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.


Stream of Consciousness: Last Night

Last night we barely even saw each other. In fact, I saw you before you saw me which is fairly dangerous and then I meagerly positioned myself so that you wouldn’t see me right away. I tried to laugh at the right times and hug all the right people, I tried to finish that stupid drink on an empty stomach and I did none of those things right. Of course, I laughed with a weird force smile and held onto the cup without thinking that I should just put it down. Last night, we didn’t kiss. We barely even touched. And when we did your hug was so cold I thought I could have easily just met you for the first time. As if, as if you barely remembered me or I was that girl in one of your high school classes that you never talked to and accidentally ran into a few years later. You would ask me about my post-graduation life and I would think of the hundreds of things that I had done that had barely mattered, the very real laughs I had shared and the much warmer hugs that had embraced my perpetually cold body and I would realize that too much time would have even passed to make it worthwhile to try and ease the awkward tension hanging between us. I would tell you my life has been busy and great and ask, in a forced enthused way how you were too. I would see the flicker of your greatness (and your failures) the loves and lost ones and you would answer much in the same way. Your response would stab me a little even though I did the same thing. I guess, I’m always the reliant, dependent one.
But I’m not that girl. I saw you only a mere few weeks ago. The light was better, I saw your face. In fact, you were the very first face I even saw. The one that had helped me get there. And I fell into your arms right away and the heat that reached my body was fatal and real. We had just enough to say, the laughs felt genuine. And last night you left 10 minutes after I even saw you under some weird circumstances that fate or something worse had prescribed because I needed to be screamed at that IT IS OVER. That once was never will be never once again, because the ideal is not meeting with reality along the same horizontal path I now walk on. Last night I went home 20 minutes after you left and tried to erase you from my dreams.

Stream of Consciousness: On Self Forgiveness, A Personal Narrative

I wake up in the morning to a bitter taste in my mouth, the result of exhaustion and the way I fell asleep reading and never brushed my teeth. I cringe because I already know that I’m late. Apparently a sixth alarm really would have been necessary because everything in me is so tired. I begin to question what it would mean for my grade, and my knowledge, if I skip just this one class this one time. As always, I encourage myself out of bed- don’t forget how lost you will be if you don’t go. Don’t forget that you literally talk to no one and will not be able to get the notes. Don’t forget that you have yet to manage your stupid insecurities about talking to people..I almost let the voice continue but I swing myself out of bed. Sometimes that is enough for the stream of thought to stop. You are shy, it’s okay, it happens. The chants of my life are repeated and make my stomach hurt. They are as redundant as my personality. I tell the same stories because they are the only ones I have to tell. I do not want to fall prey to the incalculable dullness of the person I am, I want to create myself to be better but I am so tired and my creative energy is so dependent upon the full night sleeps I cannot get no matter how hard I try.
I am awake and conscious, slow to start as I like to call it. I pull on clothes and practice the art of mocking myself by putting on makeup. I do it because people are noticing me, I say, but really I do it because otherwise the insecurity of appearances will get me. As if the static nature of appearances even matters, it really never does. I will get caught in the rain and my straightened hair will devolve into frizziness and my makeup will run and I will be just as ugly as I was before but this time I will know it. I will not be in denial. That stream of thought clogs my brain. I burn my hand on the hair straightener. The light is too dim to see clearly, that’s my secret- denial runs deep in my veins.
I try not to tell myself I am a failure. I encourage myself that I even got out of bed “Congratulations, you are almost functioning like a normal human being, way to go.” The nice voice in my head is really more of a mocking voice. I should know better by now to stop trying.
I tell myself I am a failure because I don’t love people in general, because I love so infrequently. Because I have so few friends, because sometimes I’m really terrible to the friends I have left. I tell myself I am a failure because I’m not particularly anything- not funny, nor smart, nor athletic. I try to praise myself for what is average, instead I linger on what is not. The grasping effect of wanting what I will not pursue.
I tell myself I am a failure because I stared at the ceiling for three hours last night while I was trying to fall asleep. How easily I crumble to the ideals of perfection. Anxiety loves me because I am weak and I acknowledge this weakness without being able to destroy it.
This is my narrative.
But you see, I am learning that at the center of happiness is knowing that you are a worthy person. And the birth of this feeling is through forgiveness. So maybe it’s okay that approximately three people in this world actually care about me. And maybe it’s okay that I will get a few B’s this semester, that sometimes I can’t catch up and I just feel stupid. I forgive myself for the naps I need to take and the sleeping aids I have used too often. I forgive myself for writing this instead of studying. I forgive myself for the vicious cycles and I inhale deeply.
No exhale, not yet.


On the cusp of 200 beautiful followers, I just wanted to throw out a quick little message.

I have officially started another blog; based off the nature of feminism and human rights- mostly commentary on facebook posts, conversations, news stories and other articles that I stumble upon in my daily life. Basically I am saying that you should check it out- and that if you want to follow it, you definitely should!

More importantly, as it is highly underfollowed at this point (zero people party) I would love if you could spread the word, promote it or tell your friends about it. If you do, please comment or email me and I will repay you with a poem on a topic of your choice (not much but it’s the best I can offer as a very broke college student).

Thank you, you’re all lovely :]

Dear Kim,

Hello readers, as an aside from angsty poetry and the culminating need for self love and acceptance that I have recently been struggling with- I would like to do a quick response to an article I read recently on wordpress. I actually found the article shared through a friend on facebook. Initially I wanted to simply comment on the article, but in lieu of not making my point clearly I decided to simply write about it here. The article in questions is here.

Basically, the nature of the letter- to teenager girls, it addresses the issue of teenage girl “selfies” that appear as subjective or sexual in the eyes of a mother of teenage boys. A fair point to make- that the way you portray yourself online can overshadow your other qualities (i.e. she mentions their funniness or their insight). She claims her old school parenting techniques and need to raise boys with a strong moral compass is what leads her to block girls of the boys facebook profiles who post these scantily clad and inappropriate pictures.
In a nutshell I agree with some of her qualms but as a teenage girl myself I have a few really big issues with her article. Maybe it’s because I don’t have kids but hey, she wrote the article to girls like me so here’s on for her.

Dear Kim,
Hey, how are you? I found your article pretty interesting, I like reading and I like new insights on a topic that I think is fairly simple. I guess the topic of garnering male respect isn’t all that simple but it’s okay sometimes I live in an ideal world. I want to talk about your article though, because there are a lot of points that I don’t understand- points I would hope you clarify for the sake of your own sons (and daughter!).

I want to make it pretty clear that I am not in support of pictures that put girls in a position of sexuality because I understand the natural reaction of teenage boys (like how they “notice you don’t have a bra on”). But I also want to make it pretty clear that the nature of the conversation could be VERY different from the nature you put forth.

So here it goes.

I would say the first nature of my disagreement is that you feel the need to put yourself in the position to mother of many instead of mother of your own children. When did it become your job to speak on the actions of other children instead of speak to the nature of your own sons? I probably don’t want your advice, sorry, but I have a mom and I love her dearly- there is no room for another mom here.

Now when you say “Did you know that once a male sees you in a state of undress, he can’t quickly un-see it? You don’t want our boys to only think of you only in this sexual way, do you?” Do you understand that as a woman I do not exist as a sexual object for any man? Do you understand that I (and only me because I am selfish and opinionated) have the right to my own body and my own sexuality. If I choose to post a picture of myself with barely any clothes- do I not still deserve the respect of your apparently well mannered sons? I think I do, simply because I am human. If I go out on a Saturday night in a dress, do I deserve the come ons and catcalls of men who I do not know? Have I, simply by dressing myself in a certain way, automatically forfeited basic mutual respect? And if you said yes- should I also explain that this nature of thinking is the same one that has led to slut shaming and victim blaming in the nature of rape and sexual harassment? I mean, I could but I have a feeling this letter will be long enough.

Imagine my face popping up on your facebook- woah, crazy because I do not know you. But would you judge me based off a “selfie” of myself in glasses and a sweater- would this make me smart or make me worthy of your dinner table conversation? Who knows, considering you seem to tell your sons to judge their future wives based on the way they choose to portray themselves on the internet regardless of how they are IN REAL LIFE (which is vastly more important, trust me). Let me tell you something- girls in skirts/with pouty faces/wearing no bra can still have a moral fiber that transcends these pictures but that is mostly beside the point.

Okay, I hope you’re still reading- I use a lot of words, I know. Listen, I’m not saying these girls should scream “RESPECT ME” while they have yet to figure out how to respect themselves- however it should not matter. Instead of blocking these girls I think a more productive conversation would be- “Sometimes girls, and boys for that matter, put things on the internet that make them seem a certain way- but no matter what you as a human being should respect these women instead of treating them as a sexual object- because apparently you will now only be able to see them like that.” I want you to know that your sons do not exist for me to ogle over and I do not exist for them to ogle over. It’s that simple.

Naturally, deleting someone off facebook does not mean these women do not exist. I hope your boys will come to learn that these women (i.e. girls who are looking for sexual satisfaction and some sort of positive attention) are humans that do not deserve their scorn (or their harassment!) I speak to all boys here. It is okay to love the female body, it is not okay to harass me for it.

Just one more thing- I hope this reaches you because I want you to think about it. I really do, for the sake of your daughter. Much of the motivation behind these attention seeking pictures is that more and more girls are being conditioned to believe that this is “what boys like.” In our most vulnerable states of being (read middle school/teenage years) many girls are looking for attention and affection to cure some of their own insecurities. Those girls are learning, we are all learning. Could you please tell your daughter that she exists for herself and herself alone? Could you please tell her that she should be confident in her body and her sexuality and that no matter what the patriarchal structure of our society says- that she does not exist for boys? I would really appreciate it, because when I am old enough to have children I hope I wouldn’t even have to tell them that girls have to fight for respect from men, on the internet and in real life. I hope that society would have evolved to much better than that. I hope that is not an unreachable ideal.

Oh, and for the record- I never cared about the pictures of your sons that you posted. Because c’mon now we don’t live in a society that shames boys for their bodies, apparently we only do that to these girls.

THANK YOU, really,

Kate (one very distressed teenage girl)


they call it a broken heart but they couldnt possibly understand because
i cant breathe normally
and my chest feels numb and my hands are barely moving
every place you ever touched feels different
in such a way that i dont know myself anymore than i never knew you

if the road shifted while i was walking it would make
perfect sense
i have ended up so far from where i thought i was headed
i am left looking at eyes i do not recognize
laughing at conversations
i do not understand because it should make sense and it doesnt

i am fire that is being rained on
i am barely surviving
i am holding on for heat and running away from ashes
maybe my past is holding me tightly because
our future is so cold

if only i could open my eyes and close my heart to you
and everything that has happened
sign it off as meaningless
just something that happened in mistakes and creative words
i wish your name was written in chalk
i wish it would wash away
i wish this didnt hurt so badly

To My WordPress Family :]

Hi all! I want to first say, hello to any new followers and a second hi (or third or fourth) to all my older ones. Every day you guys seem to make my day a little brighter.
Now I promise I won’t do this often, or ever again (but who can really predict the future?), but I would love if you guys would check out the link below.

Apothecary Kitchen Kickstarter Link

This link is a kickstarter project for Apothecary Kitchen, it is a “creative, synergistic movement called Mountain. Transcendent meals, tea and baby food!”
It is a terrific concept with a lot of heart behind it, my lovely brother and his girlfriend included.
If you can make a donation to the cause, it would be greatly appreciated. Even if you can’t, please check out tthe video and spread the word! If you make a donation and wwant a promo for your blog, or a poem or anything, just comment below or email me at kate.robinson140@gmail.com