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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In Tides

Water has always been a remedy.

Showering with the lights off.

Holding your breath beneath miles of ocean.

Crying until you can no longer breathe.

Swimming your muscles numb.

 

April 20th. 2010. Oil spill. Football fields of black and debris.

 

We made headlines.

 

I guess I forgot to think of humans as chemical reactions until I was reminded of the first time unholy things sparked from your mouth, knowing that you must be the conductor and, I, the charge.

When I learned about combustion in science class, I thought of the death of entire planets and the day we forgot how to say each other’s names like bible verses.

All carbon dioxide and water.

 

We seemed to fall apart.

 

Last night, I forgot what it meant to be held together by my own gravity; to be minuscule and massive, simple and complex beyond knowledge.

What it meant to have radiating energy, to come near exploding; to spend life changing, rotating, and moving.

 

Suddenly, I was sent hurdling.

 

This morning, I found sea salt caked on my wrists; a sign that the sky was darkening once more.
Talk into the sea shells. Ask the tops of my thighs, my crushed collar bones; ask my teeth cracked, acid eroded knuckles.

 

Ask the people who utter my name with pure rage.
They will tell you: I used to be apologetic, once.

I self-destruct in miniature ways each day.

 

 

I was never afraid of the idea of collapse.

 

Until today.

 

A Letter to My Mom and Dad in Trigger Warnings

Trigger Warning: I don’t think I’d really ever consider myself a perfectionist however, even as I type this, I find myself clicking spell-check five

  1. t
  2. i
  3. m
  4. e
  5. s

Trigger Warning: Cliche people with cliche names and cliche motives don’t come with trigger warnings.

They don’t put trigger warnings on jaded men with receding hairlines just because they remind you of how light refuses to cease receding into nights, every night, or how we’re all thunderstorms and, eventually, there will come a time when we will have to part ways and recede back into the parts of sky from which we came.

They don’t put trigger warnings on the moments you realize you and the dirty laundry that has been laying on your floor for weeks now have both been wrinkled by the time spent, there,

on dirty floors.

They don’t put trigger warnings on middles.

There will always be befores. Before love. Before life. Before losing a hundred and two pounds. Before the material world invades your mind with rules about tampons and riot signs.

There will always be afters. After finding your other half. After death. Aftermath.

But there will never be trigger warnings on the gray matter; never any caution tape around the fleeting moments between the binge and the purge, the time you take hovering above the toilet seat wondering if your fingers will taste any different than the last time.

In moments of awkward silence, there will be no trigger warnings to help fillintheblanks.

There will never be construction cones surrounding the time you remember the instant you forgot pain could also be a verb.

For me, it was always a noun- always an object that burrowed between my bones like a lost little rabbit. But it had teeth and they always threatened to break my limbs. That, that was when I forgot pain was also a verb and instead remembered that I was a hyphen, a person in between feeling fine and feeling good and feeling great- a sort of

s      e     p    a   r  a tion-

and I wanted to learn to join the joy and the sad, but my mouth was always a comma in which mild catastrophes and dew kissed breakfasts were always pausing to spill out.

One day, when you wake up remembering how this time, last year, you began fading into a much quieter version of yourself  at the same time the leaves of early autumn did the exact opposite, remembering how your body, for a brief moment, felt like a foreign country without anyone willing to occupy it; one day when you wake up remembering how you used to let your dog off the leash so maybe it’d run into the street giving you a reason to run too, you’ll realize that there will never be an adequate amount of warnings to prepare you for this.

One day, when you wake up remembering the times you thought of windows like collections of tiny shards of glass finally understanding why pain and pane were homophones, you’ll wonder if a body unconscious is a body still. On the nights when the moon is more a word on the tip of your tongue than a saving grace positioned at such an angle in the sky that, for a little while, it almost seems believable that holy light is alive and well,  you’ll wonder if living and breathing are really as intertwined as we are lead to believe.

To my mom and dad,

From now on, I will try to love the way the left brain loves the right brain if there even is such a thing. I will love like all my gray matter really does matter, like it’s more than just a scientific term, like my brain is capable of more than the grey it shades itself into every day.

I’m sorry you could never understand why I, like rainfall, wished to elope with the ground on days my brain felt like hurricanes but there are bees and yellow jackets that sting to know they’re alive and there are bees and yellow jackets that sting to inflict pain and I can’t promise you I won’t be both but I can tell you that even on days I can feel the storms rage inside me, I will wish to live twice as many times as I wish to die.

To my brothers and sisters,

I will not always be kind. I will not always be able to bite my tongue and hold back the fire living inside my mouth that threatens to turn every word into a burning building but every individual cell will still do its best to put out the flames until this body is not hot but warm.

Until this body understands that, sometimes, spitting fire is worse than swallowing flames.

Trigger Warning: May I always see my own beauty without having to break any bones.

Trigger Warning: May I always be a series of riptides that never learn how to flow in the same direction.

Trigger Warning: May I always be full of opposites; may I never be perfect.

Trigger Warning: May I be flawed and flowing in the wrong direction if it will only teach me which one is the right one. May I always be riptides and never tsunamis. I may be monstrous and aching but I never want to tear myself apart.

Sometimes I will be unforgivable. Sometimes I will be one stumbling, heaping spoonful of an apology that no one will know how to swallow and I can’t promise you there won’t be bruises. I will always be bruises. I will be full of holes that others will do their best to fill, but the truth is that maybe I can’t be saved.

But that doesn’t mean I ever have to stop trying.

Trigger Warning: I am worth trying.

I am worth stupid silly laughter, sunburns, embarrassing pictures. I am worth inner thighs. I am worth the pulp at the bottom of the orange juice carton although I was never pulp.

I will never be the last thing left at the bottom of anything. I don’t deserve rock bottom. I am not leftovers. I am not disposable.

Trigger Warning: I am worth trying.

Trigger Warning: I am worth trying.

I am worth trying.

For the people who have continued to support not only this blog but me, as a person, for the past few years or so, I’d like to take this time to sincerely thank you. When I first started this blog, I knew I’d be using it to serve more as a personal “diary”, if you will, and I was nervous. For many reasons I was afraid of publicly publishing it but perhaps the main reason was because I was afraid no one would understand. No one would get it.

For the people that understood, to the people that got it, I hope you’ll understand that now, it’s my time to bow down and take some time away from here for a while. I came to the conclusion that now, instead of serving as JUST a personal diary, a platform in which I could vent, this blog has unfortunately changed into nothing more than an excuse for me to stay in my disordered behaviors. With that being said, I will now tell you that it’s been my absolute pleasure getting to write this. To the endless amounts of support and love and words of true wisdom, I will forever and always be grateful.

“Don’t live the same year 75 times and call it a life.” For those of you struggling- yesterday, today, tomorrow- know that I will always be here still willing to help in any way that I can. I will continuously check and respond to my “Dear Lex”s and I will always continue to check up on my reader periodically. “Don’t live the same year 75 times and call it a life.” Live by this. Much love. ~Lex

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.