I’m an asshole.

Posted: May 13, 2018 in Uncategorized

Why did it take me

One hour and two minutes

To say “Love you” back?

Advertisements

The sexually and emotionally abusive older man who took every first I had and then threw me away in a text message once he figured out he couldn’t mold me into what he wanted.

The accountant/drug dealer who kissed another girl at a party and then dumped me after I didn’t get mad about it because at least he told me.

The Italian mama’s boy who had his friends harass me so hard after we split that I had to change my number. To be fair, he did try to make amends.

The younger guy I dumped so that he would go to college instead because he was too smart to turn down a full scholarship in order to be closer to me. He flunked out. Does drugs now, apparently.

The bipolar New Jersey (but claimed New York) trust fund alcoholic who needed to tear me down in order to feel better about himself, wouldn’t call me his girlfriend until after we broke up and who hit me.

The scene kid turned redneck videogame-obsessed manchild who treated me like a prize that he won and then left on the mantle to collect dust and take care of all of our pets single-handedly while I worked longer hours for less money than he did.

The guy where the timing never worked out and we just periodically break each other’s hearts by getting our hopes up that it could ever work out. He was unemployed and we thought he was going to jail when we were together but that didn’t bother me at all.

Honorable mentions:

The guy who built up my self-esteem enough that I refused to take my first ex back after he dumped me in a text. He took me out for a Valentine’s weekend, never went beyond kissing me and then rejected me when I asked if he wanted to be a couple. He’s now happily married and published and a valuable friend.

My old lover who was so good to me emotionally and did the right thing by rejecting me because we were fatally incompatible. He’s now married to someone who may not be as good to him as he hopes. But he is a father and happy with that, which I never could have given him.

The rehab guy who wooed me over a summer he spent in my town, whose rehab house referred to me as his girlfriend and who turned out to be using me to cheat on his girlfriend back home the entire time.

Press Play

Posted: April 13, 2018 in Uncategorized

Things I taste melt into my bones;

The bitter, the heat. And acrid.

And my heart is in and out of halfway houses

Doomed situations

Room invitations

Stacked debt-ceiling tall

Anything for a reminder.

To be loved.

To be goddess.

Flawless.

Hot mess.

A box of 8-tracks that all fall silent in the middle and never recover.

I’ve got a thing for being unwanted.

It makes me hope.

Love is rarely being together;

It is more often helping a wound along,

Swinging wide the trap doors we make,

The failsafes,

The give and take is all to keep warm somewhere only secrets reach.

Love is growing apart and letting go.

Until maybe it’s not.

Posted: January 1, 2018 in Uncategorized

It’s so bad when you find it was all just in your head

And between the sheets on his bed.

Spark

Posted: December 1, 2017 in Uncategorized

Other people’s wishes 

     spark

Old desires in me. 

Before I knew better.

Before I grew the hell up. 

Before I had every bit of softness in my ribcage poured full of concrete and

Encrypted. 
I like to bury the lessons I’ve learned

Under “what ifs” and “maybes”.

I’m just stubborn like that. 

Still willful to my rotten core.

There’s that fighting spirit;

The fire. 
But I never stopped to think that I was feeding it with what little humanity I had left. 

Four Letters

Posted: November 29, 2017 in Uncategorized

There’s this thing about hope that I rather dislike: it leaves a great mess in the wake of its demise. If it went way quietly, all would be easier. 

Posted: November 2, 2017 in Uncategorized

When you’re near, my heart changes shape and function completely.

Just a constant thrumming like the wings of a hummingbird,

My thoughts aren’t any different, but my filter has become a screen door, halfway off its hinges, which squeaks open and slams shut with the passing hours.

Everything in my life is uncertain.

I feel like I’m always stuffing my panic in a too-small box marked “to deal with later”.

I feel like changing my lifestyle to pursue a new one is changing who I am.

I feel like water in a washing machine during a spin dry.

I feel like I’ve got four flat tires, a hemmhoraging radiator and oil leaks constantly running down my cheeks.

I feel like a brand new spark plug when you are near.

When you’re near, I am perfectly tightened hose clamps and buttercup yellow koni shocks right out of the box.

And a full roll cage.

Posted: September 1, 2017 in Uncategorized

I’m one hell of a woman when I love someone. 

Rarely otherwise.

Atriums and Arteries

Posted: August 27, 2017 in Uncategorized

You can’t fit a square peg in a round space

      unless you make it much smaller

Or round out those corners. 

But I have edges.

They demand to be heeded,

Accounted for, accommodated, accepted. 

I’ve been playdough in a keyhole too many times,

But now I am shaped and hardened;

Not unwilling to soften,

But picky about what I will contour to fit. 
I remember, I think I knew it wouldn’t last that time you spilled your pipe tobacco in your pants pocket; so absent, your mind. 

I think I knew when I saw you in that room seven, eight? Years ago. The weight of it; the sudden squeeze in my lungs. I knew you were important.

Just not that you would be the first in a long line of those I refused, finally refused to break for. 

Once, at my second high school, we did a weigh in (and also a hearing test and some other stuff). All the girls in my grade or class or whatever were in the room and that’s how I found out that I weighed more than a girl who had just had a baby. 

I used to count calories on post it notes at my third high school.

I used to eat celery and a blow pop for breakfast every morning on the 1/2 mile long walk to my bus stop at my first hs. 

I never made it to being skinny. Any time anyone says the word “diet” I panic because I wrote pages upon pages of numbers and goals and meal plans and food servings for years. I wrote descriptions of how it felt several days into eating maybe 700 calories. I wrote about days where I crashed and burned and wound up with a trash bin full of wrappers from individually packaged snacks. 

I love opening. The act of it, you know? It’s euphoric. Boxes, letters, snack cakes, candies. The fridge. The microwave. My closet. My dresser. Books. The convertible top. And I don’t like closing. I don’t like packing. I hate keeping myself off the scale, but it keeps me sane. I hate drowning out my ability to list calories. 

Every time someone suggests dieting, I hate having to shut it down. I know it’s a thing I need to do, and I know it’s not a thing people would expect me to have ever taken too far, but some people don’t lose weight when they have an eating disorder. Some people don’t lose weight on a healthy diet, and the frustration leads them down a dark rabbit hole of sleepless nights with empty bodies and then days where you eat dinner 3 times because two people “want to make sure you’ve eaten” because they’re worried about you. 

I know the best and worst foods to throw up. Still. Over a decade later. Comparing my body to other women as a form of shaming myself shakes my hand like an old friend. Smiling. 

This is what you’d look like if you tried harder. If you stopped eating carbs. If you hadn’t eaten your feelings after every. Single. Breakup.

The disgust with my body pulls my chair out at the table, pours me a glass of something strong and gives me a pep talk.

Your genes are bad. You have to overcompensate in order to even be normal. You have to do this every single day. For hours. You have to show your body that it can be better. Every time it was better, it took so. Much. Work. And that’s what you need to keep up. No time for anything else. 

My fear picks up a violin and screeches at me and calls it music. 

It killed your aunt; the bulimia, the anorexia. Her constant cycling between the two. You read her journal from treatment. And your only other option is to be a walking heart attack like your mother; you will be like her if you don’t run in that little hampster wheel. You already weigh more than half of what she does. So close. Your options are only these. Both will kill you. You’re going to die. The real question is: don’t you want to leave a pretty corpse?