You can call me stupid. Call me wrong. Call me incapable. Call me names I cannot even repeat. You can spread your lies. Convince others. Build a whole army of puppet followers who all agree with you. You can convince a friend of mine. Turn someone I love against me. You can find the evidence that you need. Point out my flaws. Cast a spotlight on each insecurity. You can get inside my head. You can even break me down. Bring me to my knees, alone on a cold, hard floor, and you might think then, that you’ve won…
but tomorrow, I will stand up. I will take another step forward, no matter how small or how shaky. And I will know that you will never get the best of me, because even as I stumble through this fucked up world, it is love I hold inside my heart, and you can never make me hate.
from your own mind
and the twisted
often too realistic
thoughts that control you
and push you and pull you
and all that you can do
is to pretend to
there’s nothing on your mind
thank God that most people are blind
to anything further past
the smiling mask
that you’ve crafted until at last
overtop of the broken face takes it’s place and you’re safe from the world outside but too soon you find that the terror’s inside. and no one can help ’cause you can’t escape from yourself so you put it all away on a shelf in the back of your heart you don’t want any part of the sickening past but all too fast it comes back and attacks and it’s hard, you soon find to control your own mind these voice keep screaming at you all the time you enter a trance as if you’re daydreaming you keeping seeing pictures, but you can tell what’s real and you feel like your about to burst cause it hurts so much more than words can explore
My mother cut out clippings from the newspaper with a pair of silver scissors,
gliding them along the marble countertop with a swoosh as I cut my French toast
into trapezoids with my fork. I never drank my orange juice. It left a bad
taste in my mouth when I brushed my teeth and besides, orange juice
did not belong to me anymore. It belonged on the list, ‘no longer innocent,’
and I hardly paid attention to the articles in the newspaper anyway but there
was still no convincing him of that. There was no convincing him
of most things that I tried and there was no way I knew of to drown
out the tone of his voice over my mother’s cheerful ring. There’s a nice
picture of you. [Ugly! Stupid! Fake!] My mother said. A nice picture
of a girl that looked like me, running with one hand in the air and a white
soccer ball in the net behind her. Blurry. The article below it takes up
half a page and continues on C5 but I flip to C6 by mistake and I read
about an unnamed woman who was r d two nights ago in her own house
by a man she (thought she) knew. And if you hold up the page, staring now
at C5 and looking at the letters of my name in the light from the kitchen window,
you’ll find the articles run together. The same black ink on the same dull
white paper and that’s as far as I’ll ever get to reading the article today.
Years later, I will flip through one of the three ring binders my grandmother
used to press each clipping into and I will notice the article I never read
and I will sit on my bedroom floor in my new house in my new city in my
new life and it would read like a fairy tale I wish could have been real.
‘Did I really do all that?’ I’ll ask my mom when she walks past my room and she
will pause in the doorway and take a minute to put it all together and she will
say ‘yes. Yes you did. Yes.’ And I will try to believe her only because my name
is written in the ink and the picture of the girl looks something like me
and I will wonder if the man was ever caught or put in jail or if he even stepped
foot into a courthouse but I will wait until my mother walks away before
slipping the paper from its plastic covering. I can feel the stabbing in my lower
back, see the world from in between a pair of fingers on my face and I wish I knew
what happened to that woman because it never says, if she survived or if she
walked around in another person’s body all these years. If she woke up
sweating at two am, if she forgot her favorite song or how to speak
out loud or how to look in to a mirror and I wish I knew what it felt like
to be the girl that was smiling, and not the one unnamed.
I cut out my heart,
leave it on the shelf beside my dresser,
next to a box of necklaces and
a tipped over frame.
I don’t feel like bringing it tonight.
I cut out my heart,
leave it behind and
replace the emptiness
with a painted smile
and pretend I can’t hear it crying-
Calling all night in the breaks
between the laughter,
when words fall away
and silence seeps in
and I feel the empty hole
in the left side of my chest
and I think about
trying to forget about
I cut out my heart,
leave it behind where no one can notice,
where no one can touch it,
where it can’t feel arms wrapped around me
or smell the hint of Old Spice against my skin.
And it can’t see
the way I look into his eyes
pretending that it’s still there, inside.
pretending that I can give it away,
pretending that it already belongs to someone else.
And at night when I go home,
and wash away my smile,
and sit in the silence of my crowded room
staring at the plastic stars stuck on to my ceiling,
It sits waiting at the foot of my bed
like an abandoned puppy
following me around with its tale between its legs
Until I make it leave the room
And lock my door behind it,
pulling the covers over my head
Pretending I can’t hear it scratching at the door and
pressing its nose under the crack
waiting for someone to notice.
I cut out my heart
pretend somehow that it hurts less
to have an empty space
rather than a million shattered pieces,
pretend somehow that it is easier
to feel nothing at all
rather than risking too much
The things he says
as etching in my skin the fingers circling
my arms around the wrist
they sink somehow, without me hearing
anything else. I have forgotten
this girl, lying on this bed, was at one point
me. I have forgotten that I know
her at all, that there is a world
outside this room, that speaking
is to be heard. And I bleed. Silently. Into
the sheets. but I know this only after
seeing the dark spots left on the bright
cloth in the morning when I am alone and I fold
them under and over themselves ripping
the corners free until they wrap
into a ball I run through three cycles before
my mom can find the evidence. None of this
Love, he says, is a compromise. It is a force
he cannot fight any longer. Love is my
fault. It is the reason. His excuse
to climb across. Love is what he does
to me. Is what he’s doing to me. Is what he says
this is. But love, love is nowhere
in this room.
I just wanted to let you know:
You swore no one would ever love me like you did-
I ‘ll make sure they never do.
You told me I could not survive on my own,
but I thank God I survived my life with you.
You told me I was weak,
but you only made me stronger in the end.
You told me I was stupid,
but I’m smarter than I’ve ever been.
You covered my mouth,
stole away the sound,
but I have found a way back to my voice-
to speak again out loud.
You killed every part of me you could,
left nothing but an empty shell.
But I brought myself back to life again,
I clawed my own way out from the depths of your hell:
I picked myself up off the floor,
I succeeded even with a broken heart,
I lived through the darkest moment of the night
Rebuilt my life each time it fell apart.
I swore I’d never love again,
but thankfully I do:
I love my life, I love myself,
I love someone that loves me too.
So, you might have held me down
but you will never hold me down.
And you might have thought you won,
but you only won that round.
I wonder if everyone lives
in their own
running through their mind
hidden on the outside
by a smile
and no one questions
no one notices
that cries on
in the hidden world
behind the smiling mask
that knows too well,
pain and suffering,
and lost loves,
and the harsh reality
for no one.
the things you don’t know about a person,
I mean really know.
Behind the claims
to be fine
and doing great
Behind the lies
of letting go
and moving on
Beneath the flashy smiles
and carefree laugh,
The real feelings
that live inside
And so I wonder,
if it’s not just me…
but if everyone,
every lost soul
searching for love
or absolutions that will
lives a secret life
inside their heart
for someone to
force their way—
or even perhaps
past the gates that lock it
and if they cannot
break down the boundaries
of the isolated world,
at least sit
and fill the empty space
and chase away
I think that everything might just be better if I stay
laying on the floor of my closet on top of the pile of dirty clothes.
[sitting naked in the shower]