It Burns
The world around us is on fire and here I am just writing this poem. Just sitting here in the dark. Just staring at the moon. Just hoping things will be OK. Just waiting to live another day.
Here I am,
writing this poem
my house is surrounded in flames
they never reach me.
I sit and revel in their dance.
I laugh at the screams of my prey.
I enjoy watching them burn.
I enjoy it because I like the chill.
I like the chill of being sane while everything goes up in flames.
I like sitting at a desk and staring out the window, watching the end go by.
I will not revel in the end of the world.
I will not sing its praise.
But I will not cry when this world has gone away.
I will not sob when humans have gone extinct.
I will not cry at the relief.
I will just stare at the sunset, its fiery glory dazzling my eyes.
I will wait for the end, knowing a new world is about to begin.
I will wait and watch, sitting in my house, writing an ode, an ode to peace in the midst of destruction and fear.
Then, I will die.
Before that happens, a vision will come to me
A vision of a golden era.
One where no one is smart enough to think
Where everyone is under scrutiny
then, and only then, I will weep.
Psych Eval
When I was twelve my aunt taught me how murdering was different than wanting to murder someone.
She said that if wanted to kill the president that was ok, as long as you didn't do it. I don't think there is anyone I've truly opened up to. I don't know why she said that. But I look back at it now and by god I hope its true.
"Have you ever lied to a psychiatrist?"
"No."
"Have you ever lied to anyone?"
"A few times but only small things. Like, whether the milk had gone old," I shifted in my seat and smiled, "or whether I had eaten cookies on my bed." The psychiatrist sitting across from me smiled. "That's good. It makes sense. We all lie about those things. I'm asking you whether you lied to your mom or other important people in your family about... " at this he paused and bit his lip, as of not sure what he should say. "hurting them?" I finished. He head dipped to the side and he made an expression that seemed to express remorse and resolve at the same time. He had wanted to say did you ever lie about wanting to kill them, but thought it might be inappropriate because I was in a emergency psych eval for suicidal tendencies and other things…
"I'm going to go talk to your mom for a few minutes and I might speak with your dad. I was hoping he might get here soon, maybe clear things up." I nodded and smiled. When he left I curled up in a corner. I stared at the window; the only thing that wasn't black or white. I think when I'm bored, so I started thinking. This room's colors had been chosen to calm the inmates. It was green (the chair) but it was a grass green that wasn't too bright so it wouldn't be distracting.
I rehearsed what I would say in my head, not really worried about it though because I knew I could get away with anything. I replayed the scene in my head. My little sister was in the car. My mom was blaming me for hurting her. She parked in a parking lot. She was angry. I was angry. She stepped out of the car, supposedly to calm down. I saw her call my dad. His name and number showed up on the car Bluetooth. I heard every minute of what they said. My mom was concerned that I was going to hurt her. She said I was hurting Elly emotionally by having 'this conversation,' in the car in front of her. I buried my head in my hands. I knew I was hurting her, but it was worth it. I had to protect myself and I had to protect her. My mom was dangerous and I knew it. My dad mumbled about not doing anything extreme and then she started talking about taking me to a mental hospital. “Is she taking her medications?” my dad asked. “Yes,” my mom responded, “but they're not working.” Now she turned it off speaker, realizing what was going on. “I'm taking her to (a mental hospital).” she said, closing the door from which she had just unplugged the speaker from the car. A few moments later I saw her hang up. She took some time to calm down, take a few breaths. During that time my little sister asked me a question: why do you hate our mom?
"I don't hate our mom. I just have some angry feelings towards her."
"then why don't you love her anymore?"
"I do love her." I said. If I had been a more emotional person I would almost cried. Instead, I concocted a response that would help my sister understand as much as she could. "I said I hate mom. I didn't say I didn't love her. You can feel both those things at the same time." I smiled, hoping she understood I wasn't trying to be the bad guy.
That memory brought up emotions in me I couldn't comprehend, things I knew all too well: hate, fear, envy, hope, love, desperation. That last one was the worst. It made me do terrible things I didn't regret.
The man I had been talking to earlier came back in the room. "How are you doing?"
"Good," I said, nodding and showing just enough emotion for him to think I was scared. "Just been sitting here."
"Kind of boring in here, isn't it?" he smiled and half shrugged, apologizing for the inconvenience. I knew why it had to happen. I had been suicidal before. I knew anything could tip you over the edge.
"let's discuss why you're here."
"Yeah..." I said, squirming a little bit. A flash came back to me of me practicing my emotions in the mirror, learning to smile and hide my tears. I had gone outside a second later. My mom didn't notice anything was wrong. A week later I wanted to throw myself out a window. Back to the present. He was staring at me as if it was not possible to understand how I could be here if I had such a perfectly normal mom and dad. White parents, rich house, everything seemed right What was going on? Counter: I wasn't always rich. I remember arguments about what to buy us at Christmas, asking if they could afford gifts at all. I remember my dad being so tired after two days at work, no breaks. I remember him getting angry because I wan't scared enough when he yelled. He was frustrated I had left stuff on the floor. Even at seven I knew he wasn't wrong, he was just tired. I played the little girl, waited for him to stop crying. Told him I was sorry and said I just wanted him to come home, I just wanted a hug. It was all true, but it didn't match the expectation for disappointment or the plan I had when I sat myself on the couch in full view of the door. Get out of your head! I told myself, you have a job to do. Lock in. Luckily the emotion in my eyes played into the part well. Girls weren't supposed to be strong. I knew what he was already expecting. Everyone is human, even psychiatrists. I smiled to myself, knowing I could out play him, and started speaking. "My mom is wanting me to stay at her house and I want to go to my dads. I was upset because she wouldn't let me go away." I buried my head and tucked my legs against my chest. A sob (deep breath) caught in my chest. He nodded. Go on, he seemed to say. "We were in the car. So was my sister." I squeezed my eyes shut, rocking back and forth in the single, small chair I was given. "And ," (gasp/hiccup) "I was asking my mom... to let me go home. I hate being at her house. She's not a real mom. She's... she's... she's..." I buried my head deeper and started trembling for lack of a better word. He just nodded and stared at me. "What happened after that?" he asked.
"She said she would take me to a mental hospital if I didn’t stop"
"Stop what?"
"Stop..." I took a deep breath and made myself presentable again: back strait, arms by my side, voice in normal range. I took a deep breath. And then another one. I looked outside. "She wanted me to stop yelling in front of Elly."
"Why?"
"Because she didn't want me to hurt her!" I carefully let my face dissolve and show every emotion I felt. "I want to tell mom how much she's hurting me, but every time I try to Elly’s in the room and I can't! Or she finds some other excuse, like..." I waved my arms around as if searching for something. "My brother." I flopped down. He looked at me, concerned I had said I was being hurt by my mom. "It's nothing serious!" I reassured, "Just emotional stuff." Here my voice got weak, as if I didn't think I should be upset. "I just needed to change something. I can't keep just let her hurt me without say something about it." I ducked my head in shame, "even if it does hurt Elly." I stared outside the window again. He was trying to let me rant, I knew it. Get it out if your system. I heard someone say in my mind. I wasn't letting him fix me. This was a delicate game; be upset enough not to have to go back to mom's house but be sane enough not to be locked up. The man across from me shifted, fidgeting almost as much as me. I knew what this meant. He was a nerd and his text book of psych advice wasn't helping him now. It was just bare bones human emotion, my territory. I just stared at him for a while. (people get uncomfortable when you stare. I learned that one not too long ago) He asked me a few more questions. I said my mom was bad and I was just a girl trying her best in a world not meant for children's idea. He went back to my mom and dad's room. I heard mumbling through the door. I didn't want to listen. I knew they'd be arguing and worst of all: I didn't want him to think my mom was sane.
I was let out of the room after about thirty minutes. I didn't have a clock. They had taken all my devices away. Me and my dad went home. We stopped by my mom's car on the way out. My dad saw the pile of trash sitting in the passenger seat. "What happened?"
"It didn't hit her. I wanted to go to your house and said if she didn't let me I would keep putting things in the passenger seat. From a few seats back. On the highway."
"Did you tell the psychiatrist about this?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I didn't want him to know I was hurting my mom."
"Elisabeth, you didn't hit her with anything." he said, staring at the sky in bewilderment.
"Yeah, but we were on the highway and Elly was in the car."
"How does being on the highway make it dangerous?"
"I could have distracted her and made her crash. That's why I didn't hit her with anything. I think my aim is pretty good. I'm surprised I hit every shot." I surveyed the pile, noticing its height. My dad looked disgusted. "What is it?" I asked. He waved at the seat and slapped his hand to his forehead. I knew what he wanted to say. A trash pile that reached two and a half feet high. I remember my cousins making fun of me for how messy our car was: food on the floor, three week old garbage. I remember my mom getting upset at me for not cleaning it out while she 'cleaned the kitchen'. I remembered the other time she said that. I had made the yard presentable while she watched Tik Tok on the bar stool. I could see it through the window. The whole two hours of it. She asked me to help clean the kitchen when I came inside. No, I had said, disgusted. With five minutes left she was still scrolling as she put things away and yelled at me for my inadequacy. I didn't come out to talk to the guests that night. She still won't admit she did something wrong. Just a few hours ago she had denied the fact that that scene ever occurred. She denied that I was suicidal. She denied that covid was gone: keep them in the house forever! She had told me she wanted that. Said she wanted us to live with her forever, never growing old. Our husbands could move in with them and we could all sleep together. I shuttered. "Do you want some Indian food?" My dad asked. "Yes." I nodded. The thoughts were closing in; a knife to the chest. Ignore them, push them back but they keep coming anyway. Three years later and I still dreamed of the end. I still remember every day at school when scissors sucked me in. I remember the terror I felt when ever those urges wouldn’t quit.
Black and White Drama
Been trying to do my best
ignoring all the rest
let comments wash over my skin
I can't let them win
They try to tear me down
I get up off the ground
but I'm not invincible
even if that's what we're told
I try to do my best
ignoring all the rest
the comments make me wince
ignore their ignorance
put up your own shield
you're the mature one here
don't let them down
don't stand out from the crowd
don't let it anger you
don't let it make you cry
if I said these thoughts out loud
would I die inside?
would anyone listen to me?
or would they just let me bleed?
a christian democracy that craves progress of autonomy.
Why can't you see
its not about me
its about society
the conflict overriding blood
two way street
black and white
friend or thief
I just want to be me
insignificant
imperfect
doing the best I can
don't bring me into your argument
When you said...
When you said I could never be a boy, I wondered if you knew what trans-gender meant. Next, I was offended because... just, why would you say that? I was trying to come out to you! I was also concerned. To be honest, I thought you would react better. And I know you are thinking of it from a biological stand point; you're a doctor, what else are you supposed to do? But, I think its not a choice. Like, why would I make this choice? Why would I choose to be ridiculed by all my friends? Why would I choose for my dad to tell me that he would take me seriously if I was twenty five? Why would I want you to call me by my dead name and continue to use incorrect pronouns after months of me begging you not to? Why do you think I would do something that could make my teachers hate me? Why would I say something I know would make my uncle beat me up if he heard it out loud? Why would I do this? Do you really want to know? Its because I love you and I want you to know the truth. I want to be able to tell you what I'm really feeling and trust you when it comes to right and wrong. I want a dad who believes in me and accepts me for who I am. I wanted you to know me the way I see myself: beautiful. I can't think of a better way for me to express my love than telling the truth.
I still remember you teaching me that lying about the cookie crumbs on my bed was wrong. I remember you taking me to church and telling me that Jesus loves me as much as you do. I remember at night when you would tell me a story. I remember those walks you took singing me to sleep on your back with Silent Night instead of something more like a lullaby because it was the only song you knew (its still my favorite). I remember you telling me you'd always love me, that I'd always be your little girl. I wanted to tell you the truth. I wanted you to grow with me, I hoped that you'd share my view and try to learn. I hoped that instead of saying little girl you'd say I was your little kid, always safe when I'm with you. I hoped that you'd love me as I love you, not expecting me to be perfect but being there anyway. I love you dad and I always will. I hope you can see that still.
Love, Me, always and forever
Am I the Hero or the Sinner?
There is a fear that I will not succeed.
A fear that this world will get the better of me.
A guilt that knowing things too deep, is causing me to weep.
A hope that something may change.
Do I want it to anyway or is it just the dream of people who hate me anyway?
Is my constant anxiety something I solve with a pill?
I stare down
Is this real?
so I dare?
will I will?
I want this world to end
The dark that I've been living in.
But, in fighting do I become a hero or embrace the demons I've been living with?
How can I escape this phase?
Could I just turn the page?
Is it possible to escape or am I stuck in this cage of mistakes?
The screaming of normal talk
Is it the way that I walk?
Do you hear like me?
or is it just the TV?
Hope, help me get out of this cage.
I hope that I'll never fade
But I made some mistakes
that I cannot unmake
will I ever be the same?
They say the darkness, it never leaves.
It will always be a part of me.
Maybe there's a good side.
Maybe this terror could make me the hero.
Maybe it wasn't a mistake
maybe I shouldn't ever have been born in the first place.
No,
I was meant to be on this world
I'm not just some little girl
I can't remember
what makes me so bitter
Have I turned old like a cynical sinner?
Maybe it's not too late.
Maybe I made a mistake.
I hope that things will change.
I might be the hero someday.
A Chance
Sometimes there is a book that comes into your life and you look at it.
You pick it up and open to the title page. It tells you theres hope. It tells you something you wish with all your heart was true but you can't believe it yet. So, you put it down. Then, a few years later, you remember that book. You remember the promise it gave you and you think, maybe I'm ready to hope. Maybe I'm ready to take a chance. You remember how it told you there were possibilities even in the darkest days and you remember how you felt it could never happen. You pick up the book. You open to the title page. You tell yourself, I'm willing to take this chance. To take the chance that maybe it isn't real. That maybe it was all a dream. But I'm willing to take the chance that this children's book is telling the truth. That maybe there isn't a faun making tea in Narnia, but there just might be a light in the forest or a hope in the dark. So you take a breath, breath it out and read.
why fol low the rULES?
Why fol low the rULES? of anything. Why write on a midnight breeze? Why sing songs of glory when we cannot justify peace?
Why do we sit here writing? when there s so much more we can do? Why do wi pass the time like'a sil-o-ette on da blues.
Why follow constructions! They'er just'a rule anyway. Why do anything? when it can be done a different way'
(everything I pounder in life-
The World Made Sense
Once upon a time there was a boy who didn't know anything of the world. He tried his best to understand everything, every conversation, every single phrase that was spoken to him. No matter what he did, he could never understand. Abram was his name.
One day Abram was walking down the street when he saw a cat. She had whiskers that looked too big for her and her tail hung at an angle. Abram put down his stuff and walked over to the cat. She shied away at first, but Abram waited. He waited until the cat was no longer scared. He waited until her tail curled up and her fur seemed to smoothen. He then reached out his hand. Instantly the cat ducked but she moved closer to him none the less. She was purring. He found his grip and ran his hand down along the cat's back. She arched and dug her claws into the ground. Abram smiled. This cat had not had a good meal in a long time. She purred at his touch but her hunger was more. She sniffed over to the ground where Abram had dropped his packages.
The cat nuzzled her way into a parcel of meat, licking at its sides. Abram quickly stopped her, but couldn't help breaking off a chunk of the bread he was bringing home for dinner. With a last goodbye, Abram heard the bell tolling and headed home. He hoped to see that black cat again yet if anything had ever been so unreal he couldn't remember it. It was as if a phantom had appeared and stolen his brain for a moment then set within it a cat. A cat that could not go away. It haunted him night and day. In taking a little bread for the cat he had carved himself a mind of steel, forever thinking of a cat who will never come back, just as if she had died that day. The cat was gone but she was forever in the little child's brain, an echo of a long gone day. A day when, for a moment, the world made sense.
I’m Fine.
(trigger warning: suicide and discrimination)
I tell myself it's fine.
I repeat those words every single day.
I try to make them true.
I lie to make them true.
You ask me if I'm ok. "Yes, I am ok." I say, taking the time to envision the letters and their sounds in my head before speaking. I wonder if others have a hard time. If they think talking is hard, if they understand that stuttering and blanking and waiting for the words to come are a daily occurrence for me. Do I understand? Explaining why I can't talk is hard. I have to go through the process of talking to do that.
But, it - is - ok. Think, force yourself to think in a different way than is natural. Read the words in your mind as you talk. Animate the letters soaring in. That will make it interesting enough, right? Pay attention: think about how each syllable fits together before saying anything and never talk before thinking. And sometimes, never talk at all. But its ok. Everything is fine. It has to be, right? I can't not hold it together. Letting myself come undone at the seems would be a tragedy at best. That's what everyone says... or is it just me? I can't think. I can't come undone. Aaahhh! I feel like I'm screaming inside, a constant melancholy of anger and rage. I just want to be understood. Is that ok? No, its not. I can't understand myself, let alone ask others for help. But its fine. Everything is fine. Trust me. It will be ok, someday, maybe, I hope so. Do I even deserve to hope? I'm non-binary, which screams at me to be shut down. I deserve to be hated just for that, at least that is what I was told in church and they know everything. I know I can trust that my Pastor knows what's right. Even my mom says so. Everyone says so. My parents do, my grandma does, my friends do and I love them all. I trust them and I would do anything to earn that loyalty back. But its ok. There is nothing I can demand from others that I'm not willing to give. I guess... But, something about that's wrong. No! I can't just ask for anything but I can just expect to be given what I give in return or at least the respect to be considered something other than a stepping stone in a story that isn't my own. I want to be ok. I try to be ok. How can I be ok when I haven't earned the respect I deserve, but I have! I earned it a hundred times over. I have done more than you ever could. The only thing I got in return were labels saying Disformed, Broken, Thing, Her. I'm angry, I can't deny that, but I'm ok. I have to be ok. One slip is a forever fall into the lack of hope that swells within. I can't not be ok. I'm telling you, I'm fine. Ignore the PTSD. Ignore the fact that my hand shivers. Ignore that I stutter when I talk. Ignore that I don't have someone taking care of me. Ignore my irrational fears and crazy obsessions. Just believe you are ok and you will be. Don't worry. No one could ever except me for being me. No one understands some one who's trans, and its fine. I'm fine. Everything is fine. I'll just be here. "Don't worry," I say, "I understand. I remember what you taught me: be grateful for everything you have and always, always respect your elders." Don't worry, I understand it isn't for control. I get why you can't change to help me. You just don't care enough and its acceptable because no one can ever understand that I'm gay, no one can ever under stand that I'm trans or autistic. It goes against what God decreed. How can I compare my knowledge with his? Don't worry, I understand. I understand everything thoroughly. Just don't come asking when I disappear. It's your own fault I died. You didn't understand. I returned the favor. Thanks for the opportunity, Christ. You saved me from myself. I met hate young. Now be kind and give me a break. I'm jumping today.