Duality Read online

  A memory will flicker to light,

  Or a man will grab a woman’s arm a little too harshly,

  And I’m back where I was that May,

  Hands shaking, tears spilling out the corners of my eyes

  And dropping onto the pillow that I didn’t want to be

  on.

  For a year after your hands invaded my body, I ignored

  the effect they had on it.

  My mind wouldn’t let me acknowledge that something

  was wrong,

  So my body took on that stress, that pain.

  They were subtle, small changes.

  My chest was permanently tight

  My mind began to play tricks on itself.

  I couldn’t drink.

  Not anymore.

  Not after what had happened before.

  It doesn’t matter how much time passes.

  Because it only takes a moment to travel back.

  I always wanted….

  Isn’t that how it always happens?

  Wanting something without understanding it?

  I always wanted a story worth telling,

  (Or that I deemed worth telling).

  But not like this.

  Not like this.

  Not. like. this.

  “I love you”

  Rolled off your tongue as a treat to yourself

  Something sweet to taste in your own mouth.

  A statement that convinced you

  That you were just as good as you thought you were.

  For Anya Silver:

  Who cares about the hair on your head

  When you are a woman made of fire?

  If syringes were swords, you’d strike fear into every heart

  Because of your familiarity with weapons of mass reconstruction.

  Terrible things to say to someone in pain:

  “Calm down.”

  “Someone has it worse.”

  “Everything happens for a reason.”

  “At least you don’t have to deal with my problems.”

  “You’ll get over it.”

  “Time heals everything.”

  “God has a plan.”

  “Have you prayed about it?”

  I was your perfect cup of tea

  Sweet and strong and steaming hot.

  But once the cup cooled,

  So did your desire for a drink.

  And even though I was the same

  You decided you were different,

  And no longer wanted my comforting warmth.

  (One day you’ll be thirsty again,

  But I’ll be someone else’s cup of tea.)

  I don’t need another. stupid. metaphor.

  I need a goddamn miracle.

  Being with you was a one-way transaction

  Where you got my body and I got disappointment.

  I thought I’d found someone who wanted to talk about the big questions with me,

  But when I brought up those questions you’d silence me with your mouth on mine

  And be content to enjoy my body

  When I just wanted to enjoy your mind.

  Time: an idol people use to increase business and anxiety.

  Focusing on time terrifies me because

  Ticking clocks are just ticking time bombs.

  You are not worth

  The ink in this pen or the thoughts in my head.

  I like to write about beautiful things,

  And your soul

  Is the ugliest fucking one

  I’ve ever seen.

  You ARE a good person

  You are good

  Good

  Good

  To the core.

  Because you care about

  And fear the idea

  Of being a bad person.

  That makes you a good person

  War Paint

  Every time I look in the mirror I feel like I’m going to war.

  I know the comparison is inappropriate,

  but no amount of battle paint that I put on my face,

  brush onto my eyelids and cheekbones,

  will camouflage me into this battle enough to get out alive.

  Some women are carving new bones into their skin with shades darker than their own

  which is fine,

  But when I look at my face and see how few bones show through my skin,

  I can’t even muster up the courage to try.

  When I stand in my closet trying to pick out armor,

  none of it is strong enough to withstand the blows that come from inside.

  The armor is too thin, too tight,

  not cut to my body shape which has been decided by somebody else (what the hell is a pear-shape anyway?),

  rather than the body itself I tried to nurture on my own, doing the best that I could

  with the little information that I had on how to love and nurture and grow these limbs of mine into a fully functioning adult who is proud of herself.

  She is trying her best but she is in the midst of a war.

  And I know war is not a nice metaphor, not politically correct,

  but it is the only one that seems accurate,

  that seems intense enough

  for the thoughts that shoot out like bullets into my own brain

  but they are also coming from my own mind.

  It’s a constant cycle a reflection of myself over and over

  that is reflected back in the mirror

  back in the closet

  back to me.

  How do you fight an enemy that hides in plain sight?

  It hides in the dip over my waistband,

  My thighs that don’t look like hers.

  He would like me if my hair was curly,

  Or if I could pull off a crop top, a perfect cat eye.

  It hides in secret places that only I can notice:

  My stubby fingers, the way my hips dip in then out,

  These are attacks too small to harm any normal soldier,

  They go unnoticed by everyone else,

  But I am drowning in the gunfire while also grasping the trigger.

  Feed me the lotus flowers so I forget.

  Let Odysseus continue his adventure alone,

  Because right now, I’d rather be ignorant in nowhere

  Rather than go through the pain of trying to get home.

  Fill me a plate with Alice’s cookies,

  The “eat me”s and “drink me”s that will take me to Wonderland.

  Give me consumable amnesia from these feelings,

  To shrink me to the size that I feel I already am.

  Drip a drop of forgetfulness draught into my morning coffee.

  The apothecary won’t notice a few missing vials.

  Juliet may have been on to something when she faked her death

  To avoid the pain of confrontation for a while.

  Right now I’m tricking myself into thinking that pills and Potions are milk and honey

  And gobbling down every bite

  Because living is too hard to do without something to take the edge off,

  Something to make it light.

  Maybe I deserved it.

  Maybe I deserved it.

  Maybe I deserved it.

  I think I deserved it.

  I think I deserved it.

  I deserved it.

  I deserved it.

  I was asking for it.

  Pain does not obey the limits we try to impose on it.

  Letter to God:

  I don’t know if I can worship somebody who says that

  they love their creations

  but allows them to suffer so much pain.

  I don’t know if I believe in you anymore

  after all of the suffering I’ve been through and no end in

  sight.

  I don’t know if the good news that you have promised

  can cancel out the deep, deep darkness inside of me.

  I’m tired of caring so much
about my loved ones when they clearly don’t give a shit about themselves.

  I’m tired of feeling like I’m never going to advance in my career because I’m young and a woman

  and honestly I’m tired of the expectations from people who don’t get it.

  I’m tired of everyone talking about how they hate their lives so much.

  I’m tired of wondering if things could be better in a different place then scorning myself for thinking such a thought

  since change is supposed to start on the inside.

  I’m tired of feeling lonely and taken advantage of and isolated by so many.

  And I’m tired of always being on the brink of a breakdown.

  Actually, I’m not tired.

  I am exhausted.

  On the day after the last day of your life,

  Your teachers will have a hushed meeting before the bell rings.

  People will walk down the hall in silence,

  Occasionally punctuated with sobs as they round corners.

  The bathrooms stalls will lock and the toilet paper will disappear, drying secret tears.

  People will stop to hug in the hall

  And won’t let go for what feels like hours.

  People will feel guilty for not having known you better

  Or your younger sister two grades below you.

  Instead of sharing stories, your teachers will share tears during their lunch break

  Because their students have seen too much death, too much pain

  in four short years.

  And when the intercom beeps for a school wide announcement

  Everyone’s hearts will beat at the same, horrifying tempo:

  “Again? Again? Again?”

  My anxiety is lightning in a bottle.

  Beautifully tragic on the outside,

  But destructive and life-threatening inside.

  From the outside it’s empowering to watch me handle this

  Electric pain

  This buzzing mind

  And live amidst it.

  On the inside

  I can’t see past the blinding, flashing light,

  The constant crackling an ever-present reminder

  That my mind is not calm, not normal.

  I cannot have a simple conversation

  Without an electric shock to remind me of a fear or insecurity.

  Lightning in a bottle is a beauty to behold

  But no one would want to live within its glass walls.

  The doctor said point to where it hurts.

  So first my fingers go to my chest

  But my heartbeat is still beating faintly.

  My fingers trail to my mind

  Where your face is burned into the walls of my brain.

  They pause on my eyes, tired from looking backwards at what we were,

  Then back down to my stomach because it twists into knots when I think of you.

  Each part of my body carries your memory

  Slow tying my muscles in knots from the weight.

  But I don’t know how to say that my soul is hurting the hardest,

  So I tell the doctor, “Everywhere. I hurt all over.”

  Youth group boys:

  They whoop and holler and rip off their shirts

  When they win ultimate frisbee.

  They have shaggy hair and graphic t shirts.

  They smell terrible.

  They’re taught that their bodies are wild animals that must be tamed.

  They are also taught that emotion, depression, and anxiety

  Are weakness.

  That they need to pray for stronger faith

  When their sadness feels overwhelming.

  If they are not masculine enough then they are a failure.

  If they’re not confident enough then they are weak.

  Youth group girls:

  They have long hair and flip flops and screaming laughter.

  They gather in groups to talk about school and the future

  And boys who smile at them.

  They are wild and giggly and awkward and free.

  They are taught that men do not like difficult girls,

  But they like ones who are meek and domestic.

  They are taught to cover their bodies and feel shame,

  And that it is their job to control the eyes of another.

  They are taught to be chaste and pure,

  Then flip the switch on their wedding night.

  They learn shame and guilt and “sorry”

  From the moment they bleed.

  I remember my beautiful self, from before.

  When everything I touched turned to flowers,

  Buds blossoming at the pass of my fingertips.

  I remember being both the creator and the art,

  The gardener and the flower,

  Putting the wild and beautiful into the world by being it.

  I remember that time, before time was the enemy.

  Before hours went missing from my mind,

  Time that spurred years of confusion rather than creation.

  At first my roses only turned black,

  Red petals fading to grey.

  Then my touch became poison, and every flower withered.

  I hurt everything I touched.

  But I was one of the flowers as well,

  Poisoning myself right alongside the rest of the garden.

  Flowers are delicate things after all.

  Artists talk about the importance of negative space,

  How that space is different from nothingness.

  Negative space is its own entity, an active part of a visual, an experience.

  Where is the negative space in life?

  The things on the edges of my living, my day to day activities?

  What brushes the edges of what I deem important,

  Quietly whispering,

  “I’m here too. And I still matter.”

  Trauma:

  The pit in your stomach that never goes away.

  The buzz in the back of your mind.

  The beat of your heart chanting the melody of

  “Never enough”

  “Never enough”

  “Never enough”

  Pretty Pain

  The world wants your pain to be pretty.

  They want the afterward,

  The sped-up suffering,

  Skipping to the good part where your pain has made

  you stronger.

  People don’t want to see active pain,

  Just past pain.

  Pretty pain.

  You know, the pain that doesn’t exist.

  People have romanticized the idea of suffering then

  Healing.

  Turning trauma into inspirational stories,

  Interviews with survivors where they cry because they

  are just

  So damn happy to be alive.

  It is pretty pain.

  Pain that doesn’t make people uncomfortable

  Because it is not. real.

  To simplify pain into a one dimensional form of just the

  Coming out of it

  Negates all that someone went through.

  The world wants aesthetic teardrops,

  Pretty, skinny girls saying things get better,

  Sad songs for a cathartic cry.

  The world doesn’t want to acknowledge real pain

  Because it does not look pretty.

  It looks like eating crackers for dinner

  Because you don’t have an appetite

  But your hands are shaking from hunger.

  It looks like not showering for days,

  Letting dishes with rotten food pile in the sink.

  Are you cringing yet?

  Grimacing at reality?

  Real pain is the circle of shame that keeps you from

  speaking

  So people think you’re just soft-spoken

  But your vocal cords were actually ripped out

  And ev
ery time you try to speak your mouth fills with

  blood.

  That is not pretty.

  It’s disgusting.

  Just like pain.

  You want me to cry tiny tears of glittering mascara

  Because anger and rage make you squirm in your seat.

  Words like “rape” and “suicide” are too harsh.

  We water them down to make stories prettier

  While the women telling them haven’t felt pretty in years.