Understand

I wish you could understand me. Kiss these sorry lips the way you used to.

Promising things I knew weren’t true. How could they be? Actions have words, remember

The way we cried in the hot summer sun How we shared everything from food to blame. I loved you once. Then fear took hold.

I wish you would understand the history that built these bones.

I wish you could understand me. Kiss these sorry lips the way you used to.

Good enough

Falling in love through hip and thrust:

Make me more than what my organs have to offer.

Sweet tenderness, sloppy drunkenness.
I’m a girl raised without safe tears and trust.

Apologies are never good enough, harlet daughter.

False tenderness, hurried drunkenness.
Pretend you love me. It’s good enough.

#art, #depression, #love, #poem, #poetic, #poetry, #relationships, #sex

He is kind but he wouldn’t love me

He was kind but he wouldn’t love me

And I, woman unused to kindness,

Saw this as opportunity for happiness.

He is kind but he wouldn’t love me.

And that’s okay, I don’t love his sex anyway.

Doves are painted pigeons

I shed my skin and put on my mothers shoes

Her green eyes glowed behind mine

Histories of angry men and tough decisions

Broken bodies close to death are old news,

so, shut your mouth. Close your eyes and you will find

the truth of where the pigeons  fly.

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Left: mother, Right: brother, Back: me

I shed my skin and put on my mothers shoes.

Kissed her men, shared what is mine

Are they doves or painted white pigeons?

Some see the white paint ooze and still choose

to allow them to fly over our dying female kind.

Annuals die every winter. My mothers green eyes

turn blue in November matching my brothers tattooed

optimism covering corrupted skin. Healing takes time.

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Left: brother, Right: me

I shed my skin and put on my mothers shoes

Her green eyes glow behind mine

I was in her and now she is in me

close your eyes and you will find the truth of where the women die.

#abuse, #art, #children, #death, #english, #growing-up, #literature, #photography, #photojournalism, #poem, #poetic, #poetry, #sad, #story, #writing

Bloody blue

Bloody blue pajama pants

On mother’s, on Father’s, on secret wives, on Angry boys

I burned them in the fire pit

They always return.

The smell of my ink: hot, red, wet

Drip, drip, drip.

There is no Beauty

Show me the beauty in vomit kissed lips

Knuckles bloodied by desperate teeth

More saliva than seemingly humanly possible running down forearms

There is none.

Show me the beauty in self hatred

Never being able to love anyone

They have the same flaws in them that I hate in myself

There is no Beauty.

You say, ” you’re the skinniest girl I’ve ever had,” 

As your hands trail my ribcage

Since when did anything other than my stomach own me?

The bathroom walls are stained in stench

The forever reminder mirrors whisper,

The numbers in the shame of my body,

 There is no Beauty in me.

As if that made things any better.

I leave a trail of dead bodies

I lead a trail of monsters

That man who ate me from the inside out

Emergency room woman stating proudly, “well, you’re not pregnant”

As if that made things any better.

One police call later,

meet body number one:

Brains stain beige wall pink

mother paints it pink to hide the stink

of almost gone angry man

his ghost still lingers here and there

Painted pink walls were nothing but a full scale reminder.

As if that made things any better.

He promised his death was because of me.

I never fired a gun in my life

but now, for reasons unknown to others,

I put myself on trial each day, in front of a jury of people that don’t care either way.

Find the flaw inside my heart that allowed no strength

that chose fear and compliance over freedom.

“It would have been so easy to just cry for help”

I am told frequently.

Body number one was both monster and murder,

Body number two:

I love you. We can get married and have children. We can buy a house and struggle together. We can get a dog, name her Franky. We can, we can, we can, we can…

First and only boyfriend, together for 4 years

He doesn’t die, I hope, but he threatens

“Break up with me so I can go kill myself already!”

I fall to the floor begging him not to hurt himself, he smiles

“don’t worry, only if you leave me”

I die for the third time.

As if that made things any better.

What is love and what is abuse are lines indistinguishable

lies indistinguishable.

 

 

#abuse, #anxiety, #art, #depression, #journal, #literature, #photo-journalism, #photography, #photojournalism, #poem, #poetry, #ptsd, #relationships, #sad