I allow the thought to pull me in once more,
how gentle your touch once seemed.
How little I knew of myself back then,
trapped in a place, where time refused to move.
We had built our home on hollow ground
praying for the earth not to shake,
as I carried our love blindly, in both hands,
with the notion that my will was enough.
Still the tighter I held, the more that I lost.
Now here we stand, how many miles apart,
stranded in the aftermath of ignorance,
watching every promise unravel at our feet.
I often find myself looking back on brighter days,
eyes wide awake, dreaming of life on the water.
In school, I'd Write stories of being a River Pilot,
as if in a trance, oblivious to any Grade Given.
At first, words would only Whisper onto the page,
then I watched as those letters began to Multiply,
Inch by inch, the Lines taught my mind to expand.
It grew Bigger, until a false sense of freedom was born,
leaving me with a need to fulfill that urge to escape.
The greater the Height, the farther I would fall.
It wasn't long before the bottom was all I knew.
At night I cradled memories of a wasted youth,
Turned to God in search of answers with no Reply.
My voice remains lost, hidden behind Iron gates.
Funny how fine, how lovely life had once been.
The visits had stopped and they wrote only to say,
They feared for my Safety but mostly my sanity.
Now I listened as the air hung Silent, like a noose,
while I became desperate to Divide each sound,
that sweet childhood Rhyme, now a banshee wail,
that weaved in and out of every Brick, as my hands
stretched themselves over the cracks in the wall,
knowing that one of them must lead to salvation.
The wrong one. That’s what I have always been. There isn’t a safe space to explain all the pain that I’ve caused. The autism spectrum is not made for people like me, even though it should be. I am also a pretty girl, with pretty girl problems. We aren’t always expected to talk so much, or think so much. The adhd part of me doesn’t know what to do with that. I’ve broken a lot of men. Not on purpose. This is not written for sympathy of any kind. I wouldn’t know what to do with that. I am perfectly fine with who I am. Mostly because it has taken every ounce of energy to push that person forward. I no longer apologize for her. You either accept me or you don’t. I could care less. I could also care more. I don’t have the attention span to hold on to other people’s thoughts. I’m working on building a filter. It has yet to arrive. All I can say is this is the best version of me. And I am happy I took the time to make her come alive again.
a traveling why,
Where do we go
If only I knew,
if only I was,
a little more clear
the others seem
a watch and stare
confusion of looks
too afraid to ask
What have I done?
Will I come back?
If only I knew
a hows and when
that who and why
a traveling mind
no one knows,
it’s only half of me.
What issues do young women face? What a strange question. Why even bother with that question? I carry keys in between my fingers at night. I know where all the exits are. I am aware of other women’s body language when men are approaching. I take the time to realize the ratio of men to women in a bar as soon as I walk in. I don’t think about these things, I just do them because they are ingrained. Because I have been approached too many times, touched too many times, and talked to in ways that are so disrespectful those men have been thrown out without me saying a word. So what issues do young women face? Well let me count the ways. And how about I let you do the research. Maybe talk to the women in your life. Ask for stories. Ask about encounters. Ask about how they stay on the phone as they walk home at night just to feel safer. I would not want to give my answer because my story is very dark. I will say if you are concerned, as in you want to make a difference, do the work. Do the research. Get involved. Do not come to me. Because I have no patience left for these kinds of questions.
Our Secret Language
We had once again found ourselves,
tightly wound and tight lipped,
tucking secrets in at night
Like we used to do as children.
We could see it in his eyes
when the mood had struck.
That ever glaring, empty bottle,
explosive kind of mood.
We learned to communicate
with nothing but our eyes.
A secret sister language,
as words were not always safe
or welcome within these walls.
Walls that pulsated with fear
as he approached with his fist.
We would escape in and out
through windows, locked shut,
leaving behind traces of blood.
We would wait for the sun to rise,
or some nights for the rain to stop,
letting us know the coast was clear.
Tipsy at Midnight
How we muddle through
listless as the stars,
who shine out of obligation
with no purpose, no meaning.
Underneath the answers
I found only more questions.
Staring at a sky that gleamed
as stale as steel, or maybe,
that was just the mood,
a taste that lingered.
Heavy thoughts poured over,
as I pushed my way home
passing over steam grates,
taking notice of each fallen brick
the laziness of city streets
on quiet, nothing, nights like these.
The Art of Drowning
It wasn’t long into the first grade that I had read every book in the classroom. Which I remember because the only choice left was a book of facts on spiders. To my surprise, they turned out to be fascinating creatures. Soon thereafter books became an escape. We didn’t have a lot of children’s literature at home, now that I think about it. Although, now that I think about it my mother never really regarded us as children. However, we were always surrounded with poetry. As a girl, I would scatter her books around the floor. Clearly too young to have any idea what it all meant, yet eager to absorb every word. Poetry held a rhythm that kept me calm. Helped me forget. The childhood that never was. The anger that lived just beneath the surface.
I was probably nine when I picked up Jane Eyre because it was my mother's favorite. Determined and stubborn I managed to finish it. A part of me felt that by the end I would understand her better. Understand why she stayed in bed all day. While it didn't give me the insight I was looking for it gave me something else. A closer look at who I was, who I wanted to be. Someone with the ability to create worlds you could get lost in at a moments notice.
From that day on I read everything put in front of me. I couldn't have been older then ten when I finished Valley of the Dolls. Books became more then an escape, they became a glimpse into lives I was desperate to reach. The words became my guides. My lighthouse if you will, calling me home.They took a girl who came from nothing and transported her to anywhere else. A reminder that the dark places in my mind were not something to be feared, but something to be embraced. Trauma did not have to equal shame. When put it into words that pain could become a source of power.
Writing became a sense of freedom that I had never known. It may sound silly or cliche but I believe it saved me from myself. It opened a door I never knew existed. The further I went into my mind the lighter I felt. Like a weight had been removed. As I grew older, I began to allow men into my life who attempted to drown out my voice, replace my thoughts with their own, and stake their claim on who I was. Too afraid to speak up I put my feelings on paper. The words rushed to the surface. As if I had been drowning and finally found air. Able to breathe again I came to understand why they were so afraid. Over time a clarity and peace resided inside of me. That is when I made a promise to myself, to never be silenced again.