Month: April 2019

Red

 

Red

The color of blood

The color of love

An eternity above

 

A dance of grace

A beautiful place

A speck of lace

 

The sign of death

Perhaps from meth

A final breath

 

The apple I see

Maybe even me

Or a shout of glee

 

A tinted gaze

A menacing haze

An endless maze

 

A blooming flower

The sparkling shower

Please don’t cower

 

A ribbon that flows

The underside shows

The dust that blows

 

A smear of clay

A game to play

The end of day.

This poem is about describing the color red. No one can exactly explain what a color looks like, but to me, it’s not simply a color in itself. It is experiences and objects that come to mind. When I think of the color red, I don’t see a blank wall shaded red; I see all these images: Blood is one of the first (perhaps from a broken hymen, perhaps from a grisly murder), love the second. But still more overwhelm my brain. I picture heaven above a sunset. I see graceful dancing figures intertwined in red veils, a place tinted red, making all the objects look softer and more soothing in appearance. I picture a hand in red lace and a slow, agonizing death. Meth I picture as red, as if to give a warning sign. The last breath of a man, turning red as his spirit flows from him. 

An apple I see of course, tracing back to kindergarten. I see myself with red inside; some evil… or maybe it’s just my burning happiness. There’s a rose and fireworks behind with people afraid of being blind. Eyes flash red, a red mist in Hell, where there’s no escape. I can see a hair ribbon, the belly of a furry dog a dull red, and the dust of a wasteland. I see the pioneers building houses of red clay, a sunset fading into night, and the game of life. 

Red exemplifies all these things to me. Each person is unique in how they relate and understand different words. To me, when I hear “red,” my mind jumps through all these images in a heartbeat, and through it, I gain enlightenment. 

The Unconscious Mind

I wrote this one day after having a sort of flashback to when I had been around my rapist, John. I wrote it to sort out my feelings towards what had happened and how those experiences continued to shape me. Sometimes, I hated the event. I hated John. I hated myself. Sometimes, though, I welcomed the memories. They were a part of me, and helped make me who I am. I hated myself even more for that. 

This was my way of struggling with these two opposed views I had of myself. Does the unconscious mind, unconscious thought come closest to our true natures? Or is it what we consciously do that defines who we are as a person? I still don’t have an answer.

Unconscious Mind

The memories, they always tend to rush back to me. No warning, no glance, just a complete onslaught of images and feelings bombarding my susceptible mind. I’ve tried to ward against them, but none of my guards hinder their assault in the slightest. Is my unconscious mind trying to communicate with me? Do I truly not want these memories? Have I really striven towards blocking them? Or, secretly, do I desire these memories? Unconscious thought battling with conscious, desire clashing with moral, fear smashing against eagerness. Do I even know myself?

Who has the voracity to claim they know themselves? For they only observe their conscious mind, which is but the thoughts and reasons plagiarized from a collective group. The distinguishing between right and wrong, the concept of beauty, the idea of logic; all are formed from group to individual. All individual thought is not individual at all, but in fact is the collective thought of the human group. Only the unconscious mind can reveal the true nature and emotions of the individual.

The unconscious mind, unlike the conscious, is not affected by the tumultuous outside world. Pure thought and sense exist in a peaceful voice. They are neither damaged nor amended inside, but remain as they always were; and always will be.

The mind exists from the moment we’re born to the moment we die. The young are the closest example to pure unconscious thought. In the beginning of age, we have not yet been opened to all the possibilities of this world. The young do not think of consequences, the future, or even simply other people. However, even though many would claim those who do not consider others as selfish, children are the least deprecating. Kids sense others and make friends with a glance; the thought of hesitation when sharing crayons never crosses the threshold of their mind. The doubt to believe, to trust, cannot pass through the implacable barrier of their innocence. The outside world has not yet tarnished the youthful ignorance. The unconscious mind reigns with the barest restraint.

The Question

My first boyfriend and I dated from sophomore year to senior year of high school. The beginning of the end happened on my 18th birthday, when I found some text messages on his phone of him flirting with another girl, making plans for a date later that day. He never actually cheated on me, but he said that he had been entertaining the idea for some time, and if I hadn’t found those messages, he probably would have gone through with it that day.

One thing that really irritated me with our relationship was that all he ever wanted to do was have sex. Even after we broke up (a few months after the text message incident), he kept calling me and texting me (especially while drunk), all for sex. He tried to use my hurt and love for him (because I did still love him, for years after) to guilt/bribe me into it.

Here’s a poem I wrote my senior year of high school during all of this, trying to work out my feelings.

The Question

All you do is blink and stutter

Can’t you see we’re now in the gutter?

 

No longer can I live with your lies and deceits

I won’t lie with you between your sheets

 

The blank face, those clear eyes

You seemed like such an innocent guy

 

But everything was covered with a mask

Now you’ve opened up along with the flask

 

The pulling, the tugging, it never ends

The same question again and again

 

When will you learn I mean what I say?

Stop trying to bend my words a new way

 

No means no and that’s all to know,

Please, I’m begging you—just go.

Inspired by the Mysteries of Harris Burdick: Archie Smith, Boy Wonder

Archi Smith, Boy Wonder

A tiny voice asked, “Is he the one?”

Wanda had been searching high and low for this boy—if he was truly the one. From worlds full of giant green mountains, to those of fiery red infernos spouting out of crevices within rocks, even to worlds of utter darkness, no light ever crossing their paths. Finally, she had traveled into this world, this Earth, as these native beings called it. She thought that she was no longer able to be surprised, but this world taught her otherwise; it was simply a kaleidoscope of color! Never before had she seen so many different hues in so many places, all coming together as if dancing to the sway of this planet’s turning. And the creatures! They too wore many different shades, no one being exactly the same as another.

Her luminescent presence thrummed as she looked around at herself and Cosmo. They gave off a unique vibration, one that only they in their entire world—all the worlds for that matter—could claim. They were soul mates. So how could these Earthen creatures even find their match if none were the same? Were they destined to an existence of halfness? It was a fate Wanda would never have wished on anyone… Even the horrendous beings from the world devoid of all light. She shivered at the thought. She was glad her mission brought her far away from that evil place.

Another tiny voice, so alike to her own, brought her out of her musings. “He fits the description; high-vibrations, young in soul and body… There is only one way to find out for sure, though.” Cosmo was the more practical of the two faeries.

“And what if it is not him?” Wanda asked softly.

Cosmo could feel the tremor within his other half’s presence, could see her light beginning to dim. He understood her hesitation, her fear. That last world had almost sucked their own light from them… Something even the oldest of the faeries had never known possible. Something that could take a faerie’s life force so easily? It was inconceivable! And yet, they had been forced to believe. They had had to leave quickly, too quickly to truly search the place for the one that they had been sent to find. The one to bind them all together. The Prophesied One. The only one who could link the worlds and save them all before utter desolation.

“Then we will continue our journey until we find him.” Cosmo said, with much more conviction than he felt. He knew Wanda would see through his farce, but it would ease her worries—if only slightly—all the same.

“Okay,” Wanda said, gathering her light around her like a cloak. “Let us wake him.”

I wrote this short story after reading about The Mysteries of Harris Burdick. He was apparently an author and illustrator, looking to publish his children’s book. He showed up to a meeting with a publisher, armed with one picture (and a caption for each) for each of his 14 short stories. The publisher was intrigued, and Burdick claimed that he would be back with the rest of the pictures and his manuscripts… But he was never heard nor seen from again. Now, we can only imagine what stories these pictures had evoked from such a man. I have found inspiration in this one picture of his (as well as many others, which I will probably post at some point in the future!), and wanted to share it with you all. 

If you are interested in learning more about Harris Burdick or seeing more of his pictures/captions, here is the slideshare link!

Have you found similar inspiration in Burdick’s pictures? Let me know in the comments below! I would love to read some more stories!

Black

Have you ever had a fear that has blacked out everything? Where blackness replaces vision, ringing replaces sound and silence replaces voice? Where inside, a ravaging bear is clawing at your vital and deepest emotions and personality? Where it’s scrabbling for purchase inside vulnerable memories? Where it leaves behind searing scars that constantly remind you of that blackness? Where your stomach churns, trying to digest the new horrifying information? Where acid drips, drips, scalding everything around? Where your head pounds with a million different voices each screaming a different chorus? Where each competes for focus, panicking, shoving, shrieking inside? Where your blood thickens, as if warning you it’s about to be shed? Where it takes conscious effort to keep moving, another distraction from that blackness? Where your eyes are like dead orbs, rolling about in your head, but making no sense of the sight? Where your nose picks up the stench of evil, which cannot even be possible? Where your ears clash, trying to muffle the sound banging on your eardrums? Where your skin prickles at every slight breeze, every breath, every touch? Where your mouth is shaped in an endless scream which never leaves the cage of your teeth? Where your hands tremble in front of your body, trying to cower, to cover, to hide from that blackness? Where your back is hunched, as if from a human too old to be walking this land? Where legs can barely hold you up, frozen to the ground in a perfect running stance? Where now you can take no more suspense, no more waiting? Where you just want it to be over, you wish to end the suffering? Where the blackness finally enfolds you when the last of your resistance corrodes? Where nothing, nothing but the blackness is there with you? Where for all eternity, you must live inside it, never resurfacing to rationality? Where the bear, finally winning, slumbers deep inside, waiting for the next crucial moment to awaken and begin anew its agonizing battle for black.

Thoughts? Let me know in the comments below!

Animal Eyes

In 2010, I wrote this poem in an attempt to cope. I had written many poems about it previously, but this is the one that survived the fire–literally. At one point, I was so disgusted with what I was writing and why I was writing it that I burned all of my stories and poems in our fireplace one winter.

Animal Eyes

10-22-10

Do you remember?
Most likely not.
Cloaked in a drunken haze,
You allowed us to rot.

My sister and I,
As close as could be
Only pieces of meat,
Did your eyes see.

You knew what to do,
You hid the acts from mother.
She didn’t see us,
For you were her lover.

“Kids will be kids,” she’d say,
As she thought we had lied
We were banished to our rooms,
Where alone, we cried.

For we knew you’d come again,
Next time Mom was out.
You’d lock the doors and windows,
So no one would hear us shout.

Pinned upon the bed,
We were undressed.
With animal eyes,
You slowly caressed.

We knew not to move,
Or the other’d get hit.
You manipulated our love,
So your desires you’d get.

My mind’s blocked out detail,
It pains me to recall
Those horrible nights with you.
I can’t believe you’d the gall.

Now at age fifteen,
I’ve still told no one.
That ten years ago,
You won.

Finally Talking

Trigger Warning: This post contains graphic sex and sexual violence,
 nonconsent, and mental health questioning.

Sometimes it’s hard being the victim of rape. I was five when it happened, so I don’t even remember much of what happened. It comes to me in bits and pieces, but the one thing I can’t get out of my head is the smell. It’s hard for me to get intimate with my fiancé because when we’re getting to that place, it’s the same smell. Arousal. Man musk. Sexual tension. Call it what you will, it’s the same. I smell that smell and all the feelings come rushing back; the insecurities of being naked in front of this dominant man, the fear of being found out by Mom and punished, the anxiety of disappointing my surrogate father, the confusion of what was going on, the pain of things happening that shouldn’t have been. The ache that my little sister had not escaped this time. The desire to go to sleep and never wake up again.

That isn’t the worst part, though. The worst part is when people know. When your family knows and doesn’t talk about it. Having a meltdown in high school and confessing everything was far from my best hour, and yet it was liberating to finally come clean and find out that he was in jail for doing the same to some other family. Turns out I didn’t just dream it. Turns out I wasn’t making it all up in my head. But now when his name comes up in conversation, they all just say, “We don’t talk about John.” But what if I want to talk about him? I wish they never knew. I can see the pity in their eyes, the guilt that they should have done something, the accusation of why didn’t I say something before? I have no idea how they feel about me, about him and me. If they completely believe me, if they believe that A was a part of it, or if they simply think it a fantasy when I heard about him in jail. I’m not a hurt little kid anymore. I can talk about it. I’ve been living with this almost my whole life and I am fine. But what about A? Does she know? Does she remember? I hate myself that I couldn’t save her from that. I tried.

But how big of an impact has he had on my life? How much of my strength, creativity, open-mindedness do I owe to him? Sometimes, I can’t tell if I hate that it happened, or that I’m glad it did. It makes me different. It makes me, me. Does that make me a monster? Does that make me not a victim at all, but in a way, consensual? I have weird tendencies, weird daydreams, fantasies. How much of him is within those? I enjoy dark humor, write about pain and torture. I like hard music with the lyrics dripping metal. I like to lay awake in the dark, contemplating life, contemplating how I can make myself feel pain. I love the rain, when it’s gloomy, cloudy outside. I like daddy doms and daughter subs. I like being dominated and helpless. What does that say about me? I’m a freak, and afraid to tell anyone about my darkest secrets.

I don’t feel like I will ever find my half, the guy that I can completely bare my heart to. I’ve met nice guys, sweet guys, but never the guy that I’m not afraid of, even including my fiance, J.

Flashes randomly come back to me, but never really interfere in much. It’s just that smell that gets me, that feeling when his name comes up that maybe I didn’t do enough for A, that I failed her. But I’m fine. I think. I need someone to talk to, someone who understands not to pity me, that it wasn’t a traumatic event. It was just something that happened when I was a kid. Most kids broke their arms, I had sex. At least, I guess I did. I can’t actually remember doing the deed; I clearly remember giving him blowjobs, which is probably where the smell comes from, and him peeing on my stomach, and him putting a cue stick up his butt? But never actually sex. But I wasn’t a virgin when my first boyfriend and I tried it out, my hymen was broken. That’s something that bothers me. If I can remember other things, why can’t I remember if that happened? And then, does this mean that I actually am a rape victim? Or because I can’t remember if I actually had full-out sex, am I posing? Am I a fake? I need to talk to someone who will just listen, and feel no sympathy. I need a judgment-free conversation, one where I can find out his last name. I want to know if he is still in jail, or if he’s still out there spreading his disease. And what of his kids? I did not like them, but were they that way because their dad abused them too? Or did he save that for other people’s kids?

I wish my family didn’t know. If I could take back one thing from high school, it’d be that. They don’t need to be burdened, and it honestly makes it feel like a burden to me. Without them knowing, it’s not so much of a burden as just an experience. And when do I talk about it?

            I need to feel. This is one way I feel.

My little sister in this post–as will be in all my other posts–is simply referred to as A to keep her anonymity.

My fiance is referred to as J for the same reason.

I feel no need to hide the identity of the man who raped me, so I will refer to him with his real name, John. I only regret that I do not know his last name.