Endless Memories

All of a sudden we were screaming so loudly that the words were actually almost reluctant to rip themselves away from our chest. My lungs felt fragile, burdened even. I hated every cigarette you ever smoked near me, for a moment. I wanted to be a better runner, I heard runners breathe well. I guess you learn to breathe better so you don’t die. Is that the only choice? I’m happy when your lungs give out first, I don’t completely hate your cigarettes after all.
You tell me that I only loved you because I wanted to be hurt. That hurt people write things that people want to read. For some reason you believe that readers are always sad, that happy people do different things. Like stare at sunsets or something. I don’t get it because I was carrying around books before letters made sense to me. Are you saying I was sad when I was three? Four? Five? When I stumbled and fell I cried but sadness back then was so temporary. I can only remember fragments of pain, the rest is nothing. I remember the good things sometimes. Those memories flood in slower, it hurts sometimes that they move so lazily, but they are always intoxicating.
A boy broke my heart once. That memory comes quickly, easily, snap snap snap my fingers and he’s there. He doesn’t know what to say to me three years later when he realizes I have grown into my face and my body, my confidence too. He stumbles when he realizes that apologies no longer jump to my lips. He pays for our lunch and I stumble because I realize I simply don’t care anymore.
Those bad memories they come quickly.
Snap and I’m in a hospital staring at a tiny little trash cans and wondering why they don’t make them bigger. Snap and I’m in the same damn hospital wondering why all the walls are these ugly colors, why the waiting room doesn’t have enough light, wondering what kind of magazines they put in here believing they could actually distract you from real pain.
Snap and I’m in a yard getting a phone call, breaking my heart, saying goodbyes, pulling over on the side of the road because I’m crying too hard to drive home. Convincing myself ITS OKAY ITS OKAY ITS OKAY.
I’ve failed two papers.
That boy won’t look me in the eyes any more. We used to be friends. Now he can’t even tell me that he used me. NOW NOW NOW I think, things will be fine.
Blink your eyes less quickly, but the memories still come. Faster, faster, faster.
I’m not that worried anymore. They move into me and leave, they are pinpricks. They give me headaches but they don’t last.
The good times move in more slowly. In a haze. They are warm, instant, like hot chocolate on a bitter day. They are the softest mattress, 100 on a test you studied really hard for, a smile from a cute stranger.
moves slowly but these memories
they fill my dreams. I feel okay I FEEL OKAY.

I tell you you’re right.
I loved you because I wanted to be hurt so I could write
things people would read
but at least I loved you
for a moment.


This Hurts

the words dont sound right in my head
or in my fingertips
i think i said thank you
i should have said leave

ill probably eat my way into forgetting you
because drinking only makes
it easier to remember
and because
food fills voids
i am
full of incompleteness

when i realize nothing helps the hurt
especially your empty words
“do you want to talk about this”
i will run away from the truth
i always do
no, no i dont want to talk
because the words dont feel right in my throat
or in my stomach

the hurt remains as i grow fatter
and weaker
and sadder and sleepier
all these things because
i never learned how to properly say goodbye

How To Deal With My Grief

i dont want your sighs and apologies
that fake voice you use when you think
youre being sympathetic
when really youre full of guilt because you
know you can only pretend to summon sorrow
and i dont want the long pause that follows almost
everything you say
‘and how are you doing’
you repeat like a broken record
tired therapist

i dont want your sympathy
i never have

if you care i want your hands at my back
and your smiles in my face
your money where your mouth is
proof that you care
no facades
‘i texted you one time and you never thanked me
for being there’
because your footsteps really only
lingered for a moment before you walked away

we are not your charity case
we are not your sob story
we are warriors
heroes in a battle against self
and as our indeterminate future looms
the last thing i need is your false empathy

Women Are Beasts (In A Good Way)

how can we be the weaker sex
when we perch ourselves in five inch heels
and wear dresses
apparently tell men to whistle
and as our blood runs cold
we are told it was a compliment

can we be the weaker sex when
the boys laugh as they pull our hair
and call us ugly
they say boys will be boys and convince
us we are something we are not

how can we be the weaker sex
when we are told to look skinny
and tall and wait not too skinny
dont say no to boys but wait
you are a slut
bitch virgin whore
what are you
WHAT ARE YOU because you have decided to
live outside the festering judgments

can we be the weaker sex when
we are told to protect ourselves
dont drinkt too much dont walk alone
but be your own protector
and that man who raped you?
there is a 97% chance he will walk free
do you like those odds?

and how can we be the weaker sex
when we are clawing away at the rights
to our own damn bodies
while great women do great things
and are still looked down upon
as weak

how can we be the weaker sex
when we carry children and go through hell
and back to bring this miracle into place
if not carrying a small kicking painful miracle
we are bleeding
and in pain and this THIS
is normal so dont complain

how can we
even be considered weak
when we pull ourselves from heartbreak
and pain
and disaster and how is it you look
at me and still think im weak