Max

“Former Stanford Swimmer to be Charged With Rape”
“Every 107 Seconds, Another American is Sexually Assaulted”
“Acton Man Accused of Sexually Assaulting 9 Year Old Boy”
“98% of Rapists Will Never Spend a Day in Jail”

“Rape Victim Who Set Herself Ablaze Dies”

Yesterday, I was drunk and today, I was told that my case is no longer open. Roughly three times a week, I still return to the parts of my mind you so easily took a sledgehammer to, stretching out my body over roads like a chalk outline of a crime scene while the slow blue buzz from too many beers and too little sleep tag-teams my neurons making it a little bit harder to peel myself from the asphalt.

I can’t always tell the difference between high beams and holy light.

I think about you all the time.

On nights I carry my body to bed instead of hurdling it over a bridge, on nights I tuck myself in and sing lullabies to myself even when my voice is hoarse from screaming “My God, why!” to the night skies; on nights I light candles like signal flares instead of like matchsticks to gasoline trails, I wonder if you think of me, too.

I wonder if you even know my name.

I wonder if you know that the third time I broke my arm, it was because I tripped on a crack in a sidewalk or that I won the spelling bee in eighth grade or that even after nineteen years of fall leaves showing me how to fall apart, it’s still hard for me to turn pain into art.

I wonder if you know how hard it is to want to stay alive.

Some mornings, I wake up swinging. I crack knuckles in the same way you cracked all solid ground and I wonder if you know how hard it is to want to stay alive.

Yesterday, I was drunk and today, I was told that you won and, one day, I hope you know what it feels like to understand that a shape cannot exist without a shift.

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For Those Who Want to be Inspirational

The year I realized people could leave while you were sleeping was the year I started collecting things I was afraid of losing. I remember spending hours after school hiding away rocks from my backyard I deemed too fragile for violent hands in cracks of Earth no one dared explore.

Half burnt candles,

Unraveling shoe laces,

Old prescription glasses that hardly even fit at the time of being prescribed; soda stained movie stubs, nights my mom took her time raking out yesterdays and weaving tomorrows into my hair-

my God, I wish I remembered to collect those too. I’d have entire dresser fulls if I could.

They say after heartbreak, a haircut is like a clean slate for every mistake one’s ever made but I remember in the fifth grade caulking my trust into the cracks of a criminal who had no intentions of ever being mended and,

my God, I’ve cut my hair four times every year since then.

Thirty six damn times now and some days it seems as if  I have no more hair left for cutting and even less soul to be erased.

I guess I’ve kind of always been afraid; hesitant. Even in photos of me when I was small and unworldly, I could see the resistance; almost like I could call it by my own name.

Almost like I was more of a semicolon and less of an exclamation point.

Sometimes, I am afraid.

Sometimes, I am angry.

Sometimes, I am morning black coffee. A carpenter, a preacher- a halfway house savior; breaker of dollar menu buns and boxed red wine seals.

I am not always stable.

Sometimes I am caught white-knuckled between the hands of my angry god gasping for air.

I am red-light running meter, pawn shops and barred windows; second-rate security system and neon district lights. I am fleeing.

Fleeting.

Freeing.

I am underground.

I will draw you into my nine-to-five traffic; oncoming, you jump in front of slow-moving cars. You are convinced you can paint streets, burst veins. Bumpers paint you purple, paint you blue,

Paint you black.

I will knock you down like recession.

I am plywood anchored windows; two-tap needle sans dope.

Some mornings, I feel like a menagerie of outcries. The acts of defiance published on my flesh will outnumber the words in every failed actor’s this-will-be-my-big-break manuscript.

Take time to read me.

Decode me.

Run hands across the braille that brands the back of my palms.

I am fragile.

Sometimes I find myself trembling for no real reason.

This does not make me less than.

With all that I am, I want to be a hurricane of unmatched force. I want to be a tidal wave hammering at the very epicenter of the earth. I’ve never been okay with being mediocre; with being a small breeze that pulls at hats and scarves and is more of an annoyance than anything else. I want to be a tornado.

A typhoon.

An earthquake.

I am made of blood and ashes and passion and I am not a force to be reckoned with.

However, some days, I am hide and seek.

I want to be kind and gentle even when I lose things I wish would stay. I want to be strong and the right kind of violent even when I need help rebuilding. I want to be innocent and pure no matter whose dirty hands I’ve held.

However, some days, I am bulletins with tear-away numbers.

Dialed payphones and spare change.

Warped paper and hot glue.

Sometimes, I am afraid.

Sometimes, I am angry.

But I suppose that’s okay. Because we don’t make impacts based on how triumphant our lives are but,

rather,

how triumphant our journeys were.

The year I realized people could leave while you were sleeping was the year I started collecting things I was afraid of losing.

 

Little Drums

It’s almost October and I’m still trying to learn how to empty myself of the icebergs last winter left behind. Every time I pass one of those ads stapled to a telephone pole with the rip-off tabs swinging from the bottom, I’m reminded of how difficult it is to keep holding on when the weather feels non permitting.

I can’t say I spent my entire childhood sticking my fingers into light sockets trying to figure out if grief had it’s own color but I can tell you I spent my entire childhood trying to figure out why it did;

Why long car rides shaded me in swatches of cerulean and sea foam not because I was ever car sick but because leaving home made me nervous and why funeral lighting always reminded me of the bottled hair dye my Great Aunt Sylvia used to use to cover up the strands of gray that showed how quickly she was dying.

Last night, I discovered a birthmark on the back of my neck in the shape of someone leaving.

Today, my eyes look more antique than ember- more ink than charcoal- and, unlike the people whose hair changes colors with the seasons, I think I’ll probably always wonder if my eyes change colors with my cycles of sadness.

Yesterday, I took this photo:

 with t1 preset

The toes belong to the feet belonging to legs belonging to Benjamin- a two year old who neglects to adequately pronounce his r’s and likes to poop on floors.

To Benny, my sweet little wanderer, life will not always be kind. It will not always be gentle water wakes meeting shorelines but rather tsunamis made of rage. And stings. On days you bear your wounds, remember, one day, your bed will no longer feel like your only home. Remember, one day, you will love yourself completely, without restrictions or regrets- radically and with everything you have.

Do not apologize for this.

Remember, one day, you will stop wanting to crawl back into the womb and start willing to climb out into the belly of life, as new and as quiet as the day you entered it. Remember, one day, your spine will no longer be the only tool that provides you with posture. Remember, one day, your fingertips will know what it feels like to want to hold on instead of letting go, your rock bottom will eventually bottom out and give way to solid ground below; remember one day you will stop feeling like a coward for struggling while everyone else takes gulps of the shit you convinced yourself was corrupting your lungs.

Breathe.

One day, you will no longer feel like an echo but, instead, a siren that sings loud and clear.

One day, you will no longer feel like a gun is always pressed to your head but, instead, a bullet that knows exactly where to spit its fire.

Remember, one day, not every day will be the worst day.

Be present. Be light.

Should you ever find yourself bleeding, do not bandage it. Let it spill out, gradually, so you can know what it feels like to be drained, to be gutted and turned inside out.

Be heard. Be kind.

I hear that there are currently 88 recognizable constellations but there are many that have yet to be discovered.

Find them, Benny.

Explore the earth from end to end until you find the brothers and sisters of the Big Dipper and then, once that is through, explore yourself from end to end until you find the constellations of yourself you’ve never met before.

Be calm. Be resilient.

Always, sweet Ben.

Robbers

bloggie2It’s 1:24 in the morning and I realize now that the hours between 12 and 4 have a funny way of making one either feel on top of the world or beneath it.

A man with green woven eyes that each started out with a train of thought that went on and on and on ending in tangled messes pooled in his pupils took advantage of me last night. It was dark and our blood seemed to be mostly comprised of Pinnacle bullshit and chain-smoked memories; we cut off what we could but somewhere, along the line, I forgot things.

Little interwoven fibers.

One

by

One.

There was no needle to pull the thread along.
And I forgot a few more inches of his eye string until all I had was a tiny little piece and I couldn’t quite remember just where we had started off.

I suppose I’d never seen the end of the world before last night; where salty air grips your throat violently.

Where the sea meets the sky in a dull blue line before you.

It’s where the wind caresses the tiger lilies in big ceramic vases, where the street glimmers with diamonds and emeralds of broken glass; where children’s thundering, heartbeat ­footsteps pound as they race for the rides in bright and foamy sandals.

Where the garbage and mystery flirt lazily with murder, where the seagulls converge on plump, glossy trash bags; where the flies hum their own ode to the stench amplified in July’s humidity.

Where tiny diners stand as they implode from within; where nothing ever changes.
It’s the immortality that lurks in the peeling, stained wallpaper, and the sticky linoleum floors and the cigarette-tainted voices of the waitresses.

I saw that last night. I saw it in the way his bottom lip missed a step when I murmured something about trust; I saw it in the way he swallowed me whole.

And maybe I’m insane for making someone so violent sound like a masterpiece but

Maybe that’s how I allow myself to forgive.

And maybe I can’t quote biblical verses or remember the story of Adam and Eve but maybe we’re all just misguided sinners in the hands of angry gods and maybe this is why 1:24 in the morning feels so goddamn beautiful even after men with heavy eyes ruin your favorite pair of underwear and

Crush your universe.

A Letter To The Things in Which I Am Learning to Love

To my stomach, an anomaly of soft curves made from proudly eaten cupcakes and pizza,

To my feet, calloused with midnight adventures and every tree that I have ever climbed while trying to prove to my brothers that girls are strong too,

To my hair made of tangled forests and wild vines- the dominant trait from the blood of my ancestors comprised of beasts and lion-hearted girls- I hold my head high to balance this crown.

My hands can’t fix everything no matter how badly my soul wishes they would, my eyes are wide and naïve searching for a god- a beauty that scratches deeper and realer than any manicured hand ever could- and my skin is rough and weathered and tethered but it is made of earth and young civilizations so I will not apologize.

To my body, I will apologize for betraying you because American Apparel only makes size extra small and I thought that was better, I will apologize for making you believe that freedom comes only in the form of beauty that is silken and bears a straight nose, I will apologize for starving you and abusing you and shredding you into galaxies on nights it felt too dark and too lonely to be alive, however,

I will no longer apologize for

Owning you.

To my body, my body that no longer offers ribs in the sunlight but, instead, offers strength in all lights, you are not just my body;

You are potential.

Let’s grow old together,

My friend.

Selfies in a leather bodysuit after pizza. Yolo?

 

Friday Night Ramblings of a Teen Angst-y Teen

Do you ever just feel like you’re going crazy?

I’ll be the first to admit I am oblivious to the way humans work; the way we are born with constellations in our filaments yet neglect to see light, the way things as simple as a change of a letter can shake the earth-

morning

mourning;

I’ll probably never understand the way we, as humans, are drawn to destruction time and time again because our incredible urge to feel alive- to feel something– will forever seem stronger than our common sense.

I walked in on a male penis enhancement commercial today.

That was awkward.

It was eight in the morning and way too early to be in such a trying predicament however, thankfully, I’m a hardcore teen angst-y teen who likes to pretend like life doesn’t phase me so fortunately, the eye contact made between me and Natalie’s grandpa as the commercial explained erectile dysfunction and “better performance” was not the painful part.

Throwing up breakfast was.

Ugh. I know. It’s pretty much been going on all week. I’m an idiot.

The worst part about it wasn’t even that I got out of the shower, still dripping with water and diluted Pantene to do so. It wasn’t that I could taste the Dove bar soap on my fingers as I guided them towards the back of my throat or even that after toilet water splashed back up out of the bowl I spent 20 minutes desperately scrubbing the piss off my face because the worst part about it, about it all, was knowing that what I was doing was wrong in every way.

Sometimes I feel like I’m going absolutely insane.

Like…2007 Britney Spears meets everyday Naomi Campbell insane.

I wake up every morning uncomfortable and bloated and everything I’ve been trying to avoid feeling for these past three years and I tell myself that I’m okay and that my legs really aren’t that big and neither is my nose and that my shoulders are bearable both literally and metaphorically and so is my stomach but sometimes I really question who I’m trying to convince; who am I trying to recover for?

I feel massive and want need to lose weight.

And, I mean, truthfully, in my everyday life I’m surrounded by people who genuinely just don’t care. Not that they’re cold hearted or anything of that nature because they’re anything but that but, in all seriousness, they could probably care less about accountability or meal plans- what I eat or what I don’t eat.

And that’s hard for me to realize some days.

Although I know that treating my body kindly and feeding it properly is the right thing to do, sometimes I can’t help but feel like I’m betraying myself; like I’m going against everything I should be. Here I am, with no one “forcing” me to do anything recovery related yet still shoveling food into my mouth even when, sometimes, I’d just rather not because, why?

WHY?! What am I doing?

Sometimes I feel like I’m going crazy…

Anyways, this is my first “ramblings” post partly because I feel bad for not posting in a while but mostly because I’m crazy. And tired.

And crazy tired.

Thanks for listening to my mush!