Dark Room.
The bathroom is my dark room.
The blade at my waist.
I slice the skin until I bleed.
And Bleed.
And Bleed.
And Bleed.
My hands shake,
the tears come.
I tell myself how horrible I am.
Horrible daughter.
Horrible lover.
Horrible friend.
Horrible person.
I take the pain and hold onto the thought.
Maybe this punishment,
empty faces filled with guilt
watch the girls as they dealt
with judgemental stares and beady eyes
frowns that made them feel despised
grubby hands suggestive names
she does that you do the same
don't wear that -go here -look this way
your unwanted if you disobey
what is it like to be a girl
in this dirty awful world
to stand up tall is to be a wh**e
but to not lay down just closes doors.
control of my body is what I want
not magazines that laugh and taunt
not celebrity status skin and bones
but if your fat your on your own
Embraced,
But never crushed by the arms of the capture.
She smiled in my face and I dared to smile back,
For warmth was something she could never lack.
Turn off the lights, she said,
Without question my darkest thoughts were fed.
Hi, with a smile,
Hello with a grin,
Have you ever thought maybe he dislikes the color of your skin?
Okay that's enough, no need to think this way,
But seriously, do you think he could love you on any given day?
What does he think of the words that you so carelessly say?
Stand still, shoulders back,
Smile! Not too much, just a crack.
Oh my God, they're walking in my direction,
Forget all the things you could possibly mention.
Today I feel
Abandoned
Hurt
Ugly
Ashamed
Useless
Like I dont matter
Like I dont belong or have belonged
Invisible
In jail,
everything changes,
except the shame.
He grew up assuming others
had a right to speak
before he spoke.
He grew up in a region
named Not Really.
He eats too fast in restaurants,
walks too slowly in cities,
does his own repairs.
Elegance makes him claustrophobic;
opulence, morose.
The entitled fascinate him.
He watches them.
Shown evidence who he is and
what he does might
matter, he doubts it.
I know him: he hangs on
How nakedly an animal
Lies down on earth to die,
Unmindful of the shining air,
And unashamed of sky.
But men and women under roofs
Draw shades and hush the floor,
And furtively they lay their dead
Behind a darkened door.
Midsummer night without a moon, but the stars
In a serene bright multitude were there,
Even the shyest ones, even the faint motes shining
Low in the north, under the Little Bear.
When I have said, “This tragic farce I play in
Has neither dignity, delight nor end,”
The holy night draws all its stars around me,
I am ashamed, I have betrayed my Friend.
O friends of mine, if men mock at my name,
Say “Children loved him.”
Since by that word you will have far removed him
From any bitter shame.
At first I thought there was a superfine
Persuasion in his face; but the free glow
That filled it when he stopped and cried, "Hollo!"
Shone joyously, and so I let it shine.
He said his name was Fleming Helphenstine,
But be that as it may; -- I only know
He talked of this and that and So-and-So,
And laughed and chaffed like any friend of mine.
But soon, with a queer, quick frown, he looked at me,
And I looked hard at him; and there we gazed
With a strained shame that made us cringe and wince:
Then, with a wordless clogged apology
That sounded half confused and half amazed,
He dodged, -- and I have never seen him since.
You never understood,
O unknown one,
Why it was I repaid
Your devoted friendship and delicate ministrations
First with diminished thanks,
Afterward by gradually withdrawing my presence from you,
So that I might not be compelled to thank you,
And then with silence which followed upon
Our final Separation.
You had cured my diseased soul.
But to cure it
You saw my disease, you knew my secret,
And that is why I fled from you.
For though when our bodies rise from pain
We kiss forever the watchful hands
That gave us wormwood, while we shudder
I loathed you, Spoon River.
I tried to rise above you,
I was ashamed of you.
I despised you
As the place of my nativity.
And there in Rome, among the artists,
Speaking Italian, speaking French,
I seemed to myself at times to be free
Of every trace of my origin.
I seemed to be reaching the heights of art
And to breathe the air that the masters breathed
And to see the world with their eyes.
But still they’d pass my work and say:
“What are you driving at, my friend?
Sometimes the face looks like Apollo’s
At others it has a trace of Lincoln’s.”