Monday, May 27, 2013

Listen, Baby...

When I went into sixth grade,
I felt all alone in that tiny school.
It was shiny and new to me,
But I acted like I owned the place,
and I wish someone had said to me,
Baby, you don't need to try to have it all.
You just need to let things take their own time,
wear what you like when you like, 
don't worry about who your sister was.
It's okay if you don't like geography like she does.
And baby, don't worry about boys.
You're only eleven, and it doesn't matter.
You already know who your first love is gonna be,
You already know it's gonna end bad,
You already know you don't want it to be him.
There's nothing you can do, baby, but you'll get over him eventually.
But I had no one.
And when I went into seventh grade,
I felt world-weary and grown-up.
I was in class with the eighth graders,
And though I knew I was ready to be one,
No one has ever listened to me.
I wish someone had said,
You need to make them listen baby, because things will go better when you do.
You know you're right.
You know what's best, baby,
and the haters can go fuck themselves.
And baby, I know you're trying to ignore what you confessed in August, and don't worry about it.
She'll come around.
She'll be there when it counts and will slap him for you if you ask nicely.
They always say, keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
It's okay if you don't know which she is for a while.
But I heard nothing.
And then came that summer,
When I toyed with the ideas of love and infatuation and what lovely things suits are.
When I didn't cry, but didn't breathe for a moment, either.
When he had no idea and the phrase, 'ignorance is bliss' was, in hindsight, the truest thing about me.
And I wish someone had said,
Don't make it a big deal.
Baby, you know you like him, let's leave it at that. 
I promise you, he's just a boy.
Just. A. Boy.
Boys will come and go, alright?
There are more important things, 
So be glad you're making friends.
But...
But nothing.
No voice came down from the heavens and told me what to do.
So I let things pass, and then,
As I went into eighth grade, I panicked.
And I really, really needed someone to say,
Let it go.
You know you know what he's gonna say,
what she's gonna say,
what they're gonna talk about if it gets out.
Baby, don't give yourself too much hope.
Don't lose sight of your friends in all this,
And don't pretend to know what you're doing.
You're gonna need to not have alienated yourself come his birthday.
Baby, listen to me, be nice, be warm, be friendly.
You aren't doing yourself any favors by being an ice queen when he rejects you.
It's better than weeping, but still.
So baby, listen to me.
Tell him that you don't expect anything.
Tell him the truth about how you feel, but leave out the best parts.
And baby. Never tell him he can always talk to you.
It's only gonna hurt.
Listen, baby...

Tuesday, May 7, 2013

Concerning Three Years, A Certain Boy, and Trying To Make Sense of Things

July - October 2010
Tentative.
Addled.
Muddy.
November 2010 - May 2011
Easy.
Camaraderie.
Unsuspecting.
Denial?
June 2011
Oh. OH.
Sense out of chaos.
Finally.
Sunny.
Friendly.
July 2011
Lonely.
Without.
Snubbed.
August 2011
Confession.
Confusion.
September 2011 - May 2012
Forgotten.
Ridiculousness.
Arguments.
Ignorance and bliss.
June - September 2012.
Realization.
Finality.
Wondering wondering wondering.
Snubbed, then humbled.
Anxiety.
Building.
Waves crashing.
Letters written.
Telling discussing never saying a word.
Secrets.
Clinging.
Depression.
Movie.
Half birthday.
Not-dates.
Lost.
Emotional dumping ground.
October 2012
Tensions rising.
Breaking point.
Because my thumb slipped.
Missing days.
Library.
My life doesn't suck without you.
Meds every morning.
Wine and lace.
Crying in a bathroom.
"Just friends".
November 2012
Apart.
Shunned.
Stunned.
Texting.
Just Dance.
Party.
I missed you.
November - December 2012
I did not miss this.
Excuses.
Blame.
What do you want?
Stop texting me.
Forgotten.
Holidays depression no more meds.
January 2013
New.
No amends.
Serious.
Etana.
Miroslav.
Miroslav.
Birthday.
No regrets.
February 2013
Lines lines lines.
Solo.
Withdrawal.
Latin Bones Doctor Who.
Bingewatch.
Performance anxiety.
Ten years?
Makeup.
Monologue solo scenes monologue.
Nothing.
Rage.
Removal.
Amends?
Pressure.
"I really like you".
Elation.
"I don't trust him at all".
Confusion.
"Go to hell".
Really?
March 2013
Soccer.
Not after all this.
Don't hate me.
Home.
Therapy.
Puppy.
Can we not.
Insomnia.
April 2013
Minneapolis.
Not speaking.
Yes, I suppose.
Plans.
Drama.
Piano.
High school.
Lonely.
Zelda and Mario.
Definitely not the same page.
Fourth.
Are we going to fix this?
May 2013
Why are we bothering?
Not like that.
Never like that.
Fifth.
You know.
Writing.
Visits.
Heat wave.
Insomnia.
Melatonin.
Group Avanti pool party nerves non-responsive scared.
Not ready for tomorrow to be the first day of the rest of my life.
Never ready for that.
Irreparable damage.
Wish it would stop.
Overreacting.
Everyone's lying all the time.
Day sleeper.
Emotionally unstable.
Mascara smeared over the word WHY.
Am I going crazy?

Soldiers of Confusion

Why no, you say, I didn't cross your mind,
Not when you chose this poem to perform to thirty people
While I was in the audience.
No, I didn't know you would say something that made me break
Because when she put her hand on my knee while I didn't cry
I didn't know it was about me.
I didn't want to know.
But I didn't know and I wanted it to be and
They say that abuse victims are pushed to the edge seven times on average
Before they leave.
Is that what this is?
Or is my knowledge, my stupid over-abounding knowledge,
Telling me lies and keeping me here?
Not that I know where 'here' is,
Because sometimes it is a meadow of wildflowers
And other times it is a dank dirty dark deep dungeon.
There doesn't seem to be an in-between,
Unless you count the limbo I sometimes put myself in.
That limbo is white and black and an elevated pulse and tears and confusion,
That confusion that is always there when one of us is waiting for an answer
And that answer hasn't come.
And now we're trying to tell each other the truth, just now as I'm writing this and I might look back in ten minutes and things will be different
But right now?
Right now I am in limbo and I am searching for answers and honesty.
You know what I want from this,
You have known from the start.
And yet here we are almost seven months later and
I still don't know.

Wednesday, May 1, 2013

Attack

My attacks are silent
Stealthy
They sneak up on me
Everyone around me
And they kill the things at had been going
So
Damn
Well
I backslide and make people cry.
I am never a fucking Molotov cocktail.
No, no I am much worse
I'm an A-bomb
Perhaps a small one,
But still deadly and sinful and wrong.
And this is because I bottle it up
I don't tell people what's going on because when I have they didn't listen
Didn't care
Didn't help.
Just let me blame them.
But the thing is, 
I think when people hear 'anxiety attack'
They think 'panic attack'
But I do not regress entirely into my head,
And I do not scream,
And when I cry it's silent.
No, I can hear you,
I just can't listen,
Because your words don't mean anything to me.
They are your pleas for me to be normal,
When I am not normal because of your pleas.
And I want to scream,
But my vocal chords are folding in on themselves and I can't always take full breaths,
Much less try to talk.
And I no longer make noise when I cry,
Because it makes me feel weak and out of control
And I don't have a lot of control anymore.
At least, it feels that way.
So these are my words to people who don't understand:
Let me be,
Because you should have listened eons ago,
And now when I'm silent and listening to my heart beat in my throat,
I am thinking only about the creative ways I would get you to shut up.
99.9% of the time they do not involve kissing.
I am thinking of what I would pack if I ran away.
Of how death would affect the people around me.
If death would affect the people around me.
So leave me alone, because every time you don't,
I take another step towards the abyss.