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.

Attempting to Explain Why I am Single(Poem #161)

The number one question on tinder today is: “How in the world is a girl like you single?”

Well boys and girls please sit down as I tell you why:

  1. Swearing isn’t lady like and I don’t give a damn that people fucking think it’s rude.
  2. You would look so much prettier if you just tried a little harder.
  3. My love is like a treasure chest; filled with glistening moments that bring glory, joy and wonder only to be later seen as monitary value to be barged with, tested, and sold to the highest bidder, each piece taken away from me as symbol of my lovers’ triumph over my heart.
  4. “I don’t date short girls”.
  5. May fairytales are more like Grim’s. There is no happily ever after, and I am pretty sure my “Prince Charming” got lost and is too stubborn to ask for directions.
  6. “It’s not you it’s me…”
  7. My body is more like a quest than a home; each knight gets wrapped in the excitement of saying they have slain the dragon but never knowing what to do with the princess after that; the crown didn’t fit my head right and I don’t fit into the kingdom quite right…maybe I was better off with the dragon
  8. Omg you like girls too that is so hot we should totally….ehhh stop there do not pass go do not collect two hundred dollars, that is not how this game work.
  9. I’m not the type of girl that people fall in love with. I am the paper town meant to be burned down by men with matches. I pride myself on provide warmth and love by sacrificing my heart to the hollowness of bones. Creating graveyards of memories, where all ex’s are followed by “oooohh”‘s
  10. “We’re sorry the number you have dialed is no longer in service or has been disconnected. Please hang up and try again”

At the age of…(Poem #159)

At the age of 5;

I walked up to my father,

Took the bull by the horns,

and ran with the idea that I could do anything I dreamed of…

At the age of 5 I found out the reality that no matter how much I dreamed I would never be able to be just like the boys,

Because hockey is a guy’s sport,

and boys don’t cry like I do when I fall down…

At the age of 8;

I was finally able to decide for myself how I looked…sort of,

I marched into school knowing that I was going to let my natural beauty shine through…

At the age of 8 I found out that I was the Mona-Lisa,

That I would be prettier if I smiles,

That my hair wasn’t quite right and should have been straighter,

That my place in this world was to look pretty enough for other amusement,

Make-up started filling the paint brushes and the fake smile coated my face

At the age of 10;

I remember feeling grown up,

Like this was step toward me meaning something,

And that I couldn’t wait to get older…

At the age of 10 I found out that my body wasn’t a temple but rather graffiti on the wall,

The if I started showing too soon or too much I was faking,

That the alley ways weren’t the only things supposedly stuffed with tissues,

And that rather than be supportive, girls would rather call you an attention whore and fake than acknowledge their own insecurities…

At the age of 13;

I ran wild and free away from my depression and sadness,

held tight to the back of his shoulders and the wind rushing by felt like each gust was taking my worries away just a little more…

 

At the age of 13 I found out that just because you “love” someone doesn’t mean you understand what no means,

That screaming and crying can be silenced by the most beautiful of smiles,

and that luckily for me, tears are a turn off and a harsh snap back to reality…

At the age of 16;

I fell in love again,

I saw sunshine lighting my world through dark black eyes,

Felt tender kisses ease the pain of scars…

At the age of 16 I found out what it feels like to have everything you gave be valued to nothing,

That my heart and body were simply just a roller coaster at an amusement park,

That while he wasn’t with me he would prefer to take a ride on others,

That no matter what I gave up, at the end of the day it didn’t matter because someone else was offering the same things I could give and more…

At the age of 18;

I started chasing my dreams,

Went on to a bigger city filled with the hope that these college walls would inspire an epiphany…

At the age of 18 I found out that part of my dream would be giving up someone I loved because I could take the pain and he couldn’t,

I filled my life with every distraction I could as I walked away,

Needles and knives became friends,

and sex transformed into the world where I could feel like I was worth something for those five minutes,

that my body wasn’t just filling a space that could be replaced with only memories…

At the age of 19;

I embraced memories of a older days,

Filled the worlds with smiles of love and support,

and cherished old friendships,

At the age of 19 I found out that my actions always justified the pain that others inflicted on me,

That alcohol meant more to a judge than the fact that I can’t even remember that I said no,

That the fact that a restraining order would be too harsh because it would make it harder for him to get a job,

Never-mind the fact that I still struggle to get out of bed to go to mine,

Never-mind that I didn’t want to be here in the same room as him,

Never-mind that I that I was flustered because I should have known the words to say,

Should have known that friends could rape you,

Should have known what I was walking into,

Should have known that I was tempting him, that my judgement would be clouded by tequila,

Should have known that he would lie,

Lie about how much he cared about me,

Lie about the fact that he missed me,

Lie about the fact that he and I were so close,

Lie right to the judges face about what he did to me that night,

I learned that a judge would rather listen to a liar because even though my life was ruined again society couldn’t ruin his too…

At the age of 21;

I lay in bed next to the first man I feel safe with again,

He kisses my forehead as we fall asleep…

At the age of 21 I found out that my nightmares could become his,

That I may feel safe when I am awake, but my nightmares crawl out as soon as my eyes are closed,

Want to see heartbreak,

Try explaining the fear of the boogie man to a man who doesn’t understand that he isn’t him,

Sob that you want to be normal again,

That you want to feel sane again,

That this isn’t what you wanted to be like but your ribs are starting to feel like the cage they were named after,

One were visitors are welcome but hardly ever return because the psych ward isn’t pretty even when you try to pain the walls with flowers…

When people ask me how old I am they are shocked to hear that I have only been on this world for 21 years,

My heart it 26, my mind is 30, and my conscious has no number that can fathom how old it truly feels.

In this life I have learned to use ink to write gravestones of each little part of me that died,

I try to tell people that my body became a graveyard at the age of 5,

That all of these headstones are mine,

But like a cat I have 9 lives,

And sure I may be on my last one of them, I still know how to stand on my own feet,

I’ve laid to rest a lot of demons lately,

These tombstones don’t symbolize losing they show that I have won,

Though their ghosts may haunt me and each day I can remember what it feel like to die I still know how to breath,

At the age of 22;

I will still be alive…

 

 

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. 

Home (Poem #156)

I got told by my father today that my sexuality wasn’t natural and was immoral,

My mother laughed at the idea that it even exists,

I’ve never felt so alone and judged. 

Yet they wonder why I am tentative to show them how I feel,

But how am I supposed to act when the walls I called home are filled with wondering eyes,

When I can’t be half the person I am in fear that you will only see me as that and nothing more,

How am I supposed to act when your house no longer feels like home,

Because people like me,

We aren’t welcome here. 

Mom and dad

I would go home more of you really understood,

But I can’t. 

My friends now don’t understand,

How I can label myself as one way yet say I have never dated someone of the same sex,

That I have never laid my hands on a women,

No they don’t get it. 

It’s not that I haven’t considered it or don’t want to,

It’s because I can’t. 

Mom and dad,

I want to feel at home again,

But I can’t,

I don’t want to walk in the door with my girlfriend and simply have to call her my friend,

I want to hold her hand and tell you

How she is beautiful,

That she lights up my skies in a way that would make the stars jealous,

That her laugh is more beautiful than the apple blossoms that bloom in spring,

And that in her arms I feel more secure than when I have stood in my own home.

I want to do that,

But I won’t.

I fear the response,

And your ignorance.

No I am not with her because I have been hurt by men!

No this is not some phase I will grow out of!

No she isn’t some experimental toy I have because I am in college!

No she is not just some girl!

She is strong,

She is beautiful,

And she is mine!

She knows more of me than you ever will,

Because she can see past the stigma of a title.

So I am sorry mom and dad,

But there is a chance that another girl or boy or ze will take the place of what you tried to call my home,

Because they don’t make me live in a house of glass,

And they finally succeeded in make me feel less alone. 

Your place as a man (Poem #155)

The systematic problems with heteronormativity and patriarchy,

Are not limited to the silence of voices of those who are not blessed with falling into those categories,

No,

They also create a world that limits and defines what it means to be blessed by living there,

It discounts part of a voice of a male activist standing on a street corner fighting for equal rights 

It muffles the screams for their brother and sister with questioning scoffs of how could they understand,

It is as if the heteronormativity and patriarchy hold all people to their roles.

No one can scream too loudly without their faith, morality, and validity being questioned,

As if being male took away from his message,

And being straight means he could never understand what it meant to be a thirteen year old boy hiding in the locker room too afraid to change because he was gay. 

You are he will never understand but that shouldn’t discount his voice. 

Allies and advocates come in all shapes and sizes. 

So just because he can stand in his white male heterosexuals privilege does not mean he does not understand what it means to have your voice shake because of a message,

Because society has a shotgun to his head from both sides waiting for the wrong words to slip from his lips and spill over. 

Believe me I’ve been there,

On the edge of standing for something I could never truly understand but wanted to save,

Had my heart tremble at words peircing my lips. 

So I want to thank you white heterosexual men who take a stand,

Thank you for grabbing the blade of a double edge sword this system has created to prove the point that it is not ok,

I see your sacrifice and bravery,

Thank you for taking your place in our fight to gain a voice for everyone,

 whether they be men, women, straight, lgbtq, gender nonconforming, people of color, white, and/or trans.

Thank you for taking up the fight,

And taking the place you can only stand as a straight white man. 

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…

The right way (Poem #152)

I’ve always struggled,

to find the right words,

or the right way to show I care,

or the right way to speak about pain,

or the right moment to express myself,

or the right way to hide just enough of me that I don’t get hurt,

or the right way to fall in love,

or the right way to dance on eggshells for others,

or the right way to place my hand upon your face that you can’t feel mine tremble,

or the right way to smile so shyly that it looks like innocence but it really simply fear,

or the right way to kiss a stranger and make them feel like it means nothing yet means everything,

or the right way to not feel,

or the right way to say I forgive you when really the ache in my heart says I won’t forgive me,

or the right way to sit across the room from someone I love and tell them I am happy for them when my world is falling apart,

or the right way to say I’m simply not hungry when really hunger doesn’t come close to how I feel,

or the right way to say just enough that you will believe me when I say I am ok…

I’ve been training myself for years…

for the right way to pretend to be me,

but the right way isn’t working anymore,

and I am helplessly lost,

with no right way to go,

or no right way to fix this and move on,

and I am starting to curse myself,

because the right way used to seem so clear,

but now the right way is filled with the fog of tears,

the dew of sadness,

and the raindrops of despair,

even though the clouds are filled with emptiness,

it is still raining,

and in the wind I hear it,

saying that the “right way” is what lead me right here…

The first date (poem #151)

I want to thank you,

For sitting across a table from me sipping coffee,

Holding short conversations about life,

Just like a perfect gentleman. 

You may not see it,

But I’m not used to it,

And it is nice to sit down for once

Not be treated like a paper doll,

Being undressed and redressed by men after first dates

Men who are later suprised and repulsed when they get cut by my unclean edges. 

I may appear tough but the paper can tear when touched by too rough of hands,

Or exposed to too much fire. 

So when I say it was different,

I mean it in the most sincere way,

Thank you for holding my gentle paper hand,

And holding meaningless paper conversations

In that paper coffee shop,

Thank you for not taking the chance to take advantage of my paper heart

And letting me be the fragile little girl I can be for five seconds,

Because it is nice

And rare for me

To sit across a table and have someone be ok with the paper version of me.