Weakness seeps into my chest cavity like musky brown blood onto my inner thighs, i have been shaking like the house on the corner of the street adjacent to the train depot since last night around midnght,
i am bleakley draining my perfume bottle and bleeding into the bath water all my female impurities, my sins have fallen into the bathroom sink lining it bloody black with immovable strands of hair, i cough up entire cigarettes and sing hymnals to my brutally stolen and ,murdered virtue via every other wednesday, - this is an ode to every part of me i thought unlovable but he seems to love, i scrape regret and oil out of my pores along my entire body and slather pricey ass skin masks over my anxieties,-- i honestly think seaweed might heal me, i sit on hardwood floors in his underwear. my chopped hair and paint bottles, splayed out on the ground around me. My fingers are bruised and trembling as i wipe my nose onto his love letters- i want to scream but i settle for a broken sigh. I am healing. The process is the slowest i have ever been through but i am trying to look in the mirror and at my lover and see the same level of admiration- I want to remind myself of him, In every good way- He taught me how to use a bong, he taught me right from rape, he holds me tend erly and says my name softly like a prayer to an unknown god- i have never been this loved. He sleeps next to me, my body tucked simply in his and softly he sighs, in his sleep how i have healed him too, the love of my life is a boy from east lawrence who loves coffee and his cat, a boy whos mother holds me and texts me her problems and invites me to yoga when she knows i might cry under the weight of the world, sometimes healing is bleeding out onto your boyfriend’s boxers and screaming at the dark outside the cracked window with a cigarette in your throat, taking the pain a day at a time and giving up when you’ve taken too much,
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I want to verbalize and vocalize the story of this knobby kneed, bruised shins and bad teeth girl. Whose story was originally written on the backs of broken chewed off peeling nails, in the blush behind her pale thin cheeks, captivated pauses took place in the veins under her skin- faded blue and caravanning off the corners of her face, the story she cannot force out-
Of a girl who lives her anxieties within the binds of her dog eared pages in her poetry books about womanhood and period blood, rape and coming of age mumbo jumbo, she tries her best every day--. shaking fingers take lexapro, and antibiotics, shaking hands dodge tylenol and insulin in the medicine cabinet. She struggles and digs the way out of her bed, of dirt and blood, choking and spluttering out heavy thick mud, the iron from her bloody teeth and the clay from the midwestern soil creating the blockade between her words and the world-- gasping and raising her heavy arm to her mouth, she wipes muddy guilt laden bile from her cracked front teeth filled lips, they too are broken and chapped down the middle. Inhaling crisp and nearly sharp air through her wet and nearly forgotten nose, she lifts herself off the cast iron grave of a bed she returns to every night, like clock work and instinct she slumps down to the creaky wooden rotted floor, her toes like little blocks of ice, melting their way across the slanted foundation of the hundred year old house. she runs bony shaking fingers through her long irreconcilable hair, all these years and its tips and peaks only reach her rounded clifftop molded shoulders, fingers work on their own accord and clump the coarse fibers onto the top of her skull-out of sight-out of mind. The morning is one fifteen milligram pill away from beginning, floating to the tap she turns the spigot, mouth watering, eyes pooling and focusing, a point in the clear, water filled mason jar, knocking it all back like a frat boy's final shot, she opens her eyes and closes her mouth, the pill powder dissolving in her esophagus and stomach. Clarity takes this time to become sanity again, toes warm into flesh again, hair from coarse clumps to exotic silk, skin and bruises fade and glow, the mirror is no longer foe, though not quite friend, but, enough. Her grave retreats back into its disgusting dark place, and blue sheets and stuffed rabbits replace, mut and bloody vines, the soil sinks below restored hardwood floors, the only memory she harbors from this garish nightmare is the unshakable insatiable desert dry mouth, it never goes away, the paleness of her sleepless skin is masked with concealer and gallons of water, she is trying, to get better. the clay and mud still fill her throat when it seems to matter the most, she covers her ears and eyes, choking trying to cough up how she really feels, screaming into her mind behind her eyes how much she fucking wishes there was a pill for the inability to tell the ones she loves, why she’s so fucking scared, the biggest fear in her giant heart is anger, the anger of the one she calls home, some nights she cannot sleep, no matter how far she sinks or reminds herself this cast iron coffin is just a bed, and a nightmare, she cannot, sometimes she remembers the screaming, and she knows she is not what she thought she was. If only she could say it right the first time, but she’s trapped on loop, in a sunken bed, screaming about how she cannot cough up enough of the mud to tell him whats trapped in her esophagus, she writes a message in her blood on the ceiling of her hundred year old bedroom, “This isn’t how i wish i was, I’m sorry. “ And she means it , That night she falls asleep, soundly, and she dreams of a boy, with curly hair, and pointy ears, she dreams of him in a coffee shop, or a pizza parlor, he is lean and lanky, his knuckles green and worn like the earth that buries her on nightmare-less nights. He has caverns in his ribs and valleys in his intellect, he moves slowly and surely like he is a mirage, and she is dehydrated and parched, she sees him in darkness of an impending violent and terrible storm- and in a cloud of rotten pink and white pale flesh like, fog. She thrashes against this figment, beating it with her palms and clawing it away from him, she needs to keep him safe, she screams from the bounds of her now coffin bed, she wants to warn him, stop him, sing him revelations of how she promises that she is there for him, that she will always keep him safe. She needs to throw him a bucket to shovel his way out or an umbrella to shield his heart but her cries are muffled by the mud, and the blood seeps back into her eyes and mouth. This fog, splays its fingers out like ravens and undead claws across her dreams of hm, for months, she learns to scream above the rain, “I love you, It is just a bad dream, she can’t get me..” she gulps the storm up like one big pill... This becomes a mantra, an everyday bedside table drug, like trinessa, lexapro and antibiotic, There hasn’t been any improvement on the state of a magic pill to help her speak her mind right the first time, So she continues to write it down, in blood on the back of broken peeled off nails or in poetry books, in the margins of dog eared pages on rape, and flowers, and coming of age fuckery, she carves the truth into her flesh in the bathtub, gripping the razor like it is the dying wish of the man she loves, she chokes on the muddy bloody clumps of pure truth, someday she will vomit them out onto his shoes, maybe in a dream, maybe on a date, maybe while she kisses him goodnight, it will all fall out of her bad teeth, broken lips, knobby knees and bruised dreams, her legs will hold her up until the final word spills out and then, It will all be over. In the best way. |
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