The Dark Side of Their Love

Tweet

I sit in the dark.
Dark like the irises of my parents eyes when they tell me that I should lose some weight.
Dark like the bathroom I'm hiding in so they won't see me cry.
Why aren't you more like your sister?
Your sister with the blonde hair and the hazel eyes.
She's a cheerleader you know?
And what are you?
Just some chubby girl in drama class with the good grades and intelligence.
But intelligence won't find you a husband and neither will your ability to read books.
Books with pages as frail and rip-able as your self-esteem.
Why? Why in the world are you so tall?
You're never going to find a man and be able to look up into his eyes.
We don't play favorites, they chime together.
Smiles of Guiltless deception perched on their lips,
lips that usually looks like a lowercase N, their disapproval almost as stagnant as the shit coming out of their mouths.
Playing favorites is their favorite game.
One of us playing Princess Peach and the other playing Bowser,
they pit us against each other on the rainbow track while not so secretly cheering on one and not the other.
And you lose,
of course you lose,
because you didn't have confidence from the start.
And their eyes gleam at their perfect daughter,
and you,
you just sit there in the dark.

The Virgin

Tweet

You're HOW old,
and you've NEVER had sex?!
Is there something wrong with you?
Did you lose a bet?

I mean, there's obviously something.
That's just not normal.
You must be such a prude,
or have realllllly high morals.

Are you disfigured?
Is there some physical anomaly?
Because NORMAL girls don't wait that long.
I lost mine when I was thirteen.

Are you a psycho?
Do you have a lot of baggage?
What could've happened to you to cause
all that damage?

Sure, I regret losing mine so soon,
but to wait THAT long?
You must be a loon.

I mean, why don't you just get it over with?
It's not that big of a deal.
Just go out and give it to whoever will take it.
Let them cop a feel.

It doesn't mean anything.
It's just your body.
After awhile, trust me girl,
sex will be a hobby.

You're HOW old,
and you've NEVER had sex?!
Is there something wrong with you?
Did you lose a bet?

Blood So Red

Tweet

Cut me open,
and you'll see I'm bleeding inside.
Biology aside,
my heart is torn.
Jagged pieces.
And it's me.
It's all me.
The pot finally
recognizing that
the kettle is black.
Something's wrong.
Innate.
Within.
Empty.
Wanting to die
rather than live.
Pointless.
Is this all there
is?
All I am?
Alone.
They always go
and never stay.
Ripping at my skin.
I want out.
Crazy.
Bat-shit crazy.
Two of me.
One is good,
she wants to fight.
But she's so tired.
Fighting is hard
when you're
fighting all the time.
Exhausted.
She's at her worst.
That's when the
other sneaks in.
Whispers.
You're not worth it.
Nobody cares.
Nobody loves you.
Go ahead and disappear.
Go ahead and let it go.
You're ugly.
So, so ugly.
No talent.
Not special.
Nobody wants to hear
what you have to say.
Cut, cut, cut.
Just try it.
Not side to side.
Down the middle,
like you mean it.
STOP IT.
STOP IT.
STOP IT.
GET OUT OF MY HEAD.
PLEASE. Please.
Crying.
Hanging on by painted pink nails.
Facade as fresh as
yesterday,
and the day before.
Masked.
Raging war within.
Good one.
Bad one.
Which one will win?
Everyday
slipping closer
to the edge.
Why haven't I jumped
yet?
What's worse than
being alone?
So, cut me open,
and you'll see I'm bleeding inside.

Behind the Smile

Tweet

Sometimes I look in the mirror and can't
recognize myself.
I think:
Who is that woman?
Why is she so sad?
Years and years of being told she's not good enough,
yoyo dieting,
and severe depression have gotten her here.
Trapped,
in her own body.
The pounds keep on mysteriously appearing,
wrinkles near her eyes,
sleepless nights.
She's only 25.
Her youth stolen by people who
don't even realize they'd stolen it.
They took it from her,
with their cruel words and lack
of love.
She's fending for herself now,
and she's failing.
She wishes she could curl up in a ball
and just disappear.
Lights out.
No one would know.
Months would pass.
No one would know.
Eventually the landlord would show up
looking for his rent.
He'd find her and say,
"Looks like we got another one."
Cut his losses, and call it in.
No funeral.
Who could afford that?
A plaque is made in her honor.
Sister, daughter.
Died too soon.
Who was she?
Not anybody important.
Alone.
Oh! She had a cat!
"Really cute. I need to find a home for it, do you know anybody who might be interested?"
Gone.
She's gone.
Becoming a distant memory.
A few tears would be shed,
and then they'd remember:
Well, we didn't really know her in life,
so what's the point in crying for her death?
And the world would continue turning.
And the lives would continue on.
And the landlord would find a new tenant.
What was she,
but a whisper in the wind?
Sometimes I look in the mirror and can't recognize myself.
I think:
Who is the woman?
And why is she so sad?

Reject the Hate

Tweet

The hate has always been there,
evil thoughts in the minds of those
who would do others harm.
Prejudice has been around forever,
and there are people who have to live in
fear every day.
Based upon their religion,
based upon their skin color,
based upon their sexual preferences.
Prejudice has been around forever.
America was built upon the backs of
differences,
but while we've moved forward in so
many ways,
the hate still lingers.
Waiting.
Muslims being harassed and called terrorists because of their beliefs or how they dress.
African-Americans being shot and murdered on the street, in their homes, during church.
Children being shot and murdered in a place that was supposed to be safe, their school.
Gay and transgender people being shot and murdered for not putting a blanket definition on what is love.
This evil and madness seems to creep up on us,
but in reality,
it's always been there.
Life is fleeting.
It's gotten to the point where you or someone you love can be killed
just for breathing.
We cannot turn our backs on this growing acceptance of hate.
Let's fight back with love
before it's too late.

Remember

Tweet

Puffs of white and streaks of grey.
Flashes of yellow gold light up your eyes.
The rumbling starts
but it had begun long ago.
You've heard it growing louder for years,
and now it rolls perfectly in sync to the sounds
from the sky.
   CRACK! 
It jumps starts your heart,
making it rev up like a camaro that's been sitting
in the backyard for far too long.
It stalls, then sputters, then roars back to life.
The seats are torn, but with some patchwork
she'll look like new.
You're surprised at the speed of your heartbeat.
You've felt dead for a time now.
Water falls from the grey,
marking their spots on the cracked sidewalk.
You watch and listen from the
safety of your cover.
Safety, always safe, never living.
With each growl from the sky
is another step forward towards the edge.
It reverberates through you, starting from your toes
all the way to your fingertips
   CRACK! 
You step off the ledge.
Your bare feet drop to the now wet grass.
The torrents wash down over you, soaking your
clothes to your body.
And you begin to dance,
and you begin to laugh,
because you've realized
you're alive.

I Don't Believe You

Tweet

When I was young,
you told me that my dream was
rejectable,
impossible,
and altogether laughable.
You spit in my face
your words of discouragement:
Change your dreams,
change your wants,
change yourself.
"Maybe you should do something
more realistic."
As if what I had been dreaming
was a lie I made up.
Too illiterate to be a writer,
too unattractive to be on film.
You told me when I was young
that my dream was infallible.
Now I'm telling you,
nothing is impossible.

Wandering Hands

Tweet

She was a chubby little girl.
And with the way society talks nowadays
you'd assume it'd be the chubby ones that could stay safe.
Fear crippled her,
even at 5 years old,
sitting in her father's lap,
her uncertainty as ripe as bacteria laden mold,
but he didn't do it.
Not like the others had done.
But she still couldn't trust that the evil poison
wasn't in his lungs.
No, trusting was for fools.
It'd been proven as time went on.
She couldn't trust men to keep their hands
where they belonged.
5 years old, and already afraid.
Always living in a panic,
always feeling betrayed.
And so she ate, she ate, and she ate some more.
She pushed her feelings down with
fries and a cheeseburger.
She thought, maybe, it'd keep them at bay,
wandering fingers and stolen childhood -
her self esteem being molded by dis-proportioned clay.
And everyone's lives went on like normal.
Everyone's but hers,
because it all becomes real
if she says the words.
Who was she supposed to talk to?
About all of these traumas?
She had no one to go to.
Not even the people who were supposed to be
fulfilling an unspoken promise:
to keep her safe, and leave her childhood intact,
but while they were busy fighting each other,
it was stolen and she'll never get it back.
She's tried everything to make her life better,
always searching for the next fix.
If food doesn't work she just moves down the ladder.
From liquid courage to herbal remedies,
to depression meds and powder nosebleeds,
nothing can give her back what she's lost.
Always living in anxiety, not able to trust.
And it's sad.
It's heartbreaking, really,
that now she's always looking for something
to numb her feelings.
When she should've been protected,
she should've had a chance.
Instead of hiding as a child
from wandering hands.

Too Young

Tweet

Anger.
Blacker than the night.

These people:
they hurt us,
abuse us,
mistreat us,
molest us.

We were taught to trust those we know.
"Beware of people you've never met."
As if stranger danger was where the danger hid,
and not in those around us,
lurking.

Lurking,
so well, it's nearly impossible to see
these wolves hiding in the skin of sheep.
And we learn,
we learn,
safety is a fallacy,
a lie we tell ourselves so we can fall asleep.

Although our skin is crawling
from the inside out.
So you tell,
and your loved ones eyes cry tears of doubt.
You told
but nobody believes you.

You're a liar
those eyes scream at you,
but you know,
you know
what you're saying is true.

You were there.

You felt the hands that don't belong
from someone you thought could do no wrong.
Oh, and the guilt,
the guilt!
The what did I do?
I must have done something to deserve this.

No, in truth,
it wasn't our fault.
It's the monsters in the minds of
those who surround us.
Breaking us,
breaking us,
forcing us to rebuild from the ground up.

We're too young
to have hate this deep,
coursing through our veins,
causing us to bleed.

The Sound of Wings

Tweet

Alone,
alone,
perpetually alone.
A girl with no purpose,
a girl with no home.

Flittering,
fluttering
like a lost little bird,
trying to find her place
in this huge, massive world.

Adrift,
adrift,
constantly adrift.
A girl whose confusion blossoms
when she watches her world shift.

Flittering,
fluttering
like a lost little bird,
she doesn't know what to do,
she's been told her dreams are absurd.

Aflame,
aflame,
passions aflame.
She's got this need to belong,
to fight past the pain.

Flittering,
fluttering
like a lost little bird,
she's learning there's nothing wrong with being
a dreamer,
so she's heard.

Alive,
alive,
wonderfully alive.
The world is a clear sky
in which she can take flight.

Flittering,
fluttering
like a bird with a dream,
she flies higher and higher.
Her bright wings will be seen.

Where Has All the Good Gone?

Tweet

So much violence.
You turn on the news and all you see is
death, murders, rape, abuse,
hate.
Why?
Where does this anger come from?
We flip through channel after channel of despicable acts:
made by men, bred by men,
the blood of man
dripping as quickly as the tears of the people
remaining as victims.
Their pixel-ated faces sad reminders of what could face us
if we ever walk out the front door.
Every good story as 10 bad ones to take its place.
Shoving the positive down further and further until it's almost
nonexistent.
School shootings, gang hits, drug overdoses,
terrorist attacks...
meaningless killings and meaningless death,
but we can't stop watching.
We're captivated captives
giving killers credence
by continuing to click
until we get our fill,
cultivating a culture
of colorful criminals
who watch the violent news
as children.

Why? 
Where does the anger come from?