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. 

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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. 

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.