if i were to expose myself,
would you still find me beautiful?
if i could grip the ladder of my ribs and
rip it open, crack the cage and set it all free,
all the guts and blood and hatred i
keep under iron lock and key -
how would you see through the carnage?
these ugly dripping bones and tar-like pools
growing around my knees are just
mirrors that i use to recognize the
truth of me.
i understand if its hard for you to see.
i want to say i don’t care if you turn away but
there’s something that wrenches out of
place in my chest when your eyes flick away -
even if only for a moment.
i’m ruined by the time you brave the sight.
I hear him calling me beautiful
I feel his breath on the back of my neck
I still hear him asking me to smile more
I shouldn’t be bothered by it now
I am used to the cat calls
I’ve grown into my clothes
And apparently I’m not the only one who’s noticed
But his voice it’s generic
Every other middle age pedo white man has the same voice
I just thought maybe I won’t have to deal with this because I am still young
I was wrong, I still have to hear his voice
A General Feeling
Panic attacks. The uneasy feeling of having failed, when you thought you were succeeding.
There we were, in my bedroom. And I am silent. My then boyfriend is railing against me, the most upset I’ve ever seen him. I am now, to him, the most uninteresting person he knows. He is no longer attracted to me.
But what is an interesting person? His explanation eludes me. I am the most depressed person I know. Does that exempt me?
What is panic, except a general feeling?
And it keeps me awake at night, three years later.
Three years later and I am living day to day to be the most interesting person I can be. My silence suffocating me.
Being alone is a silent disease. And lack of self-awarness is what makes me afraid, and I only feel it in the darkest hours.
The idea, importance and intensity of closure keeps me awake at night.
We fight for closure because somewhere we feel we deserve it. every ounce of it.
But its sad, how we dont realise our wanting ‘it’ doesn’t make the other person think we deserve it too.
It doesnt make them value us enough to give us anything, let alone closure.
Thoughts bounce around my head like a pinball machine. From my brain, bounce off my closed eyes, to my clenched teeth. Each night it’s the same game. Flip to one side. Hold the pillow. Unclench your teeth.
What does it mean if you dream about your teeth breaking? I swear mine are going to crack under the pressure of my jaw at night. I hope it’s a good omen because one night I’m going to open my mouth and they’re all going to come pouring out like little pinballs.
I search desperately for good omens like a sailor searches the night sky for stars to guide his ship. I feel like a rudderless ship adrift in turbulent seas. Then I remember being afloat on a kayak in the middle of a pond, alone. The almost imperceptible rocking of the boat as I lay in the afternoon sun. It was like I was home. In the womb. Back to the beginning.
The womb. The beginning. For me it was the end. I watched as my son slid from my stomach. I cried because I was once again alone. I treasure those last moments where the babies were my secret. Mine to protect. To nurture. To grow. To not be alone.
Alone. The worst feeling. The silence. The emptiness of the air. Nothing moves. I start to wonder, am I real? Do I exist? Is this just a dream? Am I someone’s good omen?
Little Sheep's gentle snoring, the relaxation in his brows, and the peace in the way his face is tucked snuggly into plushies and pillows. Even when they're closed, his eyes sparkle and twinkle and glimmer and gleam. It's my own little Northern Lights, my personal glittering stream. And a sight like that keeps me up at night