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/
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.
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.
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.
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,
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.
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
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.
Not my white mom’s; my black mom’s.
Well, “African-American” if you want to get technical but who wants to get technical with someone who pronounces your name wrong every goddamn time she calls,
when she calls,
if she calls.
I’m not bitter.
I guess the problem with us, as people, is that we think we are gifted with eternal time; that we can spend entire lifetimes fucking up without any repercussions. Without any consequences.
In second grade I got my first pair of glasses;
In fourth grade I got sent to the office.
In eighth grade I won my first spelling bee and, in tenth grade, I learned that words only help
when you speak them.
I spent my entire childhood wishing I could bottle thunderstorms. Heavy thunderclouds and lightning bolts fastened beneath glass, electric wind swirling like frenzied lightning bugs in mason jars – I wanted it all. I wished ink into words and words into mouths and mouths into outstretched arms and that mothers could not both arrive and depart in the same sentence.
I wished to be reckless. I wished that even when I could talk about darkness no longer, even when there were no more instruments to adequately express my anguish; even when there was nothing left to tarnish, I wished to be fearless.
You see, there will come a day when there will be plenty of time to be cobwebs, plenty of time to be bronze medals, or snail shells, or lupine seeds, or fragments of exoskeletons examined and pinned, rustling at the past, but there will never be enough time to live if you spend it wishing fantasies into realities.
Did you know that a mother bird regurgitates her food into the mouths of her children to make sure they eat?
Sometimes I wish I knew who the fuck I’ve been trying to feed by emptying myself.
I spent every shitty high school lunch period wishing my cut apple could return to itself without help, without reassurance; that its sections might remember each other. I was devastated the day I discovered that
could not survive without
I wish I had learned how to speak with words long before I learned how to speak with my body.
I wish my black mom would call me.
I wish I didn’t spend so many years trying to convince myself that fixing pain with more pain would, somehow, teach me how to survive; how to be okay.
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-
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!
I find it kind of ironic that my sign is Libra.
With heavy feet and 6 a.m. under eye bags, I found myself standing on the bathroom scale this morning. Again. First with clothes then, none.
Risqué, I know.
As I stood there, bare, with dewy morning air brushing up against my goosebumped skin and sleep collecting in the corners of my eyes, all I could think about was how this time, last year, I wished to crumble. I felt the cold metal greet my feet and all I could remember was how this time, last year, I wished to empty.
I looked in the mirror beside me and watched my stomach swell and sink for longer than I wanted to. I don’t like that- watching what I could’ve been in my exhales fall to what I am in my inhales. Did you know that the average human spends up to five days out of the year looking in a mirror? I read that somewhere before. Before I liked reading. Before it mattered. Before it became relevant.
and a gazillion seconds wasted on bullshit.
This is why I’m not a morning person.
But, then again, it’s easier to undo expectations when I’m half-awake.