuality, these are WORDS. They do not
define us. They separate only if you build your walls with them. If you
say them like a curse, they may burn, but they don't have the staying
power to set the world on fire.
If you let others define you, with their words and their hates, you never learn of the beauty that can be found in the ashes. Don't let the smoldering bones of those who have fought, clawed, raged and died be for nothing.
You are beautiful, even though you come from ashes. Your name isn't a forbidden word. Say it loud. Speak, scream, shout, be HEARD. Don't let them silence you. Don't let them steal your voice. Don't let the words destroy you.
Let the words slip over you, like water off of a duck's feathers. Use only beautiful words to build. And build bridges instead of walls.
If you let others define you, with their words and their hates, you never learn of the beauty that can be found in the ashes. Don't let the smoldering bones of those who have fought, clawed, raged and died be for nothing.
You are beautiful, even though you come from ashes. Your name isn't a forbidden word. Say it loud. Speak, scream, shout, be HEARD. Don't let them silence you. Don't let them steal your voice. Don't let the words destroy you.
Let the words slip over you, like water off of a duck's feathers. Use only beautiful words to build. And build bridges instead of walls.
Monday, April 15, 2013
Wounded
You may refuse to admit they are there, but
the wounds you left are scars on my heart and they reopen periodically
whether you see them or not. You've left me a mass of scar tissue and
broken wings, even if you refuse to see.
Saturday, April 6, 2013
Insubstantial
You raped me.
Not in the physical sense.
Not in a way I could fight back.
No, you broke me in ways that don't show.
Ways that aren't visible on skin.
You shattered my confidence.
You raped me, without laying a finger on me.
You butchered my self-worth.
You devastated my sense of self.
And then you had the audacity to say,
"I love you."
You belittled me,
brains washed clean of independent thought.
You forced yourself on me.
You made me so sick of myself.
I took up the alcohol and the knives,
razors and sharp points.
I tried to dig you out, bleed you out,
force you out.
The words building up the revolution inside me.
I took the medicines.
I took the beatings.
I took the starvation and the fear.
I let you drag me to the point of desperation.
You can't see the scars you left.
They lie to deep to be found by mortal eyes.
But you didn't have to touch me to rape me.
You didn't have to raise one finger to mutilate me.
All you had to do was say three simple words.
"I Love You."
That was the sharpest knife of all.
You said it so rarely, I craved the cut.
You showed it so little, I was dried out.
You expressed your, twisted, sense of affection
through spankings and prayers for my soul.
By lies told in such a way to wound,
told in such a way to twist and snap my everything.
You seem confused now, confused as to why I refuse
to have anything to do with you.
You claim innocence, when your tongue's poisons were
deadlier than a viper's.
You claim to still harbor some affection for me.
You never knew me. You just knew the ME you
tried to force me to be.
I'm not a toy. I'm not a doll you can play with.
I'm not a tool to be used in the creation of some
outermost monstrosity. I'm not your plaything.
I'm not a child any longer. I'll no longer be brittle.
And I will no longer be raped.
Not in the physical sense.
Not in a way I could fight back.
No, you broke me in ways that don't show.
Ways that aren't visible on skin.
You shattered my confidence.
You raped me, without laying a finger on me.
You butchered my self-worth.
You devastated my sense of self.
And then you had the audacity to say,
"I love you."
You belittled me,
brains washed clean of independent thought.
You forced yourself on me.
You made me so sick of myself.
I took up the alcohol and the knives,
razors and sharp points.
I tried to dig you out, bleed you out,
force you out.
The words building up the revolution inside me.
I took the medicines.
I took the beatings.
I took the starvation and the fear.
I let you drag me to the point of desperation.
You can't see the scars you left.
They lie to deep to be found by mortal eyes.
But you didn't have to touch me to rape me.
You didn't have to raise one finger to mutilate me.
All you had to do was say three simple words.
"I Love You."
That was the sharpest knife of all.
You said it so rarely, I craved the cut.
You showed it so little, I was dried out.
You expressed your, twisted, sense of affection
through spankings and prayers for my soul.
By lies told in such a way to wound,
told in such a way to twist and snap my everything.
You seem confused now, confused as to why I refuse
to have anything to do with you.
You claim innocence, when your tongue's poisons were
deadlier than a viper's.
You claim to still harbor some affection for me.
You never knew me. You just knew the ME you
tried to force me to be.
I'm not a toy. I'm not a doll you can play with.
I'm not a tool to be used in the creation of some
outermost monstrosity. I'm not your plaything.
I'm not a child any longer. I'll no longer be brittle.
And I will no longer be raped.
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Honesty: To J.(C.)W.M.
Pulling my heart out on piano wire, playing out the chords that will
never come. I've lost no love nor ire, just playing out my sorrow on the
piano wire.
Its easy to miss you when I think I never have. Its easy to believe you were wonderful when I don't think about all you've done. This is all to say you were never the one I should've trusted, never the one I should've loved.
You exist now, simply to torment me, a rabid ghost that refuses to fade into that sweet good night. So I will sit here, writing you useless words full of useless meaning because you will never understand me and you never really knew me.
Pulling my heart out, drawing it down the spiral staircase of my ribs and down into the pit of my stomach. If I were a man, I would eat your heart to replace the one you stole, so cruelly, from me.
You weren't really who I thought you were. You were not kind, nor loving, nor caring, nor anything I would normally associate with what you were supposed to be. You were selfish and cold, rude and hateful. You were a cancerous being trapping me in the prison of my skin, cringing behind the bar of my skull.
I'm too tired to fight you any longer. Too tired to continue raging against your machinations. Too tired to wake into your reality. I know I need to let this go, stop letting you kill me with your words. The abuses, the pain, the heartbreak, the loss, I need to let it go.
Grant me this last courtesy, let me be.
Its easy to miss you when I think I never have. Its easy to believe you were wonderful when I don't think about all you've done. This is all to say you were never the one I should've trusted, never the one I should've loved.
You exist now, simply to torment me, a rabid ghost that refuses to fade into that sweet good night. So I will sit here, writing you useless words full of useless meaning because you will never understand me and you never really knew me.
Pulling my heart out, drawing it down the spiral staircase of my ribs and down into the pit of my stomach. If I were a man, I would eat your heart to replace the one you stole, so cruelly, from me.
You weren't really who I thought you were. You were not kind, nor loving, nor caring, nor anything I would normally associate with what you were supposed to be. You were selfish and cold, rude and hateful. You were a cancerous being trapping me in the prison of my skin, cringing behind the bar of my skull.
I'm too tired to fight you any longer. Too tired to continue raging against your machinations. Too tired to wake into your reality. I know I need to let this go, stop letting you kill me with your words. The abuses, the pain, the heartbreak, the loss, I need to let it go.
Grant me this last courtesy, let me be.
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