Poetry: Worth

I know the worth of my body.
Look at it
Measure the height
The distributions
Yes to that
No to this
Take note of the age
The wear
The skills and lack of
Write a side note about the hair color
The eyes
Quality of teeth
Scaling each inch
Counting the flaws
The scars
The stretch marks
The wrinkles
The moles
The freckles
Each one brings its own deduction from the value
And each is marked, noted, remembered.

I know the worth of my body.
I counted the zeros you placed upon the page
After your inspection
So thorough that my humanity fled from the flesh
As the eyes bore into my skin,
Marking me to remind yourself
Each transgression to my flesh
Every detail that indicated
I am not fair.

And I get in line with all the other bodies
Each with their own place
According to worth of the flesh
And I’m in the back
As those who are fair
Are showcased first.

But this is not the system that you value me by.
What is the worth of an opinion?
A laugh?
A memory?
A thought?
A promise?
An action?
A feeling?
What is my worth if you do not see me as a body?

Poetry: Not Thinking About Tomorrow

Am I the only one who finds memories to be painful?
I reflect and it always causes sadness.
There were happy moments in my life but
When I remember them, my reflection taints them just a little bit.
Saddens them just a little bit.
I don't like thinking about my past.

The present is my focus,
Just get through today.
It doesn't matter what the pains of yesterday are.
Yesterday was so long ago
And I don't want to feel sad.
Don't make me remember.

If you go far enough East, you find yourself West.
In mathematics, we say that there is only one infinity.
There is no distinction between negative and positive.
Two sides of one coin are still just a single coin.

The days of tomorrow are just future yesterdays.
And I can't handle yesterday.
Hold me, get me through today until all the tomorrows pass into yesterdays
I need a rock of stability
And the hole in me looks a lot like you.
Am I thinking about the consequences?
I'm not thinking about tomorrow.

I need you.

Poetry: Drift Wood

The waves crash onto the shore, violently moving the sand, modifying the rhythm of the trees. How different it would be in the middle of the sea. These same waves of destruction would just drift along, dispersing into its wealth and be forgotten.

I think I used to be a part of a ship. A large one that sailed the oceans with pride and purpose. Slicing the water under the strength of our unity. But now, scorched and covered in salt, slow progress is made, moving towards an unforeseen goal, riding the waves that the land finds so treacherous.

Out here alone, there is a peace found with the dangerous.
A balance in solitude.
Contentment in branching out, away.

I'm just a small piece of wood.

Can you measure my happiness?

Depression

Honestly, I think every person on this earth is depressed. Some people are really good at dealing with it and others are not.
People get drunk because they can't deal and then laugh it off as a fun weekend activity although it wasn't fun and it wasted their rent money and they don't even remember half of what happened.
They cut because visualizing the pain inside calms them, shows them that the pain that they feel is real.
Some people find comfort in talking about it to friends or a counselor or a family member, speaking of their feelings as if they feel that they're the only one who is struggling and how hard it is for them to get through it all... talking about how unhappy they are and how the challenges in their lives just make their lives seem worse and worse.
Some cry themselves to sleep while smiling throughout the day for they view their emotional state as weak and do not wish it to be expressed.
Some constantly bring it up and talk about it, trying to make themselves seem special for having a weak emotional capacity.
They make others laugh because they lost the ability to.
They love the world the way that they wished the world loved them but often doesn't and others call them kind for it, not understanding the intent.
The point is, we all get through differently.

But that doesn't mean it makes you unique or special or different.
It does not mean that you can opt out of life or use it as justification for failing to perform.
Your life is in your hands and you cannot let your emotional state dictate what you are capable of.
Take responsibility for your actions, strive to be better than what you believe you can be.
And for goodness sakes, stop looking for pity.

Short Story: Not Like You Do

She woke up with a start. There didn’t seem to be a reasoning for her awakening but yet, she sat up in bed, wide awake. Her husband was lying next to her, his arm still tightly holding onto her waist and his foot crossed over hers. She looked down on him and stroked his cheek, not sure if she wanted to wake him or not. Letting out a tenative, ‘honey?’ he stirred and held her tighter, pulling her into his chest. She licked his nose lightly and his eyes fluttered open as he kissed her cheek. 'Honey?’ She asked again. He sat up, holding her into his lap. 'What’s up, sweetheart?’ She pondered for the right words to say then nuzzled his cheek before replying, 'I don’t know but I’m scared.’ He kissed her softly as he pet her stomache. Her eyes widened in realization and a small, 'no…’ escaped her lips. She ran to the bathroom and vomited as soon as her feet felt the bathroom tile. He pulled her hair up and rubbed her shoulders softly as she cried. He started cleaning up her face then floor as she took her pajamas off to inspect the cause of her worry. Her underwear was stained so dark it might have been black. She looked up in horror, her breathing exphasizing her inability to process what she was seeing as her head spun. Her husband reached for her as she passed out.

This bed wasn’t very comfortable. She moaned and stretched as her body fought waking but someone was holding her hand and whispering sweet nothings. They wanted her to wake up. Her eyes slowly opened to her husband’s concerned face so she gave a small smile and held her arms out to him so that he’d come closer. He wrapped his arms around her, joing her on the small bed as he kissed her softly. 'Hey, honey. Where are we?’ She looked around and it seemed like they were in a hospital wing. That didn’t make any sense… she was only 5 months pregnant. She looked into his eyes and noticed that he was on the brink of tears. He never cried. Fear seeped into her and she grabbed his arm in panic. 'Honey… what’s going on?’ He just pulled her into his lap and pet her hair softly, stating that it was going to be okay. Cramps overtook her. 'Please honey, please tell me that our baby is okay.’ Tears started coursing down her face as he didn’t respond. She cried into his shoulder, giving herself a headache as he whispered, 'I’m sorry.’ She couldn’t stop crying. She cried so much that she wouldn’t have been able to hear him say soft words of consolation. She had murdered their baby. How was she supposed to get over that?

The next few weeks were a blur. She spent most of the time in bed or on the couch, lying there with a hopeless look on her face. She only ate when he put something in her mouth and talked her through eating. She didn’t have any motivation to eat. She didn’t want to shower. He would carry her to the bath and bathe her just so she’d get clean. She didn’t resist but she never helped. She would only listen to him but sometimes the words didn’t register. Every time she fell asleep, she would awake screaming. The nightmares were ongoing and all he could do was watch and hold her tight. She eventually stopped crying but her depression seemed to unravel her. She lost weight, she wasn’t sleeping, wasn’t eating… if he left her alone to go to work or get groceries, she would just stare at the wall while he was out. He didn’t know how to reach her, he didn’t know how to bring her back. The woman that he loved.

He broke down finally. He screamed at her. It wasn’t just her that was hurting. They both had lost their child. Was she really so selfish that she put all the blame on herself? Couldn’t she see that he also felt guilty? He pleaded with her, begging not to lose his wife in addition to his child. She saw him for the first time in a very long time and the tears returned. They shared some soup and color came back into her face. He stroked her hair and kept reiterating that she was his girl. Things were not okay. But they would get better. Together.

A few months had passed and grief no longer ran their lives. But she couldn’t be in the same room as a friend who talked about her efforts to get pregnant. They didn’t understand why she didn’t want to hear about new contraceptive methods or what they were planning on naming their kids. They didn’t understand why it was so important to her when some of them had abortions and so many women go through this. Family only seemed to add insult by offering life style changes to prevent future occurances or mentioning that they had also 'been there’. She didn’t want to hear it.

And her poor husband… fear controlled their love making. To want to express love for each other with each other, to desire a second chance but terrified of a repeat or forgetting what they had lost by moving on… oftentimes alone time in their room was the most bitter. How long were they supposed to grieve the loss of their child that they had not yet known?

He took action one night and didn’t wait for her to say it was okay– he loved her and needed her and she was the same so he took her and loved her. His hands owned her flesh, his lips left reminders on her skin of his devotion. He let her cry, he let her tremble, he wasn’t going to let go or stop loving her. When they once again became one, she couldn’t remember why it had taken so long. He was her home, this is where she belonged. She was his and he filled her. No fear, no doubt. Looking at him, she knew it was all going to be okay. They kissed like they were kids again and after cuddling, they fell asleep in each other’s arms and there were no nightmares. They would no longer be defined by their loss.

The One About Sexual Assault

I hate to be blunt about this but I honestly don't know another way to go about this...

Why don't we treat sexual misconduct like a crime? It is a crime yet... we give it so many loopholes that it may as well not be.

When we become informed of someone having undergone that experience, we don't send them to the police to have the perpetrator stopped. Instead, we send the victims off to have conservations with 'experienced' individuals about what happened to them and next steps so that they can recover. Oftentimes, these people that the victims are sent to are not mandatory reporters-- they don't have to testify in a court of law and have no repercussions for not bringing this incident to light. And that's it. Case closed?

Police stations put out public reports about crime activity in their area so that people can make informed decisions about moving or picking a school to attend but when it is not required that they get accurate numbers about sexual incidents, all the statistics are null and void on the subject. We cannot accurately document something that the 'supporters' sweep under the rug because they are more concerned about the recovery of the psyche of the victim.

On that note, if someone was murdered, the brother of the murdered individual who witnessed it first hand still must report said murder and appear in court to make sure justice is granted. Their mental psyche is dealt with afterwards or separately but crimes must be reported and action must be taken. It doesn't matter who they talk to-- the situation must be addressed. Is this not a case of trauma at least as severe if not more so than rape or other forms of sexual misconduct? I don't understand why we as a society are so concerned about the victims that we do nothing to stop the perpetrators and prevent the numbers of victims from increasing.

And no, saying 'don't rape' doesn't count as doing anything. And convincing victims that it's not their fault doesn't count as doing anything.

Can we please just stop treating the after effects and instead target the source, the reason? So many of our boys are surrounded by toxic women and so many of our girls are hurt by toxic men. But all we do is reach out to victims and say, 'we support you, we were once there'.

I find it disgusting the way that we treat sexual misconduct in our country. Feminists: you're causing the rape culture that you claim to hate. Happy? I'm not.

Poetry: I am a Dock

A group of buses and bikes came in today. With happiness and childlike wonderment they explored then left. I said goodbye to them and they didn't seem to understand that if they didn't return then this would be a final parting. But I did.

A large group of planes are here currently. They love boasting their skills in the sky and I watch from where I lie and wonder the duration of their fuel, these comrades of mine. They ask me to explore the clouds and I politely decline as they go further away from where I lie, each will part soon.

Every now and then in comes a boat or a massive ship to my shore. Those days make me the happiest as the familial bonds of our complementary sets makes us realize that we form a home. I always feel safer when they come to stay and those partings are always the roughest. Lately the seas have been unsettled and angry and I watch the waves with nervous anticipation, hoping to see my ships come back as they always do.

But I am just one dock, that's all the town needed. Most of the time I silently stand alone, just waiting. I'm tired of buses asking me to see the towns where they come from. I'm tired of the planes pestering me to fly and see the other side of the clouds. I'm tired of waiting for my ships to come back so I can feel whole. I'm tired of being alone. But as a lone dock, who would understand me? The planes don't understand that I don't fly, the buses don't understand that I don't drive. And when a boat has a duty to part, it must. They already give me all the time that they have for their desires are parallel to mine which means that they intersect at infinity and what's more complete than that?

The waters strikes up on my planks like it does every day. But today I feel a little bit more soggy than normal, a little bit more like fish than usual, a little bit less well kept than I should. And as I look at the stars which flirt a dance with the top of the waves I wonder how long it will take for the sun to take away the pain.

Poetry: My Nightly Dream

She stood there among her coworkers when she suddenly sensed his presence. She looked up at there he stood, smiling straight at her as he walked closer. She dropped what she was holding and ran towards him, leaping into his arms as tears started to stain her face. He grabbed her legs and held her up as they kissed deeply and with much longing. One of his hands moved to her back and massaged her slowly as she tried to speak while kissing him. Small proclamations of love and how much they missed each other seeped through as their mouths battled to possess each other. Tears that were running down her face entered their kiss but they didn’t stop their reunion. He just held her tight and rubbed her back softly as she pressed herself tightly against him and kissed him. Their act of reunion seemed so typical amongst those in a long distance relationship but there was something different about this one. Even though (or maybe because of) the two were being rather physical with each other, there was no lust. Desire, yes. Obvious love, yes. There wasn’t anything carnal in their embrace. Rather, it was an extension of who they were together and how they felt. In that moment, not one witness would be able to argue that sex between them would be a sin. She let out a shudder as their faces parted, traces of saliva hanging from both their mouths as they rubbed their cheeks together softly and looked into each other’s eyes with pure emotion. He set her down and her legs stumbled a little as she grabbed at his arm, her body adjusting to supporting itself once more. He wrapped an arm about her waist, pulling her into his side and she moved accordingly, holding onto his chest while staring up at him. For a moment, one would have thought that they had indeed become one but upon blinking would have realized that they were still two separate bodies. She was a pretty short person but upon seeing her tightly secured into the side of her man, her coworkers realized for the first time perhaps just how small and fragile she really was. This driven and independent woman who had claimed a fierce desire to live the role of a simple housewife made so much more sense upon seeing her dependency in this moment. She was the subservient half to the man she let own her. He raised her face to his own again and she let out a small sigh. He kissed her nose as he quietly spoke soft reassurances to his woman. She nestled her head into his shoulder, closing her eyes as a small smile settled onto her face. He tightened his grip on her slightly before they walked together to give everyone a small greeting before they went up to her room. And no one could argue that she was the happiest girl on the earth.

Poetry: The Hand

The hand was slapped and it stung. The hand turned red and throbbed. A hand is a hand, it doesn't understand the reason. The only thing it understood was the pain. The hand dunked in ice and avoided that place. The place that it thought was familiar but had caused the slap.
The hand missed that place and noticed from afar all the things that went on there. Was it time to go back? Was it allowed to? If only reasons were clear, if only the place had braille for the hand to see and understand. But there were only scratches.
The hand went back, just briefly. Thoughts of sorting out the situation fell dead at the stop-- there was the place and too many memories flooded in that the hand shook and stress overwhelmed. This wasn't the way, this wasn't the time. What the hand wished to express came out in tatters and what it held in peace was dropped as it left.
The place sang a song then and emotions came out illegible. It could have been a knell or the sound of a new dawn... the hand could only feel the vibrations. Cautiously it moved, uncertain of the proper dance, waiting for its partner to lead but it seemed they were waiting for the same thing.
The song was coming to a close or maybe a bridge or something. A shift was made, subtle it went and the tense worsened. The hand lost grip on its partner and
The song was not longer legable. Impossible to tell if it still played and the silence was a new one, a new uncertainty to face.
How quickly a situation spirals into something so foreign.
What was a hand to do? It called out to the place, let us return. In acting naturally the dance can be reformed. The time is limited and altogether sporadic but what is loose is tossed like rice for a maid; willingly and in a loose fashion. There needs to be just one grain that lands in the hair for the situation to snare.
Another slap. Jumbled in the wind only some meaning got through: the hands effects were all wrong, all the blame is on you. Don't you know how to dance? Don't you know how to return? For not seeing the road, all you get is scorn. Don't you have eyes? Can't you see what has been written? The desire is peace and you caused guilt-stridden. The path has been torn and there is little to share, why give more when this is how you fair?
The hand fell, just wishing for an end. What grace could be given for one too stupid to understand?
The hand reached out, just one last chance. One last question, would you care for a dance?
A reply came late and it was barely heard-- I'll consider one last dance, I'll give the word.

Poetry: Desires

I desire peace.
I desire understanding.
I desire straight forward communication.
But we don’t always get what we desire.
There are many factors at play and any misstep?
Leads to worse consequences than no step.
That’s what I believe, anyway.
So, here I am, unmoving.

I like watching chess.
I can see the expressions in the eyes of the players,
the shake in the fingers as complex plans are executed.
It’s a dance, a battle.
A movement creates a reaction.
Reactions tumble.
I desire this. To see it.
I like knowing how to move.
Make me player two.

Let me be the reeds across the water.
I can move with the breeze.
Any movement is fine, I bend.
Hot or chill?
Heck, it can even be shrill.
I want it to move me.
Show me what to do.

But I see the deer.
My contemplations come to an end.
Far across the field and it’s staring at the sun.
Do I raise my gun or walk?
I cannot tell if she’s gravid from such a distance.
I raise my gun to the sun and stand there
Blinding myself.
I don’t know how to make the choice.

I wish
I wish I knew what to do.
That’s what I desire.

An Email Unsent

My school newspaper,

Now, I don’t view myself as an uptight person but upon reading the Friday edition of the newspaper, I have a lot of concerns that need to be addressed. As a published newspaper, when an article is written it needs to be accurate and represent the situation fairly– especially when the article is the one on the front cover.

The article I am referring to is the one written about the alcohol policy in the residence halls. Keep in mind that the hall policy and procedures works with the Student Code of Conduct and all local, state, and federal laws so very little is repeated that is already mentioned at any of the other sources.

1. The policy regarding alcohol is misrepresented twice in the article.

a) The first time the article states that an underaged person cannot be present while someone of age is drinking in the of-aged’s room. This is false statement– in the residence halls, a resident’s room is considered their private space so as long as they are following the law, they may engage as they please. As long as the underage resident is not drinking with the of-age resident, the of-age resident is free to drink in their own room. It should be mentioned however, that if such a situation is found, the underage student will be breathalyzed by a police officer to ensure that underage drinking was not occurring but this does not mean either student is in trouble for socializing or hanging out with alcohol present. This is, of course, underage drinking was taking place.

b) The second time the article states that an of-aged resident cannot have alcohol in their room if their roommate is underaged. Again, a false statement for many of the reasons that the first statement was wrong. As an example, parents are allowed to have alcohol in their house and drink it at their leisure while their children are under age. The law rests the burden on the underaged student to not engage in unlawful activities– not in the of-aged participants ensuring that underaged access is minimized.

2. In the colloquial sense, calling the residence halls a ‘dorm’ is acceptable but in a formalized setting such as a newspaper that represents our University, this word should be discarded for the one that residence life and dining services (RLDS) has stated is the official term to utilize: residence hall or hall for short. This change of word choice is important to showcase what values RLDS has in mind when discussing the living situation of students on campus: the halls are a place to build community and integrate into the college life– not just a place to sleep. If you want to call the halls 'dorm’ while talking with others, go for it– I’m not here to police your jargon.
Do not do so in an article.

3. The first statement in the article states that our campus has changed the policies for on campus living to allow drinking. This statement is very misguided since really, the policies have only changed in the on campus apartments so residents may drink in common spaces in their apartment instead of just their rooms. Regarding the halls, the policy that is in place currently is the one that was in affect in the upperclassmen hall. When RLDS made the decision to shut down that hall, they transferred this policy to the freshmen residence halls for the upperclassmen that could no longer choose to live in an upperclassmen hall but would still like to live in the halls. This issue is not as major of a concern but since I’m already writing to you about the article, I figured that I may as well include this too.

4. If you are going to write an article about the policies in the halls, interview at least one RA (resident assistant), RC (residence coordinator), AD (assistant or associate director), custodian or maintenance staff worker, RHA (residence hall association) member, or someone who works in RLDS. List of people interviewed: two past residents and 2 underage residents. This one-sidedness in the sources is most likely a reason that this article had so many issues– a person who understands the policies was not spoken to in order to have a better understanding of the situation. In addition, because of the sources used and the ones blatantly not used, a certain tone regarding hall policies and policy enforcement seeped into the article to showcase RLDS and RAs in a negatory light. When it comes to hall policies, RAs are not watch dogs: they are students employed by the University whose job consists of student advocacy and safety. When issues arise, it is on the students to inform RAs of the situation so that it can be dealt with– the job does not involve scouring the hall to find violations and reasons to call the police. It is a much larger concern that students are handling the transition from high school to college in a healthy manner and that roommate conflicts are resolved in a speedy fashion.

I hope that my email makes sense and it clearly lists my reasons for concern. I have lived on campus for four years and it is very discouraging when fellow students misrepresent what hall life entails out of ignorance. Several residents who have read your article have been bombarding RAs with questions regarding the policy since the article differs from what they understood the policy to be and it is very frustrating to have to explain to them that the policy is not as the article states. There are consequences to every action and when you chose an action, you must accept the results of that choice. I hope that in the future, this newspaper is held to a higher standard so it can be a newspaper that students may trust.

Thank you for your time,
Resident Assistant for two years

Poetry: Understand

Do you ever apologize for things that you don't understand in a truly heartfelt manner or merely using a snide tone that expresses your discontent with the situation unraveling?
I thought I understood a foreign planet but I didn't so I'm left confused and unsure on how to move forward, grasping at my orbit and daily routine to steady myself as the effects of the impact resolve.
I don't know what I am but I know what I'm not.
Isn't that the next best thing?

Education

The biggest problem with education in our country is not the education. It’s the mindset about education; the misinformation and the backwards efforts to improve it.

You do not need a college degree to be successful. There, I said it. We have a multitude of opportunities and careers that can be obtained without ever stepping down that road to debt. Can we please stop pretending that these options don’t exist or that you’re doomed to work at Mickey D’s if you don’t go to college?

Before you get higher education, think of what getting a degree entails. Not in the, ‘I need a degree to get a job’ way but at the root of it– what should your education be doing.

Through high school, it’s a base line introduction to different types of thinking, a short flirting session with many types of information. You learn nothing because you’re not supposed to. It’s supposed to spark your creativity to learn a subject without actually telling you anything at all about any of the subjects that you flirt with.

Bachelors– finding a subject of interest and learning that you know so little that you don’t even know what you don’t know.

Masters– discovering what it is that you don’t know about said subject of interest.

Doctorates– learning how to self study and expand so that the areas that you don’t know decrease. Furthermore, learning how to find the answers to what you don’t know so that if you ever have to know, it is guaranteed that you could figure it out at that time.

You stop when you are satisfied with your level or realize that you don’t need to stay in school longer because you have picked up the purpose of the next degree without needing to study further.

But no one thinks like this anymore. People come in drones to colleges to get the essential BA, not knowing what subject they want, not knowing what career opportunities that it leads to, not knowing if said opportunities would satisfy them. They flounder until they get that certificate in their hands and then wonder if they learned anything and go onto the job market unable to apply their degree to a job, getting hired for work that they are incapable of completing correctly for they lack the proper understanding and training.

It’s nuts. And not because schools are corrupt or because teachers are bad though both may be true. We no longer understand the purpose of education. Instead of rectifying this, the focus is on manipulating how the information gets presented or switching who the instructor is; thinking new person, new style means better. But this… this is not true. Your education is dependent upon one thing only: you.

Welcome to America. The land of the uneducated educated elite.

My Story

I fell in love when I was 12 years old. I dated this person when I was 14 and we broke up before I turned 15. I didn’t understand my feelings for a very long time and it took me years after he was long gone for me to come to terms with what he meant to me and the damage that those feelings had caused to my mentality. He used to call us opposites and would joke that ‘opposites attract’. It was just a dumb phrase that he would say but after he left me, hearing that phrase would make my blood run cold and I would feel like crying. I’ve always said that he was dangerous for me because if he ever wanted to take me back, I’d go. Despite being against dating your ex’s, I wouldn’t be able to refuse his invitation. He owned a place in my heart that no other could ever fill and I called that place 'first love’. When I was 20 he asked for me again It had been almost exactly 6 years to the day that I once again became his girl. Full of insecurity and hesitancy, I constantly tested him with deal-breakers wondering if I’d be able to keep him for sure this time. Somehow, he passed everything that I threw at him. I’m not sure he was even aware of my dumb challenge yet… he always answered beautifully. Despite being his again, that phrase he used in the past still left a sore spot. I feared that he would use it again but when I asked him why he wanted to be with me he simply said, 'we complement each other’. A wound that I thought I would never be able to leave behind me was gone. This shift in word choice, in mentality… he was the same yet he was a man. There was no way that I was letting him leave me a second time.

Poetry: Sleep

I'm laying on my bed in my dark room alone and I've told everyone who might bother me that I'm sleeping for a nap but in reality, I lay here with my dark thoughts and feel morose as the sensations of being alone well up and consume me.

I miss my man for many reasons but here in this moment a primary one would have to be his refusal to let me cry. I physically crave the happiness that he brings me whether it was done intentionally or not. And how can I tell him what this separation does to me without him feeling guilt? It is not his fault that he is gone and there is nothing he can do to quicken his return. He craves me as I, him. And I know what he'd say if he was here... giving gentle reassurances in his embrace, pleading me not to cry and to be strong for him. I know these things... Somehow they just make me more sad.

I cry a guilty tear and tell myself that I'm not depressed-- just homesick. We have forever so don't worry so much about the now. But I ache to be touched, to be held, to be loved... more than I've ever felt hungry. More than I've ever felt tired. It is a need deep within my soul, a wound in my spirit that is bleeding. I don't know how I'll make it to tomorrow...

I guess I'll just sleep.

Reassure Me

My head spun with anxiety. All I wanted was to be in his arms but I didn’t feel like I belonged there. I looked at him with torn emotions and bolted out of the room without any explanation, running down the hallway and collapsing against a closet door.

Why did I always have to create such drama? If I just let things be, we could be happy…

I cried at my own weakness, my inability to let things go. My personal refusal to accept his love. I wanted to die. As much as I didn’t want to let him go, I felt guilty for having him. He was better than I. Curling up really small, I felt immature and stupid. My fears and incompetence swirled in my head and crawled to the back of the closet, feeling the cold walls touch my skin as if to further accentuate my point. I was alone.

Tears blurred my vision not that I would have seen much anyway in the dark armoire I had escaped to. Just kidding, it was a closet. My ears rung in my sorrow so all I could hear was the soft noises that were escaping from my own person. The shuffling of my limbs against the ground, the unsteady beating of my heart, the small release of each new tear as it fell from my face. I buried my face in my hands as if hiding into layers of darkness as if I was the center of a matryoshka doll set.

I didn’t hear him enter the room.
I didn’t hear him come to the closet and sit outside.
I didn’t hear him place his hand onto the wood, as if to reach out to me across an unbreakable boundary.
I didn’t hear him sigh as he questioned whether or not to open it.
I didn’t hear him slide the door open slowly so as to not startle me.
I didn’t hear him.

Not until he sat next to me and pulled me into his lap and asked me not to cry. He stroked my cheek softly and made sure that I felt his arms wrapped around me tightly like a shield of protection from the outside world. I looked up at him with shame and only saw concern and love that wouldn’t let me refuse his offer.

We kissed softly and I’m not really sure who initiated but it was wet with my tears and gentle with uncertainty. He pulled me in closer and pet my head to reassure me.

“I’m not going to leave you,” he whispered slowly, as if answering a question that I forgot to verbalize. “I love you.”

“You’re too good to me,” I protested with gratitude.

“I know,” he said with a smile as he kissed me again.

I wrapped my arms around his neck and hugged him tightly, not wanting for the embrace to ever end. He just breathed me in while nuzzling my cheek affectionately. I forgot that we were in a closet. I forgot my fears and my doubts. Caught in his embrace I could only think of how much he made me happy and how much I wanted to please him.

Cut

She gasped slightly at the sensation and felt a single tear fall straight from her eye to her shirt without touching her cheek. Her hand trembled at the completion and a wave of cold passed through her as she dropped the knife onto the ground. She heard its metal vibrate against the tile floor and quiet as a small drop plopped onto the blade after running down her hand. She stared absently at the pool forming on her flesh, unaware of everything except its color and warmth as it grew. Her arm became numb and it fell to her side but her eyes did not follow.

It’s unclear how long she stood there but she snapped back into focus when she heard the front door open.

Time to clean up.

Physical, Love

The people who associate physical action and proximity with love are in as much trouble as those who completely disassociate the two.

Poetry: My Decision is

He was resolute and she knew that she was unable to change his mind and knowing that fact alone caused a spear of ice to pierce her heart and make her tremble. Her mind couldn’t decide what to do, her body couldn’t choose how to react. She may have remained steady but on the inside she was unraveling and all she could think about was how to self harm. Not that she necessarily wanted to harm herself but she did not know how to deal with this. He had closed his mind, her heart ached in its uncertainty in whether it should break or close. She had never felt so alone as she did, standing there listening to him declare his course of action. She wanted to vomit.

Poetry: Virginity

She didn’t know what to expect but that wasn’t it.

Nothing lasts forever.

Poetry: Sorry

Sorry heart, for facing all that hurt. Sorry head, I thought I could change the world. Sorry tears, you shouldn’t need a reason to fall. Sorry soul, you were destroyed. Sorry brain, you couldn’t think of the right thing to say. All I have to do now is face the consequences.

Poetry: Mood Swings

He didn’t understand that high maintenance didn’t mean clingy. Even though I was. It didn’t mean constant crying. Even though I did. And it didn’t mean fastidious even though I am.

How could he have known that my ability to accept simple facts of reality would change depending on my disposition? That sometimes I’m confident and strong and can take on the world but there would also be times when I would question my worthiness to even know his name. When some days I can clean house in three hours flat, accomplishing in bounds the feats that even my imagination lacks when I’m low?

I’m not bipolar. I suffer no mental instability. But the call of my hormones is too strong to resist and I bend as they see fit, making me a puppet on a string, battered and broken, functioning as I’m moved but with no capabilities of my own.

Would he leave me if he knew? He protests that he will never leave me and that I’m his forever. But he also doesn’t know… doesn’t understand. This is how weak I am.

Poetry: When in Love

For a good man, a woman will drop all standards.
But for the right man, she wouldn’t have to.

For a good woman, a man will work for her favor.
But for the right woman, he wouldn’t need to.

Poetry: Together

We knew our love was meant to be when we realized that alone we were just two broken people but together our faults were cancelled and our fears released. That’s what we mean when we say, ‘you complete me’.

Poetry: Why do You Love Me?

I ask when upset, mad, happy, or content.
I ask with fear or excitement in nervousness.
I ask to determine my worth or just because I’m curious.
I ask at night, midday, morning, in the evening, or while cooking.
I ask as we kiss, before, and after.
I ask nearly every day.

Why do you love me?

The answer always seems to change, day to day.

Oh, darling of mine… it’s how I know you really love me.

Poetry: Feelings

You can never stop loving someone, you know. You learn to deal with it differently over time but the feelings remain.
Just as you can never stop missing and grieving a lost loved one. But after time, their memory no longer brings tears to your eyes.
My feelings are unchanging and always will be.
So, honey…
Don’t you ever say that you stopped loving me.

Poetry: Right

The right person at the wrong time is still the wrong person and it can only destroy the two of you if you come together is probably the stupidest thing I have ever heard. There are no perfect moments in life where things are just right to make a change. There’s only this, there’s only now. Either you step up or you don’t but don’t blame your failure on timing when time is what you make of it. It’s about sacrifice– particularly self-sacrifice. So don’t give me the whole ‘we were moving in different directions’ spill when we all know that it was a lack of effort that lead you thus. Don’t blame your actions, your choices, your decisions on timing. Time doesn’t care enough to pursue your life.

Poetry: Exacerbated

You think we’re friends because I have a few pictures of you and you brought me my rover… or abandoned it at my doorstep? (Not really sure honestly but I love the little guy) Sorry, Earth… but that doesn’t count as a visit and I’m tired of you stealing my rocks. I’m not fond of being romanticized and the fact that you can’t see that I’ve lived through your present and have understanding of your situation is beyond aggrevating. Not to mention, every year I hear your false promises that you’ll come up and see me. Well, I’ve been waiting. It’s been years. I think I’ll hang out with Venus instead.

I’ve lost my ozone by my own stupid choices, I’m not about to let you worsen my life for me too. I’ve seen the way you treat your own moon. (Phobos and Deimos do not approve) You are a cruel mistress to the bodies closest you and I’m not going to let myself get drawn into a closer orbit when I can see what awaits those that do. You’re so narcissistic that you won’t ever notice that it’s me, Mars, that doesn’t like you. You’re the younger version of me that got spoiled early on and now lives corrupted.

Poetry: Young Love

I don’t think I remember the day that we met nor the moment that I fell in love with you. But I remember the early days of being in love with you and how much I craved your attention which you so readily gave to me. We would hold long conversations and never get along and it would make my heart spin in excitement knowing that you desired to hear my words, as contrary to yours they may have been. I remember how shy you were to reach out and touch me but how desperately you wished to… and I’ll never forget the nervousness I felt the first time your hand rested upon my thigh all those years ago.

I speak to you now and we’re no longer young nor shy about our embraces. (But we were hardly shy then once we began) Yet, there is a spring time in our romance that most loves our age no longer possess. I abandon reason and my life for your love and I trust it all to you.

I promise you dear this one thing only. As long as you keep on loving me as only you can, I’ll make you the happiest man alive and through this happiness created, the most wealthy.

Feelings

1. Figure out what you’re feeling. So many problems occur in life because people don’t stop to think and evaluate their true feelings. There is a reason you’re acting the way that you are and you need to straighten out what you’re scared of.

2. Girls are way more in tune with their feelings than guys are. It’s a biological brain thing (frankly no one’s interested in a biology lecture) and it starts very young. As such, girls are responsible for telling the boys in their life how they feel and the boys are responsible for deciding how to act based on this information. Sometimes a boy needs this wake up call to understand how he feels.

3. Girls, let boys pursue you. Let them play the role of gentlemen and accept their actions with grace and gratitude. Do not expect nice treatment but do not turn it away if offered. Everyone expresses their feelings differently. Do not be so cold-hearted or selfish that you have to be loved a certain way.

4. You do not get to be jealous or hold resentment towards someone for not loving you– ESPECIALLY if you never directly told them how you feel. Feelings are never owed.

5. Feelings may be emotionally based but they need a root in reality to thrive. A person’s background, actions, beliefs, and goals have an impact on your longevity as a couple and cannot be ignored. The initial spark of a relationship does not last forever and you need something to connect you together again once the kids have moved out and you’re alone in a large house with just each other to console.

Poetry: You Think

Do you think you’re being funny when you insult me?
Do you think you’re being funny with that childish behavior that no one appreciates?
Do you think you’re being funny using sexist rhetoric and putting everyone around you down?
Do you think you’re being funny highlighting your superiority complex?

Sarcasm isn’t funny.
Insults aren’t funny.
Generalizations never will be funny.
Inflated egos are pitiful.

I feel you believe that if two people are close that they can rag on each other.
If you were close to me you’d know that I never appreciate that.
Then again, you know very little about me.
Our friendship is a one-way street towards you.

I wonder if you understand the impact you have on others.
It’s gotten to the point that I empathize with your enemies.
The people you leave behind you leave wounded.
Sometimes I question how you’ll leave me and I hope that I leave you.

This is what I think.
What is it that you think?

Poetry: Easter

You dress in pastel and laugh and dance and eat an abundance of chocolate and fatty sweets, socializing and decorating and gathering together to spread your joy among the group of people that you care about, saying that it’s all in celebration and love of the Lord.

Did he really die and suffer so, bearing the weight of the atrocity of our sins, opening the entrance to heaven to us unworthy so that we could decorate eggs, eat chocolate rabbits, and find an excuse to hang out with the people we love? It sounds weak.

I don’t know what, but we’re missing something. The weight and urgency of the action falls short of our ears and we let ourselves party instead. Is our happiness really so important to us that we let ourselves believe that his sacrifice was so we could find a reason to smile in our artificial reality? It concerns me that so little can make us believe that we’re living out our discipleship correctly. There must be a better way than this. Than pretending today is just another day. Than hearing a sermon that pumps us up but yields zero action the rest of the day.

We are an Easter people. Tell me. How are we living differently?

Poetry: Cry

Nothing happened. There is no reason for this. Nothing negative is dragging me down. Today is just another day. Nothing special. Nothing that should cause strong emotions in either direction. So why, why am I…?

Poetry: Heart Broken

There’s a change in you; a shift. I’m not even sure that you’re aware of it but I’m not blind even as you push me away. The way that you used to speak was happier, had more hope. I would not have befriended the person I see before me now and the transition I’ve witnessed saddens me. Your harsh jokes have become your actual way of thinking. Your current view on the opposite sex is soulless and unforgiving. Resfusing to admit the emotional motivation that impacts your actions is childish and weak. Pretending to be unaffected by a recent heartbreak, pretending to be moving on, damaging future men as a way to lash out against the ones of old, viewing people like cattle to be used and manipulated to your will… you are not who you used to be. There is no hopeless romantic left. You don’t ship your friends and you don’t believe in love. The way you treated my man so callously was not ignored and your unforgiving attitude towards me was distinctly noticed. Are you aware of the pain you cause as you build your defences against feelings? I see your alteration. You have become someone I cannot recognize.

Poetry: Familiar Contemplations

I want to kill myself.
But too many people would blame themselves and be sad so I can’t. But it’s not like they’re doing anything to make my life better currently… I cannot list them on a chart of my happinesses. The only one who makes me happy is unreachable until the end of the year. Is wanting to cry weak? I wish I was strong enough to defy God and hurt myself badly enough that I could die – forgetting everyone else even if just for that moment. I am weak.
I want to kill myself.