Bursting Apricot

beautiful, Beauty, Blame, Creative Writing, feminism, forgotten, fuck you, Future, Her, Humanist, Journal, New, Personal, Poetry, Relationships, school

I have many glass vases sitting on a shelf.
Some are blue, others yellow,
Your’s was the color of an apricot on a warm summer day.

With flakes of red bursting from the center
And warm orange undertones, calming the world.

It was the color of my heart. Before it fell off my shelf.

Now the colors have separated, amidst the shards of broken glass,
The glass and color intertwine, the way vines and lattice do.

A psychedelica puddle on the floor, irreparable.
Still beautiful, but in a more human way.

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Moral Dilemma

beautiful, Beauty, Creative Writing, Future, Humanist, Journal, Nature, New, Personal, Poetry

It feels as though the world is lapping at me,
Eating away at my heels as I try to make my way.

Like a rock on at the edge of the ocean,
Never getting a break from the endless torture
That is the ocean’s softly beating wave.

Back is sore, feet bleeding, hands callused
I’ve held on this far, but I was never promised an end.

Not a moment goes by as I brace to the cliff
that letting go isn’t considered,
but if I do, the cliff will fall,
Cascading into the ocean.

Atop this cliff, a child sits, their fate is my decision.
I can hold on, turn into to stone
As the water relentlessly beats me with its salty hand
Or I can let go, and let the ocean guide us into the world
of eternal night.

Poetry Time

beautiful, Beauty, bisexual, feminism, Future, Her, Journal, Love, New, Peace, Perfect, Personal, Poetry, Relationships, Sexuality, Small Things, Smiling

There, across the room,
Short brown hair, she laughs like an angel.
Angsty jacket, tapping her foot elegantly,
Her curves, outlined by the white t-shirt she wears.

Perfection, softly smiling – stealing glances,
Hoping to not be caught.
Her voice is like honey, or maybe silk,
the way it graces my ears.

Her eyes are deeper, more fulfilling than
fucking outer space. Remind me of the stars,
everything they’ve seen.

I dream of holding her hand, feeling
her breath on my neck, lips against mine.
Look into my eyes. Look.

 

Burdens You Face

Creative Writing, Family, feminism, home, Journal, no trust, Personal, Poetry, Relationships

We burden her.
She won’t admit it, but we burden her.

We talk, but she doesn’t like being reminded of her burdens.
We cry, and her burdens are overwhelming.
She can’t stand us.

Forbid her burdens have issues that need attention.
Forbid they demand health treatments that cost money.

Isn’t it feminist to be selfish?
She wants to think so, and selfishness it is.

This burden doesn’t react well when yelled at by the Abusive Coward,
But let’s slap a “sensory overload” tag on it and call it good.

That burden doesn’t like being threatened by the Abusive Coward,
It leaves and it’s a bad, bad burden.

The smallest burden, the loudest, it needs attention and her time,
but that time is called for by the Abusive Coward.

The coward, he is the victim when he strikes a Burden.
The coward, he is the victim when he threatens a Burden.
The coward, he is the victim when a Burden cries.

She sees humanity in the coward,
She sees love in the coward,
She sees hope, light, and prospect in him.

Her burdens weigh her down,
Suck her dry, they kill her spirit.
Despite being their mother, these burdens are inhuman.

She carried them around, 9 months each.
9 months to learn to despise them,
9 months to learn she would never have freedom.
9 months to realize she carried the children of a man she loathed.

I am her burden, one which has been steadily growing seventeen years.
I am her problem, which she can’t ignore.
I am the outspoken burden which plagues her,

Plaguing her existence with demands.
Fair treatment.
Therapy.
Vegetables.

Extremities which cannot be fulfilled.
Demands which are impossible.
Requests that are beyond capability.
I am your burden, mom.

I Need To Hear It

Awareness, Domestic Violence, Family, fuck you, home, Journal, no trust, Personal, Poetry

I know how I feel, but their words drown out my voice.
I know what has happened, but they say I’m making it up.
I know what I have seen, I know it and I will never shut up.

It’s just sensory overload
You’re just displacing your fear
This is a simple case of, “_____”

maybe “it’s Just” what I’m telling you it is.
perhaps I know what I’m experiencing

“The social worker thinks it’d be a good idea to get you into counseling”
Have I not been saying that for three years?

Listen to me.

Just fucking listen to me.

I know how I feel, I know what I’ve seen, stop doubting me.
I’ve come to terms that you don’t listen, my words are like wind to you,
they pass quickly and you don’t notice them.
my words are like the sound of a subway passing,
quick and you’ll soon forget them.

I swear to god, some strangers notice my suffering more than you have,
and don’t tell me that this is my fault.
I didn’t bring this on. I didn’t call CPS.

Please someone, tell me this isn’t normal.
Please tell me that being yelled at, accused,
isn’t normal.
please tell me I’m not just too sensitive.
I need reassurance that I’m not just a weak kid who
doesn’t understand the world.

I need someone to tell me I’m not crazy.
I need someone to reassure me that this is not regular.

That having Child Protection Services at your house is irregular.
That being screamed at and blamed is unusual.

I need to know I’m not just exaggerating,
I need to know that I will be okay,
I need to know that this isn’t all me..

Regrets

Journal, Memories, Personal, Poetry, school

I tell people not to regret, yet I do.

All of the fucking time, I regret everything.

I regret liking the people that I have, I regret telling people things, I regret moving to the coast, I regret leaving behind my friends.

I regret opening up about things to people who don’t deserve to hear it,
I regret not standing up for those who deserve it.
I regret oversharing.
I regret confessing my feelings to any and every person I have.
I regret leaving my dad, sometimes.
I regret cheating on my homework.
I regret calling out Kayleigh and Cadence for shit.
I regret having flings with guys who don’t matter.
I regret not loving myself more,
I regret being self-confident.
I regret bringing my sheet music up for show and tell in second grade,
I regret blaming Ciera for stealing my sea shells,
I regret being so fucking awkward.

Why can’t I just be normal? Just once.
Why can’t I fit in, just once?
I want to be loved, even just once.
I want to be cared about.
To be hugged, and feel wanted.

I don’t want to doubt.
Or second guess even once.

Is it so much to ask to be loved?

I just want to stand in the big grass field at ERCLC and watch Eric with his RC Airplane class, crashing their planes. I want to listen to the little kids make up ridiculous but genius stories. I want to see the moms who have their lives together, who buy stuff from the bakesales.

I want to organize events like I used to, be in productions with Peggy and Makena and Leslie and Fiona and even Cadence and Abiel. I miss everyone so much.

I miss being able express myself without sounding like some sort of freak – being able to wear my quirky knee-high socks and bright yellow shirts. I miss taking Archery with Eric and getting into Quarrels with Bobbi over stupid Neon Dance drama. I miss game nights, and going out that one time with the schools telescope to watch stars with the Astronomy club. I miss walking into Eric’s office and seeing a picture of me in there from Eli’s mental health photo shoot.

I miss the masquerade dance.

I miss Heather’s Journal class.

I miss despising Abiel for always bragging about her Travels.

I miss Theirry’s exuberant acting

And Katie as Mrs.Dowdle.

I miss the days when I would longingly gaze at Dustyn while he was in PE with Brian.

When I would wait until monday nights when I could go to Youth Group and see him.

I would always chew gum.

I would wear low cut shirts before I had boobs.

I miss sitting in the library with Riley and Lacey because we didn’t have a class that period, when Orion went to school with us.

Choir.

Orion’s broken perfume bottle.

Tiger. Debates in 1930’s.

Trying on dresses for the play in Peggy’s office, or Brian’s, or Eric’s, or Bobbi’s, or Yasoda’s.

I miss ERCLC. It’s my home.

I miss the bright yellow sunflowers that would bloom this time of year, and the pumpkins that would grow outside the library windows – the way Anonda would always smile at me, how I could climb the tree in front of Sage.

I miss going to Halloween parties in Three Rivers, eating Peggy’s chilli and watching the little kids sort and trade their sweets.

I miss house sitting for the Entz, how I slept in Zacks room.

I miss the valley.

I miss Elderwood.

I even miss living with Nana and Gramps.

It’s okay to regret, I guess. It’s okay to miss people, things, and the past.
I definitely do..

 

Insecurity

Humanist, Journal, Personal, Poetry

The restless nagging,
Persistent jabbing,
At what used to be my confidence.

The thoughts that infiltrate my head,
Saying they’re laughing at me –
That I shouldn’t be their friend.

As I’m walking to my classes and
Someone looks my way,
It says they’re judging me.

It’s eating away at my desire
to feel love and belonging.
Telling me to hide myself away.

Insanity

Journal, Personal, Poetry, Relationships

I get attached too easily,
Care too hard,
Love too endlessly.

My head is too heavy,
Heart too strong,
Legs too weak to carry.

I see too much in myself.
Too much, too little, in others.

I see myself in the clouds,
In the faces of people
That I have never met.

I love those, who I have never
Spoken more than four syllables to.

I see myself, I see love, and I see pain
In the eyes of those who I care for.

They see insanity in me.