Her

her

Cry for the little girl whose mommy always cries
Cry for the little girl whose daddy is never home
Who overhears loud fighting
And crashes in the middle of the night.
Cry for the little girl who stopped getting lullabies.
Cry for the little girl who had a nightmare one night
And who crawled into her mommy and daddy’s bed for comfort.
Cry for the little girl whose daddy touched her between her legs
Cry for the little girl who didn’t want to hurt her daddy
but she was getting hurt, too
So she hit him
And hit him
And hit him.
Cry for the little girl who went back to bed
Cry for the little girl who woke up confused, wet with urine,
And no one talked to her.
Cry for the little girl who made herself believe it was just her nightmare
The nightmare that she will have for decades to come.
The nightmare that will come back
Again, and again, and again, and again.
Cry for the little girl whose mommy started drinking
Whose lungs are burning and aching with smoke.
Cry for the little girl whose sister began to get angry
Who was placed in a dryer and had it turned on
Who was locked in a meat freezer
Who was electrocuted
And drowned
And beaten with a rock
And still has all the scars to prove it.
Cry for the little girl who slept outside one night
And no one noticed she was gone.
Cry for the little girl who slept outside for three weeks
And no one noticed she was gone.
Cry for the little girl who lost her virginity
And then he broke her rib
Cry for the little girl who was spit at, beat up and locked in lockers at school
Cry for the little girl whose mother threw chairs
And thought she was branded by Satan
And choked her daughters if they got out of line.
Cry for the little girl whose father was home now but too drunk to care.
Cry for the little girl who was drugged by boys
Again, and again, and again, and again
Cry for the little girl who started fantasizing about her father
Who loathed her own sexuality and was disgusted with her skin.
Cry for the little girl who fooled around with an older boy in a hot tub
Only to realize his friends were filming nearby
And what about that boyfriend that uploaded that video
The one of her going down on him to that porn site, cry about that too.
Cry for the little girl who was called a whore, a slut, easy, a piece of pussy, trash, loose, a bitch, a cunt, and such a fucking tease.
Cry for the little girl who had six,
Or was it seven
Fraternity boys attack her, rip her clothes off and throw them out the window.
Who went back home and had no one to tell.
Cry for the little girl who was raped by the neighbor boy
And still, 13 years later can’t drive down his road.
Cry for the little girl who was brave enough to leave and never look back.
Cry for the little girl who was raped again only one month later.
Remembering his piercing cold blue eyes, but was a total stranger.
Cry for the little girl whose doctor came in without gloves and forced himself inside her
Cry for the little girl whose masseuse went too high up her thigh
And wouldn’t stop, even when she cried.
Cry for the little girl who was assaulted three more times.
But can’t remember.
A silhouette of a person, an outline, a negative space cut out from reality.
Cry for the little girl whose memories began to evaporate from time
Cry for the little girl who was convinced by an older man that he could save her
Who just wanted to play with her
Who just wanted to use her, abuse her, degrade her, defile her, torture her and scar her
Again, and again, and again, and again
Cry for the little girl who was brave enough to leave and never look back.
Cry for the little girl who sought recovery.
Who faced her suicidal tendencies,
And her instincts to hurt and to hate.
Cry for the little girl who finally found her voice.
Once meager and weak
But now she could speak,
What a beautiful sound.
Cry for the little girl who learned about trust.
Not just in others, or herself, but in all of us.
Cry for the little girl who wanted her family again
And realized they were in more pain than her
So she cried for them.
Cry for the little girl who learned about love.
For the first time, feeling genuine care.
For being fearful of what she owed in return,
Realizing love is not a debt.
Cry for the little girl who learned how to make love.
With her spirit, her mind, her conscious body and her ever-grateful heart.
Cry for her joy, her returning childlike wonder, her intrigue with life.
Cry for her rejuvenation,
Her renewed sense of innocence
And Her resurrection.
Cry for the little girl that learned how to forgive.
Who prayed and cried for those who hurt her
For seeing clearly their pain like mountains over Her calm valley of water.
And once the tears have fallen, once they have rained into Her river
Watch them drift back to the sea
The vast horizon that is Her love
Not just for you, but for everybody.
Do not cry for the little girl, not anymore.
She does not want your tears.
This little girl has now lived for many years.
Cry for the sick, the disturbed, the tormented and weak.
Cry for their souls some refuge to seek.
Cry for their reflection, their need to introspect.
Cry for their lack of empathy and their inability to connect.
Cry for their healing, their cold and confused hearts.
Cry for our sake, for without their health we’ll all be pulled apart.
Our people are a hurting one, place your weapons down.
Speak up, trust, love
Only Her peace will be found.

My Candle Burns For You

my candle burns for you

My Candle Burns For You
Weeks go by,
Months even
My affections remain the same.
I stare at my candle
Unlit, blackened tip
Remembering our night
Under the stars
Under the flickering ceiling,
Under cover.
Silence, on a carpet
Silence, on a road
Silence, on the sand
Silence, on each other.
Wild and free
I am your home
As you are to me.
Delicate music
Plays in my ears
As I read you.
How is your day?
Come with me
Come with me tonight
Hold my hand
Again, and again, and again.
There you are.
I know your smell.
I saw you naked this morning,
Your skin is colder than mine
It’s okay though, it’s just fine.
Nothing will diminish
Your great beauty.
You call to me
Elementally, essentially
Taste the wild inside me.
My beloved garden.
My river of fireflies.
Write me, run with me
I am a woman,
Press your cheek against God’s
As you study my biology.
Meet me in the medial nature
As the man.
Search my skin
Break the rules
Prescient and visceral
Your tongue knows
My first language.
Thank you,
My binary star
And the infinite
Light that guided us home.
I place the unlit candle back.
Safe inside my drawer
For a later time
When I talk to you,
Once more.

The Little Inventor

CHINESE NEW YEAR

The Little Inventor
There once was a little girl
Who invented a time machine.
Sitting underneath her pine tree.
She clanked the parts together
Screwing a bolt in here
And hammering the metal down flat.
No one would believe her
Except something was different
The day that she came back.
Her voice had changed
Now soft and quiet.
And her eyes had aged, too.
Neighbors whispered, “problems at home.”
Her distant parents didn’t know what to do.
Teachers would advise private school,
Doctors peddled medicines,
The little girl just sat calmly, staring lightly
Awaiting more problematic comparisons.
She saw this day, the days between
The days before.
Wearing an uncomplicated smile
Daydreaming, breathing
Of the memories at the shore.
She kept growing up, growing older
Almost surprised with every year.
Lovers tried to learn her
Family always concerned with her
As she lived a life free, and without fear.
She saw her parents die,
And bore many children.
She loved, and loved, and loved
With abandon.
Yet, only the moon understood
How she circled ’round and ’round
Admiring and witnessing
Watching and waiting,
But never really feeling
Her feet plant in the ground.
Without questions and patiently present
Dancing in her favorite dream.
Reliving and rendezvousing with
Familiar faces, in slightly new spaces
Projecting from her mind
Onto a private movie screen.
A once young time traveler
Now faded and aging into her foreshadowed scenery
Elasticity leaving her once supple skin.
Lovingly longing out the window at the pine tree greenery.
Why did she come back to this life, one might wonder?
The stars sang of exaltation, relief of recognition
The moon now sighing at the poetry of her rendition.
She jumped in puddles,
Kissed a doe on the nose.
Sang so loud her voice gave out
And smelled an evening primrose.
Now standing at the foot of her shore,
Awaking as the little girl once more
Under her pine tree,
On Earth’s loving floor.

Wear Me

wear me

Wear Me
Her eyes are red
Bearing his tears
His hurt wears her
As the sun turns to set

She reaches out a hand
In her striped blue sweater
His loneliness wears her
As the sun turns to set

Her nightmares continue
Longing to sleep naked again
His tiredness wears her
As the sun turns to set

She is without poetry
A voice once ‘prolific’
His words wear her
As the sun turns to set

Her shadow doesn’t move
For the first time
His silence wears her
As the sun sets.

No

NO

PREFACE: I used to think it was important to only share recovery, and on that same wavelength, I used to think only love poems were the kinds that were important to share.  Today, I am reminded of the process and how I had to hear experience, then strength and hope in order to heal.  Knowing that you’re not alone is key to releasing the power that traumatic experiences have on the mental, emotional and spiritual states of the person who has been disturbed.  I am reminded that both light and dark exist together.  The following might be triggering for some assault/rape survivors.

My dream last night was about James.  He was the sweet neighbor boy who lived around the corner from my house growing up. We would ride our bikes around the dirt roads together.  One day he “forgot” his bike, so we had to walk, and he grabbed my hand and held it all afternoon.  We would go swimming in ponds and pick blackberries and on one evening, he gave me my first real kiss when I was 13 in the back of my mom’s car.

I remember wearing his football jersey to school on a Friday to support him for the game that evening.  Feeling important and trusted, I wore it like a badge of my status, popularity and commitment to my new and first boyfriend.  After the game, he kissed me again, this time in front of his friends.  I was amazed at his confidence and bravery in liking me.  He was a year older at 14, and fellow friends envied that an older boy was dating me. It gave me this image of “maturity” where locker room girls asked for dating advice.

James and I didn’t date long, however, age differences at that time of puberty made a big difference.  Girls at 14 were starting to make-out with boys, get felt-up, even play below the belt.  But I wasn’t ready.  Nervous to even french kiss him, that didn’t seem to be enough for his current appetite.  However, we remained friends all throughout junior high and into high school.

We went to parties together often, although he typically would socialize with the more popular, athletic crowd.  Whereas, my group was a little more rough around the edges.  He was never judgmental, though.  When I wore too much makeup, or a shirt too low, or when rumors began to spread of my sexual conquests (apparently I slept with an entire football team at another school and got 7 abortions one summer), he remained my friend.

I often thought he was one of the kindest, truest men I had ever met.  I trusted him wholeheartedly and even thought that one day we might end up together when life balanced out a bit.  I could see us on the farm raising a bunch of babies, working the soil and having too many animals. He loved dogs and I loved pigs and we both already had at least 5 cats between us.

Within a single evening, those tender daydreams turned into rocks that were thrown into my perception and shattered my reality.  Parts of me broke all while I slept.  At 17, he raped me in his dorm room when I was unconscious. The once sweet boy who I shared so many memories with became a horrible nightmare for 13 years to come.

I got very drunk at a party one night. I knew I had overdone it and was worried about my safety.  As a smart girl, I knew that boys could take advantage, so I called James to come get me since he lived in a dormitory nearby.  It was no secret that I was fall-over drunk. I was young, still trying to figure out my limits with alcohol and as some children from disturbed childhoods do, I was self-medicating. Even as I write this, I find myself justifying.

I don’t remember much after returning to his dorm room.  Just laying in his bed and trying to fall asleep, my shirt coming off and telling him I was cold.

I woke up the next morning completely naked beside him. Confused, embarrassed and sore. I got dressed and left knowing that I didn’t want to have sex with him, but I had, or he had with me. Feeling like it was my fault – for years to come. Scared if he had or hadn’t used protection.  (He hadn’t). If only I hadn’t drank so much.  If only I could remember what happened.  If only I was awake long enough to tell him no.  If only…

I drove home missing a part of myself.  I drove home never wanting to see myself naked again.  I drove home with my skin tensing with disgust and anger.  I drove home to a place where I was not safe to tell anyone about what had happened.  I drove home in silence and alone.  I drove home looking at a sunrise and feeling like nothing would ever look beautiful again.  I drove home empty and numb.  I drove home passing his house.  I drove home.

That night, I was given three things: an inability to get close or trust men for nearly a decade, a tendency to disassociate with myself that spawned many more years of abuse, and I was given chlamydia. Which my parents nearly disowned me over.  (Back then parents were notified of sexually transmitted diseases if the child was under the age of 18.) Fortunately, one of those things was treatable with a tiny little pill.  Unfortunately, everything else wasn’t that easy to overcome.

I wrote a poem that day, it later won some prestigious thing that’s not even worth mentioning – but here it is.  A poem I haven’t read in 13 years that all of a sudden today, on the eve of 2018, somehow feels important:

No
Hold my heart out on my sleeve,
Take a breath and watch me leave,
Caught in passion that I didn’t want,
Act as if you’re nonchalant.
One can’t be after such an assault.
The heart is in remorse and life comes to a halt.
Hide my tears and never tell a soul,
My body is numb and my love is cold.
Never regain consciousness from this perdition I’ve been placed.
My life is over.
I’ve been erased.
Not so fast, this isn’t my fault.
Don’t ask why, one could never understand,
Why this man could have laid his hand,
His hand upon myself in an outraged way.
Don’t ask why, for on that day,
You will take your life away.

 

Come to Me

COME TO ME

Come to Me
Open your eyes.
Don’t look away,
I want to show you my body.
I daydream every day
About lifting my dress over my head.
Feeling the contrast
Of your hands on the warmth
Of my velvet skin.
You have yet to feel the strength of my thighs.
Or how delicate my fingertips can be
On the curve of your low back.
Our eyes whisper
Forgotten articulations of intimacy
More complex than walnut burl searing
In a healthy winter fire.
Lips like crushed figs
Swallowing with anticipation
To kiss you, please let me.
Trembling, quivering, pulsing.
Nourish me with the sparkling contents
Of your smile as you see my vulnerability.
And then don’t make me wait.
I have felt the pressure of your excitement
Against me,
Subtle movements pressing closer
The bulge of your affections
And I want it.
All of you.
The way I had you now and then.
The glisten of sweat,
Boiling the blood
Like a kettle I will let you know when I am ready
But take your time.
Taste me, I’m sweet
And I want to hear all of your noises.
See my secrets, my scars,
Smell my sexuality,
And move into me.
See my fevered eyes
As I rake my fingers down your chest.
I want you in my hands, in my mouth
I have felt you everywhere but there.
Make me pant, hear my gasps,
Write your name inside me.
Bury your face into my hair
As I push myself selfishly closer
Covet me. Cover me.
Come to me.
Oh my dear,
How I miss you.

A Tale of Two Lovers

CREATIVE ASSIGNMENT: FINAL PROJECT

A Tale of Two Lovers
There is a profound sadness in her.
Bathed in responsibility
And graceful with acceptance.
Passersby can’t even see her hiding
That sweet, calm smile,
Selflessness worn like a familiar sweater.
Worthiness a tattoo written backwards on her shoulder
A silent reminder.
But not many, only a one,
Can see the poor girls heart.
The one that sings louder in cars
Or alone with her pillow.
Or in a bathroom with the water running.
Her prayers hang on the wind
Sorrowfully tussling the leaves.

“May he find that love.
One that is patient in silence, like mine.
May she kiss his lip when he bites it.
And may he hold her hand long enough to split realms.
I hope her body effortlessly tangles into his
At night, with the candlelight
On the ceiling at just the right angle, the way he likes it.

Allow him a home.
And for her to be braver than I.
I want her to look him in the eye,
and say with clarity, with vibrancy
Without hesitation,
Or fear of exploration,
– I know you,
– I love you, my only one.

Have her kiss his back, and the soft spots on his wrists.
The parts I have yet to kiss.
When she touches his neck,
With ease, he will settle into her.
May she delight in his humor,
Make her clever –
I know she will be so beautiful,
More beautiful than I. ”

She wistfully watches
As two birds dance and flirt in the sky
Above a building,
High over her head and thoughts.
She remembers him,
And the way they bumped into her car
While falling in love, and holding each other
Like teenagers do.
Paintings on the wall ask her,
“What do you want?”

“For him to think of me.
From time to time,
But not all the time.
When laying with his back on a rug
Or when that song comes on.”

Her love of him, it does not end
That’s not what this is
This is slow piano music played in the dark,
It’s the smell of a memory once loved but not forgotten
Slipping toes in sand,
The sensation of stars dripping from the night sky.
A first kiss, before sullied by time.
Or the way she felt with a new book when she was younger.
Hopeful and complete.
Eager to read on, a seemingly endless and fascinating tale.