when it gets really tough:
1. you can cry and self destruct later by drinking your weight in fluid ounces of liquor. my friend r.p did that and said he almost upchucked his spleen. not a good idea.
2. you can write about it and get really fucking deep and hope that somebody gets the metaphor that you so wonderfully created in allusion to your fucking windowpane. nobody will know other than you that you have your and initials and theirs scratched underneath the bottom-right of your once-pristine window pane.
3. you can keep breathing because that’s kinda easy to do. you’re going to want to scream, you’re going to want to cry. but that’s why i believe in a faith, i believe in myself, and i believe in us. there’s got to be a reason why we share air, share time.
my seconds aren’t really any longer than yours but i’m sure yours are harder to get through. the minutes won’t go by fast enough till you are better. but you will be better.
4. you can just wait it out. i’ll be here at the door. i’ll bring movies, hershey - my own even - kisses, and soda. i’ll wait for you until you’re ready to re-enter the world. i’m right here. you can sit and you can hit me as much as you’d like - just try to avoid my nose. i hear breaking your nose sucks, so yeah. i’ll be right here. we can sit and talk until you’re ready. we can wait. i have time, and i know even if it’s like you have a weight upon you that you can’t lift and even if i’m barely five-foot-fucking-two i’ll find a way to lift it off of you.
5. just give me time.”
i make so many motherfucking typos. sometimes i just want to slam my head onto my keyboard and say “i’m out and fuck this”.
be good for me. make me the best you can be with what you have. hold your arms out for me. hug me tight to keep me safe with what you have. listen for me. tell me how to be better. love me for me. teach me how to live again.
i don’t need your wallet. i need your heart. i need you. and you are good. you are not god, and i am no saint.
but you are what i want and i need you to know that.”
that was the most personal thing i’ve ever posted, i am sorry if you don’t like it.
i do, and i hope you understand that my liking it is because it is the most me it’ll ever be.
my mom never told me about sex
until i figured it out myself from
those cool kids in the grade
who thought that sex was fun
and when i finally got the guts to ask her
about what sex really was she looked
at me and said “it got me you”:
so she’s out of the picture then for
a mentor when it came to sex but
at least she colored that bit with
hey guess what YOU GET A FUCKING
CHILD THAT MIGHT EXPERIENCE SEX.
and when i got that revelation
that this james guy my dad knew from
fucking high school was another
educator of mine of this topic
that apparently is so taboo
because it’s the physical relationship
between to individuals that should
be reserved for the time it’s right
i didn’t realize sex was also rape
because my mother never told me
that rape was sex and luckily
i didn’t get pregnant at 11
i was fucking 11 years old
and i barely knew what the
distributive property was in algebra
let alone that fact that james
was not a pristine man
who just right then
really wanted to teach
me some new things
and at 15 - when i finally
understood that what it was
was actually rape: the bloody,
scarring, dirty, usage of intercourse
teach me that sex is supposed to be love
teach me that sex is supposed to be happy
teach me that sex is not supposed to be rape
teach me that sex is not supposed to be
everything that i’ve learned it to be.
i fear that it’s a taboo topic because
of that fact that it commonly involves nudity
but it shouldn’t be because here i am
standing and knowing that sex is rape
and sex is also making love
sex is sex
and the sky is blue and it’s not going
to change that fact that i was raped
and that i was considered foolish for
allowing him to touch me.
i was 11.
and the sky was still blue
all the way back fucking then.
here i am standing the fuck back up
and giving the sky a thumbs up
for not changing when i was changing
and learning about myself because
fuck james, fuck this, fuck sex
because i wasn’t taught right.
i’m still standing and i’m fighting
for those who have been placed
in a box like i was that night:
the toughest thing you’ll ever face
is knowing that their sky
is still just as blue as yours too.
odd as it is, a “fuck” or a “holy shit” does the trick. or even adding on to the post with tags, classifying my work as a part of the categories of your life.
that hits home sometimes.
if you are writer-slash-hey-michelle-i’d-love-to-share-things-with-you-creature, please message me. or just tag a post with /scelerophobia or /mhzpoems. :)
it feels like i’m cheating on this girl
that i value more than the other guy
that i’m sharing secrets with:
when i was younger
cheating was telling little jo on the side
that beau had a 5 card during go-fish
but now that the stakes are higher
it’s a matter of “if i could have been yours
i would have been this for you”
and it’s a matter of relaying information
over to the person you love too;
i’m not even in love you yet i
feel like i am cheating with you
i am telling her to play cards
that you tell me to orchestrate
you are pulling her strings like a puppet
and you are pushing my buttons
i feel like you’re stabbing into my back
until my spine breaks and i fall
you can break me with a little push
and i never had any intention
of ever letting it get to this point.
somehow when it comes to you and i, i try to put one and one together and i just can’t seem to get two.
betty down the street lost her husband 32 years ago at 45 and she still puts one and one together and gets a two.
then there’s us. that’s how i know this wasn’t meant to be.”
if i loved you the basins of our sinks
would be splattered with toothpaste
from the mornings because miraculously
you’d get me to laugh so hard i can’t
form words coherently
you were always a morning person
whereas i was the night type
if i loved you my wrists
would have been covered in bracelets
filled with charms that signified the
brighter days of our lives together
and not with little lines that
kept count of the memories that
you drove through my mind
like a screwdriver
if i loved you the bed would be warm
and not heated with a glacier
of pure disgust towards the other
we’d said that we’d stick it through
but once one of us finally
pushed the needle through
the other’s skin
we broke each other and ended us
all while filling one of us more
whole-heartedly with everything
that we had in us
if i loved you i would not be
sitting in our old living room
wrapped up in your football sweatshirts
piecing together a gift that
you had given me on our anniversary
which was a jigsaw puzzle
of us underneath the eiffel tower
back when we were so fucking
excited that we thought that
we were in love
i cannot piece us together
even if they say that opposites attract
i thought you were looking for the
very same thing that i was but
i fear so much that if i loved you
i would have left earlier.
i used to paint you beautiful
and i would color you and
boldly let everybody know
all the good about you:
but when we called it quits
and you left on me i would
paint you as a hideous monster
who abused me and who
fell in love with another soul
matter of fact is that i cannot
control you from loving another
and the truth is
you deserve better
(i painted you ugly to others
so they would feel the pain and hate
i felt for you and likewise
they would stop talking
about what a monster you were
to my face
i needed you out of my life
so i wouldn’t hear about
everything that you loved
that wasn’t me
i am a monster
who holds themselves at night
while crying into your old shirts
i need you so much closer
and i can’t bear to hear about you
i still paint you beautiful
and i want that all to myself.)