I think about what could be, if anything. I think about you on a Sunday morning, waking up slowly. Eyes opening and glancing around the room. Flecks of hair dancing against them. I think about your little yawns and your soft sighs. The way you look so fragile and innocent, as though you haven’t a care in the world. But I couldn’t imagine the weight of your body on the left side of the bed. I don’t know what I would do if I woke up and saw you next to me. Would I kiss you, the way I do in my dreams? Lips hovering ever-so slightly above yours. Brushing my nose against your own in the sweetest eskimo kiss. Would I be bolder than that, and touch you in the places that make you shiver and moan? Hands exploring every new frontier? Traversing through the landscapes that had only been previously explored by other women? Would I just hold you tightly to my body and never let you go? Would I do all three? I look at your picture and I imagine lying beside you, seeing the way your eyes would light up early in the morning. Imagining the rays of the sun just catching your face through the blinds, heightening the beauty that is within you. I imagine how soft the skin of your bare back must be as my fingers run along it. I even imagine how good your mouth would taste. Would there be the bitter flavor of cigarettes on your tongue or would it be better than that? Would it be a flavor I could never forget? One I can’t distinguish? I imagine how beautiful your sleepy voice would be. Would it be gruff and gritty like I’ve heard you use before or would it be soft and gentle like I dream it would be? I know that I dream all of these things. Hell, every time I look over at my empty pillows, I imagine that you’re there, watching me as I get ready for bed. But if I ever looked over and I really saw your face beside me and knew that you were there just for me, I don’t know what I would do. I might just think I’m still dreaming.
I’ve been told often to respect myself.
To hold myself up to a higher standard.
And I do.
I try to,
But constantly I am treated like I’m not worthy of anything.
I am ridiculed.
And then they turn around and say, “have more respect for yourself.”
Let me tell you.
I respect myself.
I don’t think I deserve the ridicule I get.
Even if I am weird, annoying, and a bit morose at times.
I don’t deserve to be mocked.
Though I may fangirl over fictional characters and like strange music you don’t enjoy.
I don’t deserve to be used.
Even if I enjoy being pinned down beneath you and treated like a whore.
And I don’t deserve to be lied to.
Even if I’m guilty of telling a few good lies myself.
I do respect myself.
I do hold myself at a high regard and I trust myself.
So, when will other people start respecting me?
When will you start respecting me?
I could take my clothes off.
I could leave them on.
I could hide in the corner.
I could hit your right back.
I could tell all of your secrets.
I could take them to my grave.
I could give you a house, kids, and a loving wife.
I could cheat on you with the next guy who gives me a look.
I could run a thousand miles to prove my love to you.
I could also destroy your heart and make you wish you’d never met me.
It doesn’t matter.
Whatever I do.
No one will ever have any respect for me.
Stop telling me to respect myself.
I already do.
Start telling others to stop treating me like I don’t deserve respect.
Since I respect everyone until they give me a reason not to.
Give it, get it, or fuck it.
He’s not who he used to be
Hair so soft; lips so sweet.
I used to think that we would be together
But he’s not who he used to be.
No, I don’t see the same beauty.
Who is he? Not the boy I fell for long ago.
She is everything. Anything I want her to be. She is a child, a teenager, a woman, an elder. Her hair can be red, blonde, purple, orange, or green. Her eyes are hazel, blue, white, or red. She is a goddess - strong and stable. She is fearless or fearful. Whichever I choose for her to be. I can tell her to get good grades in school, and she will. I can tell her to kill a man and maybe, if I’m lucky, she’ll kill twenty. I can make her be anything I want her to be. A dancer, a rock star, a actress, a stripper, a prostitute, a porn star. I can set the highest goals for her and then destroy all of them around her. I live vicariously through her. I can make my favorite celebrity fall in love with her. I can dream up a man… or a woman who will give her what I so helplessly desire. I can make her the most confident human being in the world. She’ll have sex on the couch, in the car, on the beach, wherever. With whomever. She can drive a piece of shit car or fly on a broomstick. She can kiss a werewolf, kill a vampire, or become a zombie. I can imagine her into my favorite movies or my favorite TV shows. I can imagine her - her body, skin. She’s black, white, asian, hispanic, native american. She is everything, because she is nothing. She is fiction and she is my puppet. I can make her do whatever I want her to do. That’s the beauty and the power of it. I write it down and she comes alive. She breathes, opening her eyes and staring back at me. Waiting… wanting to do whatever I tell her to. I hesitate for a moment, wondering if this is the right thing to do. Now I know it is. I exhale, and she inhales my ideas. She goes where I tell her to go. She does what I tell her to do. She loves who I tell her to love. She fucks who I tell her to fuck. This is the simplest form of control. She won’t fight back. She won’t turn away. She just does whatever I want, because that’s the only way she can survive. If she doesn’t listen to me, she knows I won’t write anymore. She knows I’ll put the pen down and then, she is forever frozen in time. Unfinished. Never knowing what her ending will be. Will she be happy? Find love? Find friends? Win that award she wanted? Will she lose everything? Will she even live until the end? Her life will be a neverending story of questions. I create what she is. I create who she is. And in return, she let’s me step away from the darkness that is my reality and into the light that is fantasy. She grabs my hand and away we run. We explore new worlds together. We gain new powers. We attempt new skills. We hone old ones. We get new jobs. We achieve our dreams. We kiss the men of our dreams. We fuck the ones who aren’t so dreamy. We wear our favorite clothes. We talk about reality and how much it sucks. And sometimes, it sucks too much for her. Sometimes she wants to trade lives. She asks me if it’s better on the outside. I can’t say. I hold her. I comfort her. I make sure she gets what she wants. And hopefully, I give her the ending she deserves. I am her. She is me, but she is fictional. She can do the things I will never do. She is fictional, but she will always be me.
I remember her as a sullen girl. Lonely, angry, full of hate. She didn’t talk much, but that was to be expected. Not very many people listened to what she had to say. She had dark hair and brooding eyes. Her lips hardly ever smiled. She sat with a frown on her face while everyone around her would laugh.
I remember her as a quiet girl. Her words falling hardly on anyone’s ears. She would only speak when spoken to. She feared having opinions, though she had very strong ones about everything. Deep down, I think she yearned to share them with other people, but she knew that no one would care. Most of the time, she’d just nod in agreement. Nothing more to say.
I remember her as a terrified girl. Fear always stayed in her heart. Fear of the light and fear of the dark. Afraid of family who believed that she could do more than she felt capable of. Afraid of friends who told her that she was important to them, but didn’t know how to show it. Afraid of lovers, past and future, who would fill her heart with glee, only to rip it away once things got difficult.
I remember her as a lonely girl, who sat alone in parks reading. Who went to coffee shops and bookstores, to hide away from the world. Her fortress was her bedroom. Her shield was the door. As long as she kept it closed, she was safe from lies, deception, hurt, and pain, but she longed for someone to penetrate those defenses and bring her out into the world again.
I remember her as a young girl. Eyes wide with wonder. Refusing to grow up and accept her young adult responsibilities. Desperately seeking a way to keep her youth in tact. Afraid of the demons that waited outside in the real world. Her imagination was the only thing that would keep her safe.
I remember her as a crazy girl. She made up stories. She made up friends. She made her own life inside of her head, because the one outside of it was shit. She pretended more often than not that she was someone she wasn’t. She lived vicariously through people she knew and people she never met. Some didn’t even really exist, but she lived through them as well.
I remember her as an ugly girl. Looking in the mirror, she criticizes every part of her body. Head to feet. She compares herself to everyone. Sister, cousins, friends, models, actresses, singers, that girl she saw at the bar the other night. She doesn’t believe she is beautiful. There is nothing and no one that will change her mind. She sees herself as the Beast more so than Beauty.
I remember her as a suicidal girl. Her life revolved around death and death waited for her. He lurked in the shadows, watching her. Smiling at her. Telling her to just do it; come to him. She wanted to, but something kept pulling her back to the surface. She couldn’t tell what it was, but she knew she couldn’t leave just yet.
I remember her so well. I remember her laughs, her tears, her smiles, her frowns. I remember every little detail about her. The flecks of gold in her eyes. The dimples in each cheek. Her cross-bite. I remember how much I wished I could’ve been on the outside, looking in. I remember looking at her sad eyes and wishing I could’ve taken care of her. Gathered her up. Told her that it’s all OK. I remember thinking that somebody will love her someday. Someone will see how much she’s worth. Maybe someday she’ll see how much she’s worth.
I remember her. She’s hard to forget. Even with her sadness, it stays with me. Even her pain… I remember. I try to erase her from me, but she crawls right back inside of my veins and she tells me, “You can’t forget me. You can’t control me. You can only become me.” I want to forget her. I really do, but no matter what I do. I always remember her.
I’m allergic to happy people,
And their crooked little smiles.
I’m sick of pretending.
Think I’ll rest for a while.
I’m annoyed by their laughter,
And their happy little games.
I’m upset by their sunshine.
I like it better when it rains.
I’m allergic to happy people,
With their happy words of love.
I get sick with every sigh I hear.
I vomit with every hug.
I’m impatient with the hopeless dreamers,
Who believe life’s beautiful lie.
I’d rather be around somebody,
Who isn’t afraid to die.
I’m allergic to happy people,
Who say, “how do you do?”
Pretend that they’re interested,
In anything to do with you.
It bother me exceptionally,
But I pretend that I don’t care.
I fake a smile, though true happiness,
For me, I know isn’t there.
I’m allergic to happy people.
So much I can’t even feel,
The slightest little bit of happiness.
Is it even real?
It’s empty inside of my chest.
Nothing there to fill it.
There’s so much darkness inside of my heart,
But I’m trying not to spill it
I’m allergic to happy people,
And I hope one day,
That I can spread this unhappiness,
In some informal way.
I’m allergic to happy people,
But secretly I do wish.
That I was a happy person,
And my allergy would turn into bliss.
I try to forget how lonely I am,
While I watch all of my friends,
Walk away on arms of loved ones.
I try to forget how sad I am,
As I see pictures of happy people,
Smiling in their wonderful existence.
I try to forget how lost I am,
As I see friends who once suffered as I do,
Finding peace, happiness, and serenity.
I try to forget how forgotten I am,
As I look at my Facebook, my cell phone, and everything else,
And see no messages from not one person.
I try to forget how miserable I am,
As I look in the mirror,
Reminded of what a hideous monster I’ve recently become.
I try to forget how depressed I am,
As I pop more pills, cross my fingers,
And hope for the best.
I try to forget how angry I am,
While I have to stare those people in my face,
Who got away with hurting me.
I try to forget how suicidal I am,
As I hold the blade against my wrist,
And wish I could press down.
I try to remember how busy people are,
But when I see them contacting each other,
It makes me wonder if they think of me at all.
I try to remember that others are sad as well.
The world’s gone to hell,
Yet I still have to be alive to see all of it.
I try to remember how my friends recovered,
But I can’t seem to connect the dots,
And find my way out of this tunnel.
I try to remember that it takes time,
To lose weight, to achieve success, to find love,
Because I’m impatient and I don’t want to wait anymore.
I try to remember that life isn’t fair.
People will hurt you and walk away,
Without ever facing judgment for it.
I try to remember that there are people who love me,
But I have a hard time seeing them,
When their backs are always turned on me.
I try to remember to smile, laugh, and dance more often.
My mouth won’t open. There’s nothing worth laughing about.
My feet can’t move.
I try to remember that there will be more to my story someday,
Beyond addiction, depression, desolation, and pain,
But I can’t see far enough ahead into the future to know that it will all be OK.
But I don’t think I can try anymore.
I think it’ll just be easier to quit.
She carried this flame with her wherever she went.
A bright burning torch, lighting up the night sky.
She knew it would burn out eventually,
But until then, she would never let it die.
The flame was lit when her eyes met yours,
And from there; it flourished and grew.
She nursed and cared for the every single ember.
Oh, if only she knew.
There was another beacon that had been lit.
Its flame casting upwards towards the sky.
Another woman had burned it for you,
And vowed to never let it die.
The third torch appeared from your side.
Where once was all dark, light did shine.
You burned your torch for someone else,
And broke her heart for all of time.
Still, she carried her flame above her head.
Arms stretched upwards towards the sky.
She knew, one day, her arms would grow weary,
And then her flame would die.
Until that day, so shall it appear,
She knows she shouldn’t cry,
But as she looked up to her dismay,
She saw the flame…
It finally died.