Untitled (Poem #163)

How have I not driven you mad?

I still think of him and feel so much…

So much anger,

So much sadness,

And so much love

I feel like a top spinning off of a desk falling for something I will never believe in.

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My body my life?(Poem #162) 

I think it’s funny how it’s always my life, my responsibility and my body Until there’s a fetus involved then it’s up to everybody

“She should keep it”

“she’s too young, she’s too scared”

“that whore got what she deserved”

“look at for the prego over there”

They cast judgement faster their Instagram likes

Give hatred a winky faced smile than walk on right by

Glorify the body positively of a posted half naked in the right light

But throw shade on me when I am sitting here fighting for a life

I’m drowning in silence, as the two stripes appear

How am I gonna tell my father

Will it’s father even be around here

I’m screaming through my silence,

then my voice cracked and shakes off the fear the option to get rid of it seems the only thing that is clear

That is until I felt

The very next day; I threw up in the bathroom then turned and walked away

Is this my baby and my child or the worst mistake of my life,

Where’s a god when you need him,

I need to take control of this fight

Days turn to a week and my visions getting blurry

My belly starts to stretch, and needs to make this discussion in a hurry

I walk into that clinic,

confusing my tears for rain,

hold firmly to the table and for once in my life pray

Walking out of the clinic was even harder than walking in

I refuse to look in mirror

God where do I begin

All I wanted was some refuge

A helping hand at most

But what I got was hatred and silence,

so much judgement it slit throats

A beautiful baby girl laid down her own life,

I cut my own wrist because I was the little girl that died,

Society gave me no choice

But instead gave me a double edge blade

Told me to grab on tight,

Told me they would support me, do what’s best for my life

Then gasp in surprise as I was bleeding out

Tell me doll is this what pro-choice and pro-life was supposed to be all about.

In 5-10 Years: Imagine that (Poem #158)

(Four consecutive poems written based upon Timothy Wilson’s Best Possible Self Reflection in his book Redirect. Written in the perspective of myself in 5-10 years reflecting upon where my life has taken me)

Wednesday: 
Dear Diary, 
 I'm getting tired of this,
 Waking up feeling ill,
 Stomach churning and head spinning.
 So I walked to the doctor,
 And explained quietly to the nurse,
 The corner of her mouth raised as she handed me a test,
 "I'll wait in here just set it there, and we should known soon enough"
 So I'm sitting here now starring at the pamphlets on the wall,
 Thinking to myself how I even got here at all,
 My job as a Social Justice and Human Resources consultants,
 Provides me with the benefits I have,
 I can take a day off,
 Go to the doctor who is not to far,
 And sit here praying to some god that there isn't something wrong,
 The doctor knocks softly,
 Causing me to jump,
 Pamphlets in his hand each with a baby on the front,
 I feel my eyes start watering,
 From fear and solid cheer, 
 "Miss, I must inform you that you are pregnant,
 Here's some information here..."
 As he drones on softly,
 I cup my stomach in my hand,
 We've been trying for this for some time now,
 We almost gave up too,
 But this fluttering beat inside my heart
 Means our wish has finally come true.

Thursday:
Dear Diary,
 We finalized my schedule today,
 Planned ahead for the last eight months,
 Truly it is bittersweet,
 To leave what I have worked so get for,
 I discussed doing online schooling,
 Until the baby can go to school,
 Which seems silly,
 I have received three diplomas in my life,
 What will one more do?
 But as my bosses eyes light up,
 As the idea popped in her head,
 "What if you worked from home,
 Changed it up and consulted for us instead,
 I know you love to travel,
 But this way you can stay with the baby until then."
 A soft twinkle hit my eye,
 A tear if you must know,
 For I am giving up consulting across the world,
 With companies unknown,
 A few less trips to Europe,
 No more late nights in Peru,
 Rather a computer screen at home,
 Instructing others how to do what I do,
 And once our meeting finished,
 I realized what I had,
 I might be changing how I do my job,
 But I have another one at hand.
 
Friday:
Dear Diary,
 I told him today,
 That our lives were going to change for the better,
 He looked confused as he sipped his cup of coffee,
 Then kissed me on the cheeks and was on his way,
 I heard the motorcycle leave the driveways,
 Smiled a sneaky smile,
 And proceeded with the plan...
 
 I surprised him at work today,
 Picked him up in our car,
 And drove him to the pier,
 Handed him a letter and waited for what I would hear,
 He tore the seal,
 My heart stopped as he mumbled the words to himself,
 One second, two seconds, three seconds...four seconds...five seconds,
 The a pause,
 His eyes grew wide,
 The paper floated softly from his hands,
 A flash,
 A warm embrace, 
 Tears,
 No words...just happiness and fear beautifully wrapped into one.

Saturday:
Dear Diary,
 The happiness seems short lived,
 We agree on nothing,
 The first argument of many about our future,
 "I have to work,"
 "You don't have to work overtime,"
 "The money isn't there,"
 "This is why we saved up,"
 "But what if something happens,"
 "Nothing ever does,"
 "Our place isn't big enough,"
 "It's a baby it doesn't need much room"
 "But what about when it grows up"
 "Stop screaming at me!"
 "Why are you crying"
 "I'm not ready..."
 "Neither am I..."
 "But we have to be..."
 "I love you..."
 "I love you too"
 
Sunday:
Dear Diary,
 We stayed in bed today,
 Just a little bit later than normal,
 Soaked in the Sun,
 And cherished moments of silent bliss,
 Filling out minds with muffled giggles and pounding hearts,
 In a way doing nothing was a way of celebrating,
 The fact that we have gotten this far,
 His job is going well,
 The promotion is all lined up,
 Financially we have nothing to worry about,
 Getting my masters was worth it,
 If it means I can do this for the next five years,
 As the gentle pulse in my stomach becomes pattering feet upon the hardwood floor,
 Yes breaking my back at work was worth the moment,
 That he placed his hand upon my stomach this morning,
 A sleepy smile spreading across his face,
 And whispered,
    "Hey there little one,
     I can't wait to see you,
     And hold you in my arms,
     But you have to do me a favor,
     As your dad,
     I want you to be nicer to your mom,
     And stop making her so ill,
     We are all super excited to meet you,
     But little baby you need to chill."
 And as he coos so softly,
 Feeling a small pulse beneath his hands,
 I release the sigh of relief,
 For the journey and the blessings I have. 

A letter to my lonely lover(Poem #157)

A letter to my lonely lover,

Warning,

this is not a love letter you will grin at as you read it like a poem each night…

No this is a letter of precaution,

Because I can only lay my head on the collarbone of your broken heart,

Attempt to hear the melody behind mismatched breathing.

I can not hear the way your breaths playing against your ribs like wind-chimes echoing the emptiness that is inside you,

No I can not hear that.

I can not feel the clattering of bones beneath me shaking at their own loneliness.

Nor understand that the reason you twitch right before you fall asleep is because your body  needs to remind you that you are more than a skeleton waiting to rot.

Laying here I don’t see any of that…

I understand what it feels like to have every ounce of your soul ache for intimacy,

But can not seem to grasp it or find it in this world.

Because we locked our hearts away in our rib cage,

and then threw away the key….

It’s not like we don’t know where the key is,

We do,

We memorized the seconds between bounces and exactly where it landed.

But out of sight equals out of mind,

And I can finally pretend that my heart isn’t resting on the bottom of my stomach,

crying out to be fixed like a broken birds wing.

No!

I will not feel that,

and neither will you…

So we try to find comfort in moments that will only land milliseconds in our brains,

And sleep in god knows how many other people’s beds because we have forgotten why it felt right to sleep alone…

But it’s not that we don’t feel it,

We do,

But we pretend that we don’t feel it,

We want to feel like we are a whole person laying beside yet another one night stand,

and that is it!

But when we wake up in the morning,

your face won’t give me comfort,

and I will look in the mirror to see exactly who I was yesterday staring back at me,

I want to punch the glass so that I bleed,

because bleeding makes sense,

that is what happens when you are hurt,

you bleed and you scar…

But not when it’s your heart.

Instead my eyes they bleed tears…and tears dry,

And it’s hard to explain why your hurting when what your body is bleeding in misery is only visible to you…

So I will crawl back in bed with you,

I will kiss you on the lips,

Say I had a good time,

Rest my head again on your chest pretending that the heartbeat I hear is simply that…

Just a heart beat…

Because if I read too much into it then I know I will do something stupid,

like kiss you again, but this time it will be different because it will mean something,

because for that millisecond my heart will drop a feather outside my ribcage reminding me that I can still feel.

But I don’t want that.

I would rather live in the graveyard of my hollow chest,

then give you the power to send my heart back to hell!

That’s the scary thing about laying next to a broken lover…

They make you realize how broken YOU truly are…

Your own story…(Poem #154)

There is something beautiful about owning your own story,

Whether it breathes magic of fairytales,

or fire of tragedies.

I promise you if you ask I will read some of mine to you,

Page by page,

Chapter to chapter,

I’m a pretty open book.

But my story is mine to bare,

And only my hands can handle the delicate pages the right way.

View my story like a diary,

If I open it up to share with you,

don’t take it take it for granted,

and rip the pages out at the seam

so you can claim that you “have this one friend that went through this and they…”

No!

If I wanted everyone to know my story I would have become an actress

Or hired a reality TV show to make a story of the shit show that is my life.

But I didn’t,

I shared it with you,

So carry it with care,

Take it out when you want to remember who I am,

because one day I will be gone,

and all you will have left is that story,

that memory of me.

So ask me to read a chapter from my life,

and I will tell it all to you,

because someday my chapters will end,

and my story will be over…

The end.

 

The reality of the “perfect man”(Poem #153)

I’m tired of boys telling me I’m worth it,

When they only walk away.

Because you were the 13th boy to lay hands on me,

with little to no intention to stay.

I guess I should be used to it,

hearing those ringing words,

“You deserve the world!”

Yet the world fell at your hands

Because even though you say I am worth it,

I still feel second hand.

like the canvas you laid paint on,

but you wish you never had,

because the picture that we painted,

though it truly wasn’t bad,

didn’t quite breath perfection to your life.

No the image was all too real,

not like the fairytales that I had waited so long for.

No my canvas has been broken, and ripped, and torn.

My edges are all rough, no longer soft and smooth.

So stop telling me I’m worth it,

that the perfect man exists…

Because the perfect man wants a new canvas,

not one he has to fix…

Porcelain Skin (Poem #150)

Daddy doesn’t like the piercings,

Says I am telling young men that I will do things,

That I am making an image I don’t understand of myself,

He doesn’t like the tattoos,

Says I will regret the ink,

That I am ruining my beauty…

Daddy you don’t understand,

The innocent beauty you are holding on to was taken from me at thirteen,

The metal doesn’t take away my ability to consent,

and by you stating that I am making an image of myself you made and excuse for the man you claimed you would kill when I told you what he did to me,

Daddy you hate the idea of someone’s hands touching me,

but you never asked what I wanted.

Daddy you don’t see that I use the ink and needles to replace the blade of a knife,

that I would rather make something beautiful out of the pain.

And daddy I thought you would be proud of me

because it is easier to explain a tattooed and pierced daughter

than one with scares and blood running down her arms.

Daddy why can’t you see past the ink and the metal,

Daddy let go of the little girl you think I am,

because I haven’t been a little girl for a long time,

Daddy why can’t you see that this is something much bigger than you will ever understand,

Daddy why can’t you accept ink stains on porcelain skin over blood stains on a broken heart?

 

Sometimes the nicest people you meet are covered in tattoos, while the most judgemental people you meet go to church on Sundays.:

Reflection of the soul (poem #147)

I saw the purest of colors radiate from her. So beautiful and clean. It made all of her flaws and superficial faults look like perfection on a broken piece of stained glass. Her beauty became much more than the ink, makeup, and jewelry. Because the aura she brought to my life was that from her soul, and her outwardly beauty could never compare.  

Demons live inside me (Poem #146)

I have demons in my brain,

And angel on my heart,

The Devils plays his game inside,

So much I fall apart.

He reminds of my heartache,

And teases me with love,

Then reminds me I’m not worth it,

Reminds me I’m not enough.

As the angel sits there crying,

Begging me to stay,

I put the gun to my head,

I pray to live one less day.

My hands they start to shake,

As the devil, he appears,

With open arms and big blue eyes

To whip away my tears.

He pleads for me to love him,

And to stay just one more day,

He gives me everything I want,

Then tears it all away. 

The angel wants me alive,

So he can give me love,

The devil wants a play thing,

To get his bidding done. 

Because heaven is far away,

And I stand on the brink,

Of hell on earth and suicide,

Please just let me stop and think.

Would I rather be dead,

Or standing here not truly alive,

I guess I’ll never know,

Because I never really tried. 

So I lay with tears screaming down my cheeks,

Goodnight my angel,

Goodnight my devil,

Love truly your play thing.