GUYS I MADE IT
*ATTENTION TO ALL OF MY LOVELY FOLLOWERS*
For those of you who couldn’t tell already, I am a writer and I am creating a zine that will be composed of stories, poetry, and artwork about rape, sexual assault, self-esteem, abuse and mental illnesses such as eating disorders, anxiety, depression, etc. If you would like to submit your work, you can do so by clicking on the “Submissions” link in the menu bar of my newest blog “Milk”. I’m incredibly excited about this project and I hope your are too! The deadline for all submissions is November 1st.
*All submissions chosen for the zine will be announced the following week on November 8th*
Here is the link: https://morningmiilk.wordpress.com/
Last night, I went to sleep feeling like my life were beads of a rosary I no longer knew how to pray over and the night before last before last before last, you took my body like a priest takes the body of Christ during a twelve o’clock mass he forgets the sermon to.
You were never something holy.
Flesh turns to smoke, smoke turns to wine, wine turns to 808’s and I’m still trying to figure out why I thought saying your name would sound like some sort of confession my god could absolve.
This morning, I felt crucified.
But I guess this is not about how you left me bound by a crown of thorns or how you painted me in swatches of cerulean and cheap purple I’m still learning how to cover up or how pain and pane sound like saving graces when I’m drunk.
This is about how it’s 11:11 in the morning and I wish I remembered how to spill without crumbling.
This is about how I no longer know how to make “I’m still hurting” sound like hymns you want to sift your toes through or how to light my cigarettes like signal flares instead of like matchsticks to lighter fluid.
This morning, I stood over the toilet bowl wishing fingers into arms, arms into bodies, bodies into embraces; wishing that my ribs would emerge from my chest like the branches of my favorite tree but this is not supposed to sound like a metaphor.
This morning, I woke up christened in the oceans of apologies you made me feel like I was obligated to say but this is not supposed to be poetry.
Like oil spill to body of water, what you did to me was not something I could skim off and call myself a hero for.
I woke up to a medicine cabinet of pills lined up like piano keys and I don’t remember how to cry without weeping.
I wonder if Jesus knew God was going to save him.
I wonder if Hemmingway raised the handgun like a holy hand to a sinner.
This is not supposed to be poetry.
None of this is.
I said no.
I said no.
Oh god, I said no.
And I hope, one day, your confessional is not as painful as the Amens I cried out after I realized that holy doesn’t always mean whole.
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
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,
I like how I get the morning paper in oversized flannels.
I like that I take time.
I like that I
Check for leftover crusties on my oatmeal spoons.
I like that my dreams are bigger than you will ever be.
I like how my heart beat boxes when I’m put on the spot.
I like how my pinky toe has always been a rebel.
I like that I let you take pieces of me should you ever need the comfort.
I like how I can, forever, write free verses in your beloved name.
I like how I pace old hardwood floors.
I like that your words will, forever, wrestle inside me.
I like that you send me late Push Notifications.
I like how I forgave us long before I knew we were going downhill.
I like how I cry when I say goodbyes.
I like how you understand.
I like how I believed you when you said that, together, we would be incredible.
I like how, now, I see.
What happened to magnificence?
What happened to infinity?
I marvel at the way you drained me without any intention of filling anything in particular.
Without any intention of saving a life.