i'm getting real tired
of your ****
not even kidding.
i really think
i just need a break
from every single little piece of you.
i can already feel
how hard it's going to be
when you inevitably leave
so maybe i'll leave you
instead.
you can't ****
those who are already dead.

i have a dream
that one day i'll have one
one day i'll decide
that this world is worth it
maybe it will be revealed to me
that everything hasn't really gone to hell
maybe one day
all this poetry
will mean something
there's this ancient book
that everyone hates
and this guy named jesus
who reassures us
like dr. king
that we will have trouble in this world
but not to give up
kick the bucket
run off
slice our wrists
because he overcame it
i miss that
radical freedom fighter
bleeding on a torture device
i'm sick and tired of his people
like i'm tired of justin beiber's fans
which is really saying a lot
if you think about it
i have a dream
that someday
i won't be so worthless
i have a dream
that someday
i'll get out of this family mess
i have a dream
that someday
i'll be allowed to dream
again

i used to sleep in class

rest my head on my hands
try to stretch my tired back -
exhausted soldier of education
too many 50 minute battles
and borrowed pencils

calves sore from trudging up stairs
pale from the white-lit classrooms
chronic dry mouth from the limp sleep
that we all knew too well

do i want to go back?
do i have the endurance
to stay this time
will i know unless i try?

it's so amazing how easily i can determine
that i was not insane for a year and a half
now that you no longer block out the sun.

yeah, maybe i still can't look at your face
because i am so afraid to see you and have you trick me back into sympathy and compassion.

me, the girl who loved a ******.

maybe jesus taught me too well to love those that persecute me
he made me to fall in love with the man who grabbed me by the wrists and held me down.
would my father
would my pastor
would anyone
honor me for the sacrificial love i displayed for a year and a half
holding him
giving myself to him
loving him
would they pat me on the back
and say that i truly understand the love of god
letting a man ravage my life
for a year
and a
half

i don't even know the months anymore.
i've stopped counting
because i've stopped torturing myself
because i no longer can say
"here is the day he took it away from me
and here i am, still letting him over and over again."
the months past do not matter now.

i will start counting for a different reason:

1 month since i told him enough is ******* enough
2 months since i cut my arms open, writing my sins in my flesh
3 months since i decided that jesus was wrong
that loving my enemies will **** me
make my insides rot
that not loving this enemy
is simply
self preservation
4 months since i got my voice back.
5 months since i started to feel a heart beating in my chest again instead of a hollow socket
6 months since i laid in bed my head and tongue bursting with hate at the mere thought of his hands rough against me, mouth against my ear
7 months since i stopped lying to everyone around me about what really happened that first night
8 months since my body revolted as my mind toiled on in utter confusion, darting from one frightened thought to the next
9 months since i had to worry about carrying a child that he conceived alone
10 months since i beat my head against a cement wall, trying to smash the memories
of what he did to me
11 months since i hugged his mother and met his family wanting to tell them they had a ****** predator for a son
1 YEAR SINCE I LET A BOY CONSUME THE ESSENCE AND JOY AND PURITY OF WHO I AM AND WHAT I WISH I COULD BOLDLY STAND FOR.

i will count the future months
on the gritty pockmarked sidewalk to recovery
until i find again my way
to a sound mind
a sound body
and a sound heart
victimize me no longer,
you who removed from me my innocence
and hung it around my neck
like an albatross that i shot
and not you...

to love again, will be an awfully big adventure.

broken arms
do you harm
do your worst i'm
heaven cursed
heaven cursed

on the bright side i
fall in line with
other faces
screaming dots
on the bright side i
find my place in
darkened corners
hiding spots

broken arms
do you harm
do your worst i'm
heaven cursed
heaven cursed
do your worst.

monsters sleep in my house.

there's a few in the kitchen,
three in my bedroom,
countless on the living room couch...
a very ugly, menacing one on the floor
where the coffee table should be
but was pushed aside.

they stand behind me when i wash my hands in the kitchen sink
pressed against my back.

while i withdraw water from the open fridge
they push my face against the freezer door.

one monster's favorite place:
in my chair, my father doing yardwork out my bedroom window.
the monster told me later how much he wanted to throw me against a wall
how he loved the tension of those moments.

i can't even begin to fathom the monsters in winton apartments.
so many that skulk and tempt me with matchsticks and lighters and sharp nail files
while the real monster lies behind his screens.

monsters sleep in my house.

at least three years old, yes.
but even now i am not used to their presence.

eating pretzels
and chugging fruit juice
that mercifully
doesn't taste suspiciously
like vegetables
thank you, jesus
and a plague on both of
v8's houses

amen.



....*******

how much poetry is in a person?
and how much of it comes out?
enough to bring up the pimples in your personality?
the ugly bumps you can learn to hide
but can't stop people from feeling
when they touch you

how much poetry is in a person
and how much needs to come out
before i am better
how much before i get over this *******
that's calling my name

how much poetry is in a person
and how do i get rid of it
i either speak cynically
or with the malice
and blood
that seeps out of me

how much poetry is in a person
and is it ok to have it there
and when will these pimples go away
and when will i be
alright again

does the poetry have to be gone
for me to be ok?

if i could say that i wanted to go to college
i would also tell you that i want the obscene white lighting in the dorms
the sticky notes on the doors
the toothpaste on the bathroom mirror
and the hair on the floor.
i want the dry-erase boards
with the list of rules
for the kitchen
(because college girls
are nasty *******
and let **** mold all over the place)
i want the plastic bowls
and the old coffee cups
and the rugs that smell like dead popcorn.
i'll even take all the cliches
all the girls in ugg boots and yoga pants
all the weird kids who follow you and talk to you all the way down the hall
the ****** professors
the too-hard classes
and the cafeteria food

i want to go to ******* college.
a real one
a four-year school
i want to live in the ******* dorms
i want to be out on my own.

baby wants to be
a college baby
baby is tired
of being a *******

i wish i wasn't
trapped
here

I knew you were trouble when you walked in
now i'm lying on the cold har....

....wait....oh. ****.

i stole six pairs of earrings today
while making small talk
in a jewelry store that caters to the masochistic
and now i am
pinning their wings up on my wall
to display the reward
of quick fingers
and plaster of paris smiles

i didn't even really want them
i took them from sets
i wanted to see the missing holes
and there was no bin to put them in
now i have little secrets
pinned up on my wall
they join others
that i took

i don't mean to steal things

i love a moose
he's a perfect moose
with the perfect amount of flaws
i was wrong when i said i didn't love him
i do.

i'll keep
you

i am plugging my ears
i can't listen to you talk anymore
lalala i hum to myself
stop talking
please
i can't handle hearing you say it
again
restoration
isn't gonna happen
daddy stop
mommy's not coming back
lalala
sing me a song
you're the piano man
dad no one is going to help us
it's useless asking, asking, asking
no one will say yes
lalala
plug my ears
i don't want to hear
anymore

the thing is i don't need you
that's the problem
you need me so, so much
you don't know what you'd do or be without me anymore
even just after a week

but me?
i know what i'd do without you
i'd be fine without you
i'd do what i've always done
your absence does not frighten me at all.
the fact that mine does...
must be unfair
but i do not know how to tell you

does it mean i don't love you?
or does it simply mean
i understand how to survive
heartbreak

i love that i am getting
farther away from you.
if i wanted to be close to you
it would be easy...
i don't like anything
that is easy.
i love *******
this long
spacious
gap
i love stretching
testing
seeing how far i can reach
in the opposite
direction.
i love this
big
empty
space
between us
i love how it gets bigger and bigger
the more i pry my heart
out of yours.
i love
how much room there is
for dancing
for leaping
for doing all the things
there wasn't a spot for
before.
i love that i can take
huge
deep
breathes
and not breathe the same air
as you.
i love
that i am not so close to you
that i have to mimic
your every move
i love that my hair
doesn't get tangled
in your fingers
anymore...
you left my hair
in knots.
i love that if you reached for me
not even your fingertips
would brush me
i love that if you yelled for me
i would never
hear you
i love that if you wanted to kiss me
you would be
disappointed.

i love
that i am not
near
you.

i fall in love with people when i'm bored
and can't find anything better to do.
so darling,
when i say i love you
i don't actually.
just to make sure
we're clear

the book of love is transcendental
unreadable
blurred pages and scarred notes
frightened edges and scrambled sentences
on phone screens.

the book of love has music in it
songs and playlists we listen to
when the people we love don't talk

the book of love is long and boring
all the upset, angry words we've heard before.

the book of love is tired
of being read aloud.

i'm not going to say it like you say it
i'm not going to mean it like you mean it
you will say it more often
and i will say it because i have to...
i wanted to wait to say it when i felt it
for once
but you you tricked me
and i am
angry

you're going 60 and i'm going 30
i'm still trying to figure out how not to be a **** victim
i'm still trying to figure out how not to let it happen again
and now
you love me
and i
am
no longer in control

wow.
that was the wrong thing to say to me,
*******.
whining at me
and telling me to amuse you
because you're bored
is the last thing
you'd ever
want to say to me,
trust me.
that's the quickest way
of making sure
i will be no where in sight
when you come looking
i am not
a game
don't push me around
trying to feel out my buttons
i am not
a toy
to play with.

....you want something to play with?
play with yourself,
*******.

hey.
the birds turn on
at 4:35am here.
i wonder if the chinese man
with the swirling eyes
turns them on
like in cannery row
as he walks down to the seaside
maybe he just flips
a switch

i really hate it when
you tell someone that you missed them
and firstly,
they take forever to respond
and then they say
"me too."
like, what the **** does that mean?
you missed you
too?
seriously?
that doesn't mean
that you missed ME too
and if it does
we need to revisit
english 101
god
just say it
you MISSED ME
i'm ******* sick
of this cowardly
****
if you're going to keep me up
to all hours
on nights when i have class
the next day
bombard me
never let me sleep
because you want to talk to me
then have the *******
decency
to say that you
missed
me.

singing your guts out on stage...
musical throw up that people like to get splashed with
gushing
rushing
pounding in your chest
standing straighter than you ever have before
four
hundred people standing to their feet to applaud the glorious beast
that just burst forth
from your
lungs

i saved all the tea my grandmother sent me
in her vacant-expression birthday
easter
christmas
thinking of you
cards.
thinking of you -
that is all
happy easter -
that is all
happy birthday -
that is all
not even an automated smile
a pre-written well-wish
the most primal of cards
full of tea.
i open the tea
smell it
hold it
look at it
decipher it
grandmother,
you send me a blank card
with your and grandfather's name
and a little baggy of tea
could you not at least say
i am sorry
is this tea an apology?
you always spoke through tea
but this tea i cannot decrypt
i saw you just the other day
i didn't say a word to you
hardly looked at you
i watched you sneak a picture of me with your old camera
laughing with my friends
is this tea
i miss you tea?

grandma,
it's ok.
this wasn't your fault,
it was your daughter's
i do miss you
i will save the tea you sent me.

people do not die.

they
fall through pavement
or slide under semi-trucks
or glide off bridges
into the soft embrace of water
into a place
in another state

and i don't ever see them
because they moved away
but they will be back
and maybe it's hard to keep in contact
long distance
relationships
****
but someday we'll hang out again
and it will be weird at first
because we will have changed
and
grown
but after a while
it will feel
just the same

escaping from wherever i am currently is always in my best interest
i am looking for means and venues and opportunities to distract myself
whether it's
boys
video games
youtube
***
running through abandoned girlscout camps in the middle of the night
drinking until my bed feels like an ocean, trying to expel me
i will do it
i will use it
i will bring myself to lows i said i'd never return to
just to make sure you're there
in the background
available to take me away

which sometimes means rough fingers i never asked for
or drunk nights dancing in cages with friends i'll never forget
or walking down winter sidewalks in the middle of the night
or sitting by canals that happy older couples powerwalk along
while my mind tries to run away from a school i never wanted
...trying to make you care if i live or not

every night my parents screamed
every moment god made me feel disgusting
every girl that watched food go from my fork to my mouth
the two men that put their own pleasure above my sanity...

i escape you
through just as evil means
but it is the only way
i know how

i pay you back for your lack of attention with well aimed selfies at other men
snapchat carrying them faithfully across the pixelated airways
no evidence for you to find.

in the end, i resent everyone i love
for every opportunity that i stayed silent about what i really wanted
i resent them for my own flaws.
my quietness, my need to please.
i make myself a dog, and they pet my ego
just enough to keep me from leaving.

the curse of a fat stomach,
arms,
thighs,
attributes of a fat ***.
they can keep me in my place because i do not believe i am deserving
i've been taught that well,
but instagram makes me brave.
there are other girls like me
i stand on the foundation of the horror and humiliation they endure
in the hope of a better future
less fuckboys
less degradation
more equality
for my
fat
***

how much longer will i believe i have to put up with less than what i deserve
because i am lucky someone wants to **** me at all?
i don't think it will be long.
decades of socialization taught me to beg for every scrap
from a table laid for girls much thinner than i
but the tables are turning
resetting
rearranging
the playing field
is changing
fat is okay
fat is pretty
fat is normal
fat is just like anyone else
i just want to be treated
like everyone
else.

***** with sticks
come in twos
like some sick
pair of evil ******* shoes
(the kind that gives you blisters)
it's a rhyming kind of night
which is weird
this redhead wants a fight
c'mere.

yes
i did just call my cat
a *****-*** ***
because he was climbing up my bookshelf
trying to steal my **** again
don't judge me

littlred's in trouble now
the scars
were found
someone's got to answer for them
and i hope to god
it won't be
me
i prayed for a year and a half
that dad wouldn't see

i'm in

trouble

little red,
you are here
to make it better
for everyone.
that is your purpose.
you are to make things
better
for your family
for other people
to make things
just a little easier
and if you are good
and kind
and nice
and fake
with a smile
cast
in plaster
maybe someday
someone will make it better for you
in return.
this is a cheerful fact,
little red.
why aren't you
smiling?
hasn't the
chalky water
and paper
dried
yet?
hmm...we might have to
reapply

THE FALSE FACE OF THE AMERICAN DREAM IS THE FACT THAT WE LIVE IN A CLASS SOCIETY CREATED BY THE RAMBLINGS OF SOMEONE
tired.

in a land of false faces
we the people demand a standard that is not achievable -
not for our education but for our ****** egos.
perfection is a siv that will not hold water
a constantly crying child
that we cannot ignore
but cannot silence

in a land of false faces and fat stomachs
we carve out our bellies with knives
and turn our backs to the other girls in the school showers
we deem ourselves unlovable
by the vase a bouquet is placed in
by a face our soul is placed in

in a land of false faces
we are all a tragedy number

THE FALSE FACE OF THE AMERICAN DREAM
IS THE FACT THAT OUR
faces
we find
unlovable

if i had a dream for you
a dream for anyone
anything
i'd catch it up
in my hands
kidnap it
from the air
keep it
to look at
when i'm sad
like a bitter
dandelion
i once imprisioned

i was in debt the day i was born.
the nurse said i was a natural red,
mom didn't believe her
boy
did i
show her

indebted to the woman's womb i struggled out of
the man's genes i inherited
and they dare to ask me
"are you a natural
red?"

the color of my blood is a natural ginger
just enough in my father's mustache

i am in debt
naturally
sometimes i can still feel
the umbilical cord
that she guilted me
into keeping
attached

i was born in debt
i am in the red
naturally
mommy
won't let go of me
i tried to get away
twenty
years ago
she could show
you the scars

indie music
dancing shoes
indie music
doesn't cure blues
it starts them

indie music in the rain
indie music standing in trains
indie music for the deranged

indie music for the off-genre-ed
indie music for the off-centered
indie music for mis-fits
that aren't actually
misfits

indie music for the masses
indie music with glassless
eyeglasses
indie music for the misunderstood
or maybe that's all music...

indie music
dancing shoes
indie music
inspires blues

stop loving me.

i feel like a selfish **** asking you to
but there is no love
in my bones
for you
stop breaking them open
to check

i can't be open with people
they feel sorry for the things that have happened to me
then they love me
more
but i can't do anything back

hatred i can deal with
i've dealt with it my whole life
but i don't know how to be careful with you
how to be something different
to make you not love me
moose, darling
don't love me,
please.

a snort of derision
assails my ears
a gift from the slack-pants boy
that walked by me
i apologize for existing
fellow classmate

WAIT
no i don't.

in january he was gentle.
rested a soft hand on my neck -
it felt strange
but he said it was natural
and so i believed him.

and now in june it's a chokehold
a strange escalation that took months to notice
my body slowly being deprived of oxygen
turning blue
and lifeless
his strong fingers
leaving bruises on my pale skin
veins stand out
as i
scream on the couch
my back arched
like electrodes placed on my temples
shocking me back to life
i feel that strange,
wild,
raring,
open pain
course through me
for the first time in a year

little girls grow up

who once reached for the birds singing in the trees
now she is one of them,
the uncatchable song

i knew you as an awkward, silly, pudgy thing
but death changes people
and makes them more beautiful -

too many lose brothers.

there are a lot of boys in the world.
and some of them wear your work shirts
and some of them wear his cologne
and some of them laugh like you
or peer through your eyes
at my drunk,
sliding lips.

there are a lot of boys in this world
who have your hands -
maybe gentler,
but same intention
running down my back
and under my jeans.

there are a lot of boys -
and some variety,
but all factory built
with the same core.

today someone told me
that i have innocent eyes
i replied
*******
******

five am missed his redheaded friend
but i didn't miss him at all

little sister
the black mold in your heart is what makes you ugly
not the face that you take so many pictures of

oh deep
ditches
annals
endless wires
poking
snagging
interest
of the internet,
why must you always ensnare me
i'm trying to write a paper
*******

i am fascinated with the unruliness of some girls' hair
the plainness around their eyes
the strangeness of their earrings
the smell of the cigarettes inbetween their fingers

i wonder at their worn brown boots
and slightly crooked teeth
and dry lips
and i think
they are the most beautiful things
i have ever seen
almost untouched
by things that beat me down
like the image of victora's secret underwear
and the world's first super model telling girls their thighs are too fat

i want to be one of those slightly unkempt women
they're like uncaged animals
i want to have what they have

but i am a product of this society
it is too late for me
i am destined to be unsatisfied
forever
i will always hate something about me
even if i don't mean to
i will always wear too much make up
and too low shirts
and preach the mainstream way of life

my fingernails will never be *****.
i will always be merely pretty
i wish i was
interesting

motivation in its final form:
coffee dregs at the bottom of my mug.

thick eyelids, oily skin
heavy head.

motivation in its final form
marijuana filled cars
dark,
blurred,
incoherent laughter.
relaxation.

my mind never stops running
and you cross it like red dye:
garish
my eyes won't close anymore
like some sort of nightmare
and honestly i'd prefer a nightmare
because at least i'd be able to ******* sleep

i do this for you,
sotere.
everything i do,
every paper,
every project,
every sleepless night

dad.
i promise
you'll have a house with a farm,
a truck.
rest.
no more weird houses
sliding gently into the ocean,
i'll tie them down.

paint away the grey smudges
underneath your eyes
little black rainclouds
of your demise
cautiously stroke
inside the lines
so no one will notice
their actual size
and the lack of skill
lack of will...
little red
what goes on in your
tear-soaked
head
why do you
sit up in your bed
so late
why don't you
finish the day
with a little game
of pretend
it will carry you through
till the end
honey,
every thespian
will tell you
never to leave home
without a mask
darling,
you never know
when you'll need to
act