We really do.
We really do.
At what point did I become gray?
At what moment did the skies topple
And the clouds decay
Onto my body, infecting my brain –
I thought I had changed.
TRIGGER WARNING: rape mention, assault mention
I’ve been thinking about making a post like this for awhile, and I feel it’s important that I do. Too many of us are living as victims, sworn to secrecy by our own personal oaths. I can’t talk about that. That makes people uncomfortable. No one will love me, no one will see me the same. I know those thoughts. Too many of us hide this very substantial part of ourselves. The fact is, it happened. And it’s changed you. And you should not be ashamed of that.
This is my story. I really hope it makes you feel less alone.
we don’t even have noses
Was never the empty rooms
Or vacant spaces;
Perhaps the loneliness grew
From the fractures and fissures
On the top of your tongue
“Hide the parts that aren’t good enough;”
And so, Bloaty learns that working too hard is never a good thing. And she gets lit.
(A late Bloaty is better than no Bloaty amirite?)
One of my favorite things to do when I was little was run around outside during a thunderstorm. I think it’s something we’ve all done, even if our parents didn’t let us. It was stimulating without being overwhelming – I don’t know how to explain it. It’s impossible not to laugh when you’re being assailed by rain-drops with friends – I’d recommend being about 10 years old though. 23 year-old Steph wasn’t too thrilled when she saw her makeup and hair after. Or how cold it was.
It’s Tuesday night
And I am letting myself be sad;
Because every human I touch
Has to leave me in the end –
And I thoroughly convince myself
That it is I who leaves,
When really, it’s the fear
That comes alive
And drags me.
I remember this self.
This self is a lover, is kind,
Is forever apologizing
For existing in the way it does,
Causing the pain it did;
This self is a lover, a fire,
But not wild; collected and contained
In a brick prison,
Thawing your frozen toes
When Winter bites at your bones.
It isn’t easy.
This self was not easy.
This self is constantly questioning its worth,
Because for once,
Its worth matters to an outsider;
This self is a lover,
In love with the thought
Of your arms and your lips,
Your skin under its fingertips.
Your eyes, and your mind,
Are the finest treasures in this self’s life.
It isn’t easy.
Accepting that the former being,
Has gone to rest – perhaps permanent –
And good riddance!
What a sad existence
To wish to be alone.
This self doesn’t want to be alone.
That goddess has resigned;
This self wants to give,
And to be alive.
To the sixteen-year-old on the couch:
Allow me to introduce you to yourself;
You’re twenty-two and finished college,
Months away from moving out, and
Everybody’s proud of you, and
You have gotten help.
The boy who yelled & threw your phone
Is sad and ugly and alone,
And you are everything you never knew
You will meet boys
Who will take buses and trains, cross seas in planes
To see you;
And you will hate them all.
Though you are much stronger now,
You’re still learning how to crawl;
And that is the most important thing.
Nothing really matters now
From when you were sixteen;
You’ll wake up on Sunday mornings
From vivid, lucid dreams;
Those thoughts might still scare you,
But you are tough.
You are smart.
And yes, you have a heart –
It’s in there, I swear,
Though the fire has flickered out,
Just know that things are looking up.