Logically, rationally – she is sound
Half of her brain understands logic
It listens to reason,
It rationalizes quite well.
It is churning,
ocean waves in a hurricane,
tornado on a Kansas plain.
Fire waiting for oxygen;
a backdraft waiting to happen.
There is no reason or logic;
nothing even remotely rational
on the other half of her brain.
It is creeping blackness,
shards of shadows,
a hundred spider webs,
sticky and tangling.
Cold, calculating, chaotic
cruel, relentless, chasmic.
It is this side that creates
distance and disdain,
hate, void, and pain.
Chess moves, scrabble words,
meditation and yoga,
repetition, repetition, repetition,
Until she can reason with demons,
and rationalize with the devil.
Fingernails up an arm,
down an arm.
red lines, then nothing.
Head banging into hands,
not so hard as to damage,
but to say stupid, stupid, stupid.
A brain that won’t work right,
a mind that won’t stop,
words that circle, in circles.
Breathing is an art,
regret is a black mark,
panic is the cause.
Control is the craving,
an addiction, but not quite.
You can’t cure an addiction.
Arms hug me tight –
You are okay and fine
Wait, those arms are mine.
When you don’t feel like you’re enough,
please remember that you are.
When you don’t feel like you’re worthy,
remember that you are absolutely worthy –
of love, life, happiness, and all things good.
You are worth fighting for –
no matter your flaws and imperfections,
you are a human being –
a beautiful inside and out human being,
and for that alone,
The things on the inside that no one sees.
The things that kill you slowly and silently.
The things no one will believe –
that you never wanted to be crazy;
that you have words you want to say,
but you can’t because they’re trapped in your head
right behind that smile you put on.
right behind that smile.
People say cruel things now,
Their words are harsh and unfiltered,
cold as steel and ice and salt;
words that exist only to burn
some other human being.
A repertoire of vindication;
crueler, harsher, colder words
that are supposed to prove ones righteousness,
that are supposed to prove ones right to be,
that are supposed to combat the first cycle of viciousness
But it doesn’t.
Instead whatever humanity is left,
if there is any, was any,
is faded just a bit more –
a red wine, coffee stain, grass stain
that gets smaller and dimmer and duller
with each wash,
until it can barely be seen in the brightest of lights.
That’s us now. Them now.
One against the other,
as if we, they, aren’t all in this together.
As if we, they, can escape this planet
in any other way except death.
We all die, sometime or the other,
regardless of whether we have lived happy lives
or sad lives or fulfilled lives.
It’s the between that is important.
What they do with themselves now –
to see them so awful and miserable
and not the least defiant –
Not the least willing to listen to their God –
the one who said fear not!
The violence in their words leaves black marks,
like black eyes and bloody noses and dark yellow bruises;
and they mean it so,
to be cruel and harsh and cold.
The repertoire of vindication –
without a sun there is no light
and without a light there is only darkness –
and they are content with the windowless rooms
they have built over the dreams of others.
I have words.
she dreamed of being the perfect housewife,
with a white picket fence
and cookies in the oven;
neighborhood children coming round
and happy laughter and rising above
that white trash, low class background.
instead what she got was a broke down,
brown and metal fence
and some foodstains on a woodgrain
and 50 extra pounds that made her feel
so fucking small; fucking ironic.
what a disorganized clusterfuck she was,
no amount of education could make her talk pretty
oh but she wanted to – oh how she did.
she dreamed of being elegant and graceful,
and six feet tall and singing lullabyes
to tiny babies swaddeled with love;
so she settled for fur covered sweaters
and slobbery kisses for the nights when
the wounds wouldn’t heal.
she stared in the mirror every day,
and told herself to be stronger than yesterday,
that she was beautiful and brave
and that she could do today; she could do it.
living in a house of cards on the top,
waiting for the wind to blow
for the cards to fall – no trick aces,
no secret plays –
just a little girl dreaming of perfection
that she’ll never get even though
she wants it so bad she can taste it –
but sometimes who you are and
who you want to be are not the same.
she’s never gonna be high class –
just another empty version of
some shitty town’s white trash.