Forged Ideals
I learned to hate the idea of being a woman.
Our only purpose seemed to be to serve, to submit, to be silent and suffer.
I watched as my mother cried and begged church after church for forgiveness for a crime she had no choice in commiting.
Knowing her story, her suffering,
intimately by age 9,
I had wept with her and could not fathom the cruelty and audacity of all of those pious, holy hypocrites to find joy in her desperate pleas.
I learned that I was not as good as my brothers, I was weaker, more emotional, better suited for cooking and cleaning and laundry than sports or video games or cars.
I learned that my voice should never be heard when there is a man present, that if a man chooses to give you attention, you should always be polite and sweet and thankful.
I learned that I would never be smart enough to understand the things in a man’s world.
I grew up with the notion that women like my mother and I are not pretty enough, we should be grateful for any man’s attention, because we have brown hair, brown eyes, baby bearing bodies and deep sadness that no one could ever deal with.
I had more body hair than most boys in my 5th grade class, I was too short, my hair was never blonde, my eyes weren’t blue, my stomach never once flat enough despite years of not eating and vomiting constantly- all of this kept as a tally of my exact degree of worth, or lack thereof, in the back of my brain.
I learned that I looked so similar to my mother through any eyes but her own.
She could only look at me and see her past regrets, now I look at me and I see a nauseating blur of two people that broke and abandoned me.
And so I burned the idea that I could ever be a woman to the ground.
I longed to be anything *but* a woman, hoping that would be enough for my father to care, to rewrite my past through a new lens, give me new worth, allow me to enjoy the things that he did even though I was not born with the same body as my brothers, but it turns out I will never be a man either.
There is nothing left that feels like mine except the in between shades of bluish gray.
The absent, gaping void settled betwixt here and there.
I do not belong to either world and I never will.
But I will forge my own place for my younger self to find safety and sanctuary in- even walking through the flames of the hell I’ve been damned to.
I am a phoenix.
Even if it takes lifetimes to rise from the ashes of generational grief.
I learned to hate the idea of being a woman.
Our only purpose seemed to be to serve, to submit, to be silent and suffer.
I watched as my mother cried and begged church after church for forgiveness for a crime she had no choice in commiting.
Knowing her story, her suffering,
intimately by age 9,
I had wept with her and could not fathom the cruelty and audacity of all of those pious, holy hypocrites to find joy in her desperate pleas.
I learned that I was not as good as my brothers, I was weaker, more emotional, better suited for cooking and cleaning and laundry than sports or video games or cars.
I learned that my voice should never be heard when there is a man present, that if a man chooses to give you attention, you should always be polite and sweet and thankful.
I learned that I would never be smart enough to understand the things in a man’s world.
I grew up with the notion that women like my mother and I are not pretty enough, we should be grateful for any man’s attention, because we have brown hair, brown eyes, baby bearing bodies and deep sadness that no one could ever deal with.
I had more body hair than most boys in my 5th grade class, I was too short, my hair was never blonde, my eyes weren’t blue, my stomach never once flat enough despite years of not eating and vomiting constantly- all of this kept as a tally of my exact degree of worth, or lack thereof, in the back of my brain.
I learned that I looked so similar to my mother through any eyes but her own.
She could only look at me and see her past regrets, now I look at me and I see a nauseating blur of two people that broke and abandoned me.
And so I burned the idea that I could ever be a woman to the ground.
I longed to be anything *but* a woman, hoping that would be enough for my father to care, to rewrite my past through a new lens, give me new worth, allow me to enjoy the things that he did even though I was not born with the same body as my brothers, but it turns out I will never be a man either.
There is nothing left that feels like mine except the in between shades of bluish gray.
The absent, gaping void settled betwixt here and there.
I do not belong to either world and I never will.
But I will forge my own place for my younger self to find safety and sanctuary in- even walking through the flames of the hell I’ve been damned to.
I am a phoenix.
Even if it takes lifetimes to rise from the ashes of generational grief.
With Love, For Damage
Our little lives feel so consuming,
Yet I’ve spent just as much time,
if not more,
in others’ shoes.
That man on the side of the street?
I imagine I am him,
struggling to sell flowers to pay rent and bring home food for three small children.
I see the ghosts of my own life there,
know first hand the crushing weight of a failure that feels impending yet must be avoided for there is no other choice!
I have no money to give,
yet wonder if i could,
would it be the difference between another meal and an uprooting?
I wonder how much hardship these people have faced already,
wonder what number is tacked to the front of this specific battle.
I grieve the fact that I am unable to help,
unable to simply procure enough for all of us separately to exist without struggle.
Meanwhile there are new rivers of blood being dug and flooded in the streets,
New rivers that flow with dismal promises of the future,
that promise with the quiet whisper behind it that though I have yet to live I will never get that opportunity unless I fight, tooth and nail for it.
Fight to the brink of death and back for a life I had not previously wanted,
selfishly tried to throw away.
Not my own selfishness.
I bear no blame.
The blame lies within the people that should have instilled the hope necessary to feel alive,
Should have reached out a hand instead of stomping cruelly my own small one with heavy boots intended to leave lasting damage.
I will live a masquerade,
but I will live.
I love,
I am loved,
and I find that I am damaged.
Even so, fear will not consume me.
I will prevail.
As always.
Not in spite of my damage,
But with love for it,
For there are no other options.
My Fate/This Appetite
My mouth is not designed for air
or things as silly as food.
It is designed to beg, plead, swallow every lie,
Every pretty word thrust further and further into my guts until it is part of me too,
Just another of my own beliefs, the rest thrust to the side,
behind my liver,
by this intruder’s indiscriminate spray.
It coats my insides,
Sickly sweet, sometimes too bitter and salty to keep down when it’s not plugged inside.
After, my throat must learn to accept only oxygen once again.
Only,
oxygen feels like failure when he is standing over me,
dripping,
twitching,
waiting for this warm, wet orifice to open once more so that he may relieve himself of his frustrations.
Those tears are just so much lube.
Pleas are successfully silenced.
What words could possibly matter more than his need?
Until the very end my lips open wide for those that would endanger me otherwise,
Drooling-
a vacant brain,
Loving-
despite never having known what such a feeling feels like.
What worth is there in a body when it isn’t useable?
What use is there when these lips are locked shut?
Life is performance and competition.
The worst?
The best?
They’re the same.
One, a savior from obsoletion,
The other an enternal charade.
My Fate/This Appetite
My mouth is not designed for air
or things as silly as food.
It is designed to beg, plead, swallow every lie,
Every pretty word thrust further and further into my guts until it is part of me too,
Just another of my own beliefs, the rest thrust to the side,
behind my liver,
by this intruder’s indiscriminate spray.
It coats my insides,
Sickly sweet, sometimes too bitter and salty to keep down when it’s not plugged inside.
After, my throat must learn to accept only oxygen once again.
Only,
oxygen feels like failure when he is standing over me,
dripping,
twitching,
waiting for this warm, wet orifice to open once more so that he may relieve himself of his frustrations.
Those tears are just so much lube.
Pleas are successfully silenced.
What words could possibly matter more than his need?
Until the very end my lips open wide for those that would endanger me otherwise,
Drooling-
a vacant brain,
Loving-
despite never having known what such a feeling feels like.
What worth is there in a body when it isn’t useable?
What use is there when these lips are locked shut?
Life is performance and competition.
The worst?
The best?
They’re the same.
One, a savior from obsoletion,
The other an enternal charade.
Refrigerated Romance.
A layer of dread permeates deep into my inner core like permafrost,
so deep that my mind is numb, a flash-frozen wasteland.
Try as I might, I am still a bull in a china shop.
How could I ever whisper when I’ve only ever known to shout??
The people I care about become collateral damage and I think that maybe there’s something poisonous and dark about the concept of love itself,
For it becomes a pit that swallows you whole more often than not.
This false sense of security falls away and you are not the kind sweet person I know,
You won’t even look at me,
In much the same way as *I* cannot look at me,
A wall foisted between us in bed.
Your subconscious forgets that you shouldn’t cuddle in the dark with a monster,
Shouldn’t comfort them or console them,
You wake up as you go to kiss me and I see the moment you decide to turn away instead..
that moment will haunt me,
seeping it’s chilly uncertainty into every bone of the future,
too frigid for comfort,
growing ever more brittle with the passing days.
Yet still,
Icy, shaking fingers tentatively touch molten fire with a sigh, a hiss, a cloud of breath in early January,
desperate to feel warmth inside these glacial veins for even one moment.
My love, if all I ever touch you with again is my words,
please let them be gentler
than my hands are
to myself.
The Incapable Orphan
I am an unfit parent
But there will be no one to take this burden from my shoulders
It was born unto me,
In the same breath that I was born unto my own,
Some say that that breath was the catalyst.
The catalyst for the end,
For the beginning,
For everything in between.
I am an unfit parent,
But there will be no one to take my burden from my shoulders
Not until a being learns to divide itself in twain.
Flesh and blood
Flesh and blood
And whatever gooey center was left inside that hollow chest.
My baby shrieks in the night and I get up because it is my duty but I am crying too and I am unfit and I am thinking about drowning us both just to get some silence until I see her face
and it dawns on me that she doesn’t deserve that. She’s done nothing.
So I continue sobbing as I try to pacify her, to rock her, console the inconsolable wounds inside her and protect her. It is my job. My torch to carry.
A variageted analysis
Fingers fly across the pages, a desperate analyzation that bears no fruits. Right or wrong? Error. Good or bad? Error. Panic fuels the lonely scholar, error after error, and no amount of research will make sense of it. Everything fits cleanly, up or down, right or left. Yet the scholar’s input systems know no grey area. Data feeds in in an endless loop, you: bad. You: good. You: more data required. The brain is no machine, try as trauma may to rewire that. Humans *are* emotion, unpredicatable experience and everything in between, little scholar. You must update your softwares. You are human, you are not meant to see in black or white, but the beautiful irridescent range of everything, and nothing in between. Little scholar, you cannot possibly fit everyone into your safe, categorical boxes, for humans rarely fit neatly in one place or the other. The beauty in being alive is being messy and incalculable. Not black, white or monochromatic, but an enticing variegated array of experience.