i hope she’s grateful i was there
i hope that i did right
and i hope that when she thinks of me,
she’s forgotten all i did wrong
and remembers that i was there
in the white-walled waiting room,
where she baptised my shirt with tears
with her slumped shoulder in my arms
while we grasped at all
it meant to lose.
when i sat and read with her family
though she didn’t expect me to stay,
how i stayed to hear her updates
and prayed they’d bring them hope.
i hope that she remembers
i was there,
and forgave the later when i
was not.
memoir poetry
Poem: We, the Rapists (trigger warning)
Rape,
The fair and just punishment
For being.
A righteous consequence
For those short skirts
And that drunk blood
And being out late
And letting me pay
And being alone
And the friendzone
And the needs of
Your fellow man.
What I see belongs to me.
And if you show too much
I’ll touch.
If you show too little
I’ll touch.
If you’re too loud
If you’re too quiet
If you’re too young
Or too old
If you don’t say no
I’ll touch.
I’ll touch.
I’ll touch.
What I see belongs to me.
These your repercussions for
Wanting too much
Trying to be equal
Ignoring my advances
Denying my rights.
Tame the bitch
Remind her
“I am man.”
Let us poke and prod the daughters
Of our families and friends.
“Not all men,”
But with stats like 1 in 6,
there must be more than 1 man.
Is it shame that ties our tongues
Or guilt that makes us scream?
If he is guilty, why not I?
What I did was worse than he,
but I’m a good guy,
So that can’t be.
I didn’t know it was rape
I didn’t bother asking.
I didn’t know it was assault
I just wanted to get lucky.
I didn’t know it was molestation.
Her eyes were shut, so she must want it.
I didn’t know it wasn’t wanted
she was too drunk to speak up.
She made me wait so long
she owed me so.
She said we’d have sex long ago
But didn’t want to too many times.
Her words were hushed
No “no” was mentioned, though
I admit her knees were stiff
And womanhood was tight.
I thought that just meant she liked it
We laughed and drank stiff tequila
Until she passed out in my car
When she woke with my head between her legs.
I thought that’s what she wanted.
She tried to pull away but
God it felt so good, So
I held on a little tighter ‘til
I was good and ready to let go.
It’s not my fault,
They’ll tell you so.
We’ll blame it on my alcohol
Or hurl guilt onto the media
Or maybe I’ll just curse the porn
Filling up my browser history.
Protect our sons
And fuck our daughters.
Don’t let lying whores
Ruin the lives of growing boys.
We all make mistakes
Let us forgive
And be damned to
Any consequence.
My body is a right and privilege,
And all yours belong to me.
I’d never say that aloud,
But my action declare that belief.
My needs are all your problems.
And my ego, your damnation.
It’s not dark corners
you need fear, my loves.
It’s me and my good intentions,
it’s nice guys and blurred lines.
Poem: thin lines
It’s hard to love your body
when it’s the reason:
repeated
repeated
repeated
repeated
damage and transgressions.
It’s hard
to not want–
claw
shred
rip
–your own skin off
with shining acrylic
nails, a coffin shape,
etched to kill.
Or make yourself unappealing—
to get so
fat
averted eyes protect your dignity—
or conversely
to get so thin
you can’t
be seen. To be
so thin
that you disappear.
Or
skip the thin
and just
disappear all together.
You can’t violate the air,
Or the mist,
Or the wind.
So become the sky
line drawn
like a race track to heaven—
or hell.
depending
on which God you
believe in. Perhaps
just the abyss.
A white nothingness for all
eternity. With so
much bullshit,
a lot of nothing
sounds
sweet.
Poem: kids think the darnedest things
As a little girl,
I wished to be a boy
in hopes that you might
love me more.
.
When I became a woman,
I learned that little girls
Ought be careful what they wish for,
For you wished I wasn’t yours.
Poem: Wolves in our Closet
13 years of memories,
I count and shovel through
Recounting your transgressions
and tallying the lies,
And the multitude of times
You looked me in the eyes
Without a hint of the dirt
Piled in your mind.
No twitch of regret,
no downcast gaze,
Just a smile and a nod,
A hand reached out
To comfort your lost sheep.
I once called you hero.
I called to you in need.
With open arms,
You held me while
I’d weep.
But in the night
Out from shadows
With twitching hands
And thumbs.
There was poison in
Your fingers And
Corrosion in your head.
For 13 years,
You had your secrets.
For 25,
I called you friend.
But for 6 months,
I’ve called you nothing,
But the wolf hiding
In sheep’s clothing.
Poem: Your Name
Poem: Psychopaths and Socrates
We aren’t supposed to stare at the wall while we think. Philosophers and great thinkers stare at ceilings and stars, engrossed in the answers to the universe.
Only psychopaths stare at walls. We cannot be bothered to turn our heads to heaven.
Because the walls have answers heaven can’t provide. The wall holds secrets of humanity. Who cares about other galaxies—I want to understand the world around me. I want to understand you.
So I will keep staring at walls, lost in the galaxies in your mind, listening and waiting for the epiphany that will bring you back to me.
Poem: Joshua and the Devine Dysfunction
With cocaine in his veins
and a temper to match.
Jameson on his tongue—
The fire was set
with the words of a love song
He can’t seem to forget.
I’ll be his scapegoat
if that’s what he needs,
but at the end of the day
he just wanted to leave.
Didn’t wanna be the bad guy,
so he blamed it on me.
Poem: Rewrite the Stars
The breeze whispers
in my ear, singing me
your lullabies.
She tells me all about you
and the wings
you sprouted overnight.
She tells me how
she carried you through
Clouds that soaked your skin,
How you tried to
catch their vapors
in your tiny fingertips.
She tells me of
your eyes, lit by
the midnight moon.
How you stretched your
tiny arms to touch
that white balloon.
She tells me stories
of the stars you
dance with in twilight.
And how your giggles
light them up for me
every single night.
Poem: holy water
Having to get out of bed
brings me to my knees–
but only metaphorically,
because physically,
I have not left
my bed in days.
You consumed me
like a parasite
grazing upon its host.
I am the empty vessel
for which the ghost
of your soul resides.
I wither in self-pity
and drown in
a grief I did not
know was possible.
I am hollow,
carved out with curettes,
sutured, and sent home,
but devoid of ever
feeling home again.