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.