I can teach you how
to fold into yourself;
do not shy away
when he kisses you.
When his stubble
presses into your cheek
do not say no.
Believe him when he promises
it will feel good.
When his manhood
lodges into your mouth
pretend you are hungry
for him.
That you are aching.
You are a dog
frothing at the mouth.
Even if you feel nothing.
It was then that you learned
to crawl into yourself. To sacrifice your flesh
beneath men who claimed to love you until
your bones grew too heavy and they could
no longer bring themselves to touch you.
How many times did you slot
pieces of him into yourself? Hunt for the breaths he took
in your presence until you had enough skin
to dress up the skeleton of his memory?
And when you realised you are no god,
that you couldn’t breathe life into his ribs,
how many times did you set yourself on fire?
It’s half past midnight. I’m sitting here not quite sure what to do with myself— or this blog.
It’s my birthday today marking two years since I started this blog. I never thought I’d stick to this blogging project. For two years, I’ve gained a great following, honed my poetic skill and met some lovely people I won’t likely forget any time soon.
But, between you and I, this blog had outlived it’s purpose and as all things which pass their sell-by date, it has to go.
I usually take birthday reflections to evaluate my life and see where I’ve come from and just where the fuck I’m going. There are days when I feel like my life is a car doing its best to maneuver through a thick fog only to careen off the highway and into the bottomless pit of some unseen abyss.
I’m going to do a two year reflection in this blog post. Because the double time span will help me see just how much I’ve traveled and how much further I have to go. Because this is final.
Dear John
I am sorry
I forgot to hate myself.
My confidence was so ugly
you couldn’t stand
the sight of me holding
my shoulders back, my spine erect,
your ears bled at the sound
of my laughter.
Your memory
is a difficult name I keep trying to pronounce.
When you left me
my hands ran along your side of my bed
in the fashion of a tongue on the gums
where a tooth is missing.
How I could I possibly
love this skin, these bones,
these asymetrical breasts,
Silly me. How dare I
love the grotesque, that which
only you know how to embrace.
How could I possibly love
myself.
Dear John
I am sorry
I took to the dance floor
and moved
like I had conquered something.
That I used lip gloss as a sword,
the eye shadow palette
was war paint.
John
you gluttonous monster.
My everything
was never enough.
John.
I am sorry
I learned
how to forgive myself.
On the morning you find lipstick
stains too bright to be yours on the collar
of the shirt you bought him last Christmas
Wash your mouth out with soap. Hide tissues
in your sock drawer, stand naked by the mirror,
watch your reflection with the lights off.
When finally he tastes the foam and stops kissing you,
fall asleep on the couch that is his bed,
douse his pillow in your sweat.
Burn your photographs.
All of them. And on the nights
your palms itch for him, remember the ashes.
He is the kind of man to be kissed
with one eye open. The type to sew
your lips shut because he likes his
women silent. Rather loud aren’t you?
Your dark eyes, your wide mouth.
Even the pores of your skin scream
in rebellion. But so long as he butchers you
open until there is not an ounce more of you
To devour, you shall return to him. And when
he disappears with the dusk, will you forget
him as the one whose hands tore at your limbs
with the impatience of a king cobra and
The malice of a fish hook? Will you forgive yourself then
for the blood stained bathroom sink? The ripped clothes?
All of them? After all dear girl, when he painted your skin
blue, it was you who mistook each scar for a promise.
therefore you are doomed to be
destroyed by that which you cannot own.
She kept your father’s rib cage warm
while his heart danced in the arms
breaking of your bones, young girl. Even that rain you
love so much will make a rust bucket out of you.”
Your reflection is
a stranger you kiss with one
of your eyes open.
Sure as the crook in you arm,
the growling hunger in your belly,
the air in your lungs, that which
needs to live shall and death should
never be mistaken for mortality.
5. There is much of this world to taste,
crevices to lick,
precipices to teeter on.
4. Hope is a bomb no one is watching tick.
3. You are goddess. Skin, bones and artistry.
How dare you try burn your own temple down.
2. Sadness is a funny thing.
It will hollow out your chest to make room for loneliness.
It refuses to pay rent and leaves only when evicted.
1. You are not alone.
There are people in this world suffering just as much as you.
Your pain forms constellations across a sky no one wants to look at but I dare you.
Look.
Isn’t that the most beautiful night you’ve ever seen?
