Post the Twenty Fourth

Sorry it’s been a while. Internet issues among other things. Here’s an oldie in the meantime, when I used to play around hard with rhyme and wordplay.

i erupt and fluctuate
my love
my doves flew late
into a storm
the forlorn birds roam
through unknown territory
feeling unworthy of the
topsy turvy road before me
turning left looking right
no rest in sight for me tonight
i venture through the morning dew
the stars retire
to sire more fuel
for my century long fire
i rise higher than liars
i swear and i bear their child
i am the life weilder
the royal seal there on the wheel
spinning since the dawn
through the right and wrong
through solomon and babylon
so just ba-ba-along
and i promise to disguise the heat
i reap and creep through cracks.
love attacks when you ask it not to
it rots through your muscle to mold
turns warmth to cold\
so fold your hand and feel the sand
in your fingers
the lingering feeling
from your personal floor
to your personal ceiling
your person is reeling
from concealing the comments
in your bones
the stones thrown at the mask
cast on the last day
the veil hailing power
hailing the sour end
i try to fend off
to not get caught by
wire taps in your hearts map.
if you’re gonna listen
then at least grin and remember
the splendor of our summer
lumbering feelings
we never meant to keep.


Post the Twenty Third

When I graduated college
I jumped up and down
and wrote a poem.
The first line was something
along the lines of:
Happier expletives
have never left my mouth

And now I’m trying
to do it all again
and already over the bureaucracy
before I’ve even applied.

No one wants to
answer your questions
but they have no problem
adding new ones
to your list.

You’d think the continued
education of our citizens
would matter more to the people
who’s jobs it is to help them.

Post the Nineteenth

via Daily Prompt: Final

Instead of a poem, as I usually do with the Daily Prompt, I want to talk to you guys about me. Last night and this morning I posted some insight to my instability. I got a little heavy. It gets heavier, so I don’t want to not address it.

I was raped when I was nineteen. That was seven years ago. Almost seven years ago. It happened in late August of 2010. I didn’t tell anyone that mattered until June of 2011. I had what the legal people call an Outcry Witness. I remember distinctly being balled up in my then-boyfriends bed where it happened and texting my then-room mate “I want to die.” So, she knew. My best friend, though, who’s boyfriend did the heinous act, had no idea until I couldn’t take it anymore and showed her a poem I wrote about it.

She believed me at first, but then asked for some time to process it. I gave that to her, out of respect. He didn’t. During the next few weeks or months (time gets a little blurry there) he did he best at convincing her I was lying. Then she did her best at ruining what little life I had left.

It wasn’t until a little while later, when he sexually assaulted her one day, that she actually believed me. Which hurt. A lot. But it’s been years since then and many tears and shaking later, we came to terms with everything. She and I are still best friends.

I got really heavy into drinking. I got really heavy into smoking, and cocaine. I had numerous sleep overs with people I can’t even name at this point. I had a list, but it made me want to vomit every time I looked at the numbers of names that all blurred together. I thought I was taking control of my body. I wasn’t. I was searching for any way I could possibly loose control, really.

That was seven years ago. In the last two or three years I stopped having flashbacks. I stopped having nightmares. I only talk to two or three people who knew me back then. I don’t mind that so much. I had a good life before it, but my life isn’t bad now. Just different. And when I say I stopped having vivid PTSD symtpoms about it, I don’t mean to say that I’m over it entirely. I thought I was, I said that I was, but I think that was just another way of trying to control what I can’t control.

So, what I wanted to say from this is that this feeling isn’t Final. The remembrance I’m feeling right now, the anxiety, the out of control emotions, the tears that seem to spring out for nearly no reason what so ever, they aren’t Final. This will always be a part of me, because it happened, but it doesn’t need to define me. On the day-to-day it doesn’t define me. But it is a part of me. It gets easier every day. It gets more manageable.

Being upset isn’t Final. I get through every day. I may have faltered, I may be faltering, but I haven’t given up. I won’t. I’ll keep talking about it. Because that’s how we take control. We can’t let people do these things and then not say anything. I didn’t go to the police. I’m not going to. I don’t want to. It won’t give me closure, and at this point I’m pretty sure the statute of limitations is up. . A part of me died that night, and I don’t want any more negativity. I don’t want to be the smaller person. I just want to get better every day.

Not sure if this wall of text will actually be read by anyone, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is this feeling isn’t Final. That’s the thing about surviving. It’s always in the present tense. Yes, I survived that night, but the point is I’m still surviving. Everyday. Because nothing is Final. There is always more path to be followed.

Post the Seventeenth

Today started out
pretty wonderful
I walked seven miles
in beautiful weather
and now I feel I’m
being dragged apart.

I guess that’s the way
of depressive episodes,
you never know
when they’re gonna start
or how to make them stop.

It’s no ones fault.
I mean,
I haven’t talked to anyone
all day.
Unless you count my brain.

But the thoughts weren’t bad…
Unless you count
when they
roamed to my rape.

But that was seven years ago.

I should be ok.
I thought I was ok.
I may not be ok.

Post the Sixteenth

I’m not an intrinsically female
type of girl.
I have all the biological features,
that’s been made more
than apparent to me
But I never liked pink
or doing my hair
and I can’t make liquid eyeliner
do anything more than cover
the whites and get stuck
in tear ducts.

I bought press on nails
nine months ago
and put them on this week
like a pregnancy of
the birth of a new me?
Now I can’t figure out
how to hold anything
more substantial than the air
and I’m scared to wash
my hair
since waterproof and real life proof
aren’t mutually exclusive.

There are new facets of my
pushing there way into existence.
You’d think I’d already
be aware of this.
But I’m not.
I’m constantly expanding
and constantly expecting
this personality to

But for now I’ll watch it all
and listen
without trying to respond
and wash my hair
and keep going to bite the nails
that are more comfortable
with dirt under them
then this oddly cohesive
glue meant
for female bodies.

Post the Fifteenth

He texted aw shucks lol
in response to me
calling him gorgeous.

Just the timing of it all.
A response within moments,
made my smile erupt
and my cheeks gain pigment.

you look beautiful in the red.
he said once as we stopped
at a traffic light.
Is that because I’m so white
that any color helps?
I joked,
running my fingers
along his mocha brown skin.

He shook his head
and ran a finger tip
over the contours of
my high cheek bones
before pulling my lips to his.