tied around your neck
pave the road more traveled
they say you made your decision
I say you were murdered
churned to silence
by a world that won’t
This is disgusting.
I’m on a train without rails
It never moves, just switches station
I send memes to friends I no longer talk to and tell them how I’ve always loved them
I laugh hysterically at the kitchen table at 11 PM
I remember the men who tried to touch me shut up you’re disgusting disgusting I’ll eat you don’t touch me claw bash you in my voice becomes theirs shut up shut up shut your fucking mouth and collapse on my bed need sleep the notebook burns against my cheek mass hysteria he says, mass hysteria is when a large group of people are all imagining the same thing it’s like your books Harry Potter isn’t real you know hahahahahaahahaha so have you been talking to God today I ask and on my bed again my skin longs for knuckles no no not really I actually love myself to death I have nothing to give myself but pleasure the sheets the rustle hello do you want to fuck everything is so beautiful desirable I’m coming over and over and it’s not enough and I read my messages and god they hate me this time I’ve really ruined it they’re all angry they want to hurt me now no one cares no one’s thinking of me no one wants so see me happy and where are we going can I step off please no I don’t think this is for me excuse me can I step off can I step can I step can I can I can I can I can I can’t
Well, would you look at that. You’re spending a lot of time on the couch caught up in that self-righteous poetry, aren’t you? You’re eating quite well, aren’t you? You’re not kept up at night by compulsions, are you? I’ve noticed your waistline growing, the fruits of Eden dangling from your stomach. I noticed your old jeans don’t fit. You’re no longer the extremely thin girl with the [unlikely] big boobs, but the average weight woman with the [pornographically] huge titties. I’ve noticed you stopped shaving your armpits. I noticed the floppy flesh on your upper arms as you were wearing a sleeveless shirt the other day, how they wriggle back and forth as you keep typing those damn words. I’ve noticed the paintings hanging on the wall. You no longer fit the frames of the conveniently sexy white girl with bruises adorning milky soft skin, bones protruding and a submissive please-like-me gaze, the kind of self-destruction that looks good on Tumblr but only induces laughter in real life. I’ve noticed you don’t cover your hips anymore. I’ve noticed the blood drying on your bathroom scissors. I’ve noticed your mouth becoming ugly, speaking out and shattering the walls of indifference.
I couldn’t be more proud of you.
I might be living a stolen life.
Not literally stolen, of course. I’m not one to believe there is a certain amount of happiness in the world, or that some just aren’t destined for it. Still, I know a few people who could have been here in my place. Women I never knew but who walked the same paper thin stage floor, women who danced on glass and fell through. Women who never stood a chance.
You’re bipolar? You must be incredibly talented. So many great writers were bipolar, did you know that? Agatha Christie. Virginia Woolf. Sylvia Plath.
But Sylvia died. She taped the door to her children’s bedroom then gassed herself to death using her own oven. As for me? I was born to the 21st century. I wasn’t burned a witch. My brain wasn’t fried on the table of an analphabetic doctor and my frontal lobe wasn’t punctured with surgical steel. I was born to a wealthy country with one of the best health care systems in the world. I got help. I got my brain chemistry corrected with a crispy, white blackberry-tasting pills. I got free psychotherapy. I got better.
And now I’m here, awake and hungry, in all likelihood abut to pursue my dreams. I have decades of time to produce poems and novels, to hold someone’s hand under the covers, to eat and fuck and to pick another fight. Good on me. And good on the world – to be blessed with a lifetime’s worth of my words! High in fat and pretentiously spiced! Could you possibly have wished for better?
There are days I feel bleak. Wasted, like a wreath of flowers on a coffin. Had Sylvia lived through her disease this world would have so many more of her works to relish in. Works that comforted girls with sharp fringes and sliced thighs. Who am I to compare to her? Who am I to take her, or any woman’s place? They all died and I lived. As if I needed another proof there is no god.
I’m living a stolen life. A life that rages like waves never reaching shore, drowning everything in its way, a life that shrieks and bulges like a slaughterhouse on fire. A life that should have been theirs.
But I can’t say I’m not glad it’s mine.
They say 3 AM is the most likely time to give birth
but I didn’t know when I knelt on the bathroom floor,
soaked in unwanted love
it also so happens to be the most likely time to die
(- some nights I can’t tell them apart.)
I thought 24 years would teach me silence
how to talk without ripping
but your paper planes tore through my walls
whizzed past my ears like bullets
Now I wish I was breaking heart shaped boxes
(Hey! Wait! I’ve got a new regret!)
a love letter,
to an absent mother
that never would be me
I was born
a broken fence
an animal farm
where the dogs aren’t sleeping
and I cannot lie;
I’ve been the hilt
the truth that kissed me
(I never could contain you)
but as we hugged
all the wolves ran by
and none of them noticed me
I was invisible
white flicker between rain
safe in the moment
until the alarm goes off
and the world falls off its hinges
I look out my window
forget about judgement
tinted lenses and smearing eyes
my greatest fear is that
no one is watching