You know what?
I don’t care if being a lesbian isn’t natural.
Its 2013. Oreos don’t have a single natural ingredient in them that isn’t distilled out of recognition. People get their vegetables from cans. They have made cruelty-free, lab-grown BACON. People fly around in big, metal machines.
I. AM. TALKING. TO SOMEONE. ACROSS THE WORLD. IN A MATTER OF SECONDS.
Not natural. Is not bad.
Your rhetoric is no longer a valid excuse for hate.
1. There will be several days that you daydream about stepping in front of a city bus. Don’t. It will not be beautiful. It will not be brave. It will be selfish. It will be broken. Your mother will cry.
2. Don’t write for him. Write for you. Write for others like you. Write so the girl that thinks about stepping in front of public transportation doesn’t. Don’t be selfish.
3. When you will yourself to sleep and it doesn’t come- get up. It doesn’t matter that it’s 3 am. There will be other 3 am’s. Take a shower. Take two. Wash him out of your hair. Write a poem. Read the same book you’ve read 202 times again. The 203rd time might tell you something different. Don’t stay in bed- you will think about the bus again.
4. Don’t kiss him because he’s broken. Don’t kiss him because his laughter never reaches his eyes. Don’t try and fix him. Fix yourself first. Be selfish. He can’t save you.
5. Date yourself. Take yourself out to eat. Don’t share your popcorn at the movies with anyone. Stroll around an art museum alone. Fall in love with canvases. Fall in love with yourself.
6. Dress up and wear red lipstick and get drunk with your friends. They’re the ones that will pick you up. Don’t kiss him. Or him. Don’t fall asleep on strange couches with strange boys. When his hand slides up your dress walk away. Hit him. Don’t kiss him. He can’t save you.
7. Get another tattoo. Get five more. Get another hole in your ear. Don’t listen to your dad. You will still be able to get a job. Did you really want to be employed by someone like your father? Haven’t you had enough of judgmental old white men anyway? Get fuck you tattooed in tiny letters on your hip.
8. When you feel the yearning for a new city- start over. Take 200 bucks and a three suitcases. Work anywhere that will have you. Meet strange people and forget your name. Call yourself Ruby. No one will know the difference. Remember to call your mother. Don’t be selfish. Come home when you find yourself in the strangers and the small one bedroom apartment.
9. Don’t whisper evil things into your own ear. Other people are going to shout them at you. Be your own hero. Keep a sword on your key ring.
10. Don’t step in front of a city bus. It will not be beautiful. Live. Stay up all night with a boy that promises you everything and means it. Live. See shitty local bands with a friend. Wear a different band’s t-shirt. No one will care. Live. Have a baby girl with tiny fingers and tiny toes someday. Pour love into her until it’s overflowing. Live. Wake up. Staying in bed all day is not poetic.
Do you hear that? It’s me. It’s your life. Wake up.
I want you to bite my lip until I can no longer speak
And then suck my ex girlfriend’s name out of my mouth just to make sure she never comes up in our conversations.
I’m going to be honest, I’m not really a love poet
In fact, every time I try to write about love my hands cramp… just to show me how painful love can be.
And sometimes my pencils break, just to prove to me that every now and then love takes a little more work than you planned
See I heard that love is blind so, I write all my poems in Braille
And my poems are never actually finished because true love is endless.
I always believed that real love is kind of like a super model before she’s air brushed;
It’s pure and imperfect, just the way that God intended.
See I’m going to be honest, I’m not a love poet
But if I was to wake up tomorrow morning and decide that I really wanted to write about love I swear that my first poem…
It would be about you.
About how I loved you the same way that I learned how to ride a bike: Scared
But reckless with no training wheels or elbow pads so my scars can tell the story of how I fell for you.
You see, I’m not really a love poet
But if I was I’d write about how I see your face in every cloud and your reflection in every window
You see I’ve written like a million poems hoping that somehow maybe someway you’ll jump out of the page and be closer to me
Because if you were here, right now
I would massage your back until your skin sings songs that your lips don’t even know the words to.
Until your heartbeat sounds like my last name and you smile like the Pacific ocean
I want to drink the sunlight in your skin.
If I was a love poet
I’d write about how you have the audacity to be beautiful
Even on days when everything around you is ugly
You see I’d write about your eyelashes and how they are like violin strings that play symphonies every time you blink.
If I was a love poet
I’d write about how I melt in front of you like an ice sculpture
Every time I hear the vibration in your voice so whenever I see your name on the caller ID my heart
It plays hop scotch inside of my chest.
Yo it climbs on to my ribs like monkey bars and I feel like a child all over again.
I know this sounds strange but every now and then I pray that God somehow turns you back into one of my ribs…
Just so that I would never have to spend an entire day without you.
I swear, I’m not a love poet
But if I was to wake up tomorrow morning and decide that I really wanted to write about love
My first poem it would be about you
And after all of that she was like, so how do you feel about me?
And I said, put it like this:
I want to be your ex boyfriend’s stunt man. I want to do everything that he never had the courage to do like… trust you.
I swear that when our lips touch I can taste the next sixty years of my life.
And some days I want to swallow stacks of your pictures just so you can be a part of me for a little bit longer.
If I could I would sample your smile and then I would let my heart beat
Do the bass line, we would create the greatest love song of all time
Whenever, we stand next to each other, love I was the only one made for you and you can be at last my Etta James
I’ll be oh child when you’re in pain or you could be candy coated drops of rain
Even though it never rains in Southern California
And together, we could be music.
And when my friends ask if you’re my girlfriend
I’ll say no.
She is my musician
And me… I’m her favorite song.
Whenever I’m in so much fucking pain, I always wish time would just stop and wait. But of course time and life don’t work like that. I feel stuck. And I feel like there are so many directions I can go from here… but I honestly don’t know which one to choose.
The red marks on my left wrist and forearm have faded. There are a few red looking dots. I have four bruises on my forearm. They’re small and not that noticeable. Except for one that’s rather large. Greenish blue with purple dots/marks on it. They haven’t really formulated on the outside of my arm. They’re all underneath. It’s interesting to look at… they all hurt, though. When gently touched or pushed.
I am exhausted. Mentally. But then again that does take a toll on me emotionally and physically. I could lie in bed all day today and then fall asleep later tonight and then wake up tomorrow exhausted.
Doesn’t help that I have a cold, either. At least that’s what I think I have? I assumed it were allergies. But my nose has been runny and my throat feels like it’s on fire. I used up a whole roll of tissue paper in about a day blowing my fucking nose and wiping away snot. It’s beyond irritating.
I want to talk to my dad because I want to let him know that I am not okay. I want to ask him what I should do because I always take his opinion into consideration. He is very level headed though not as in tune with his feelings as I am. Which is why I’m afraid it will backfire on me. It has before in the past. And his words hurt and sting more than any scratch or cut or bruise. And they leave scars that don’t ever leave. As much as I love my dad, I am also afraid of him. But I wish so much that he would understand me, that he would just listen to me with no judgments but with compassion. I wish I could turn to him in my times of need. But I’ve disappointed him too much. If anything, that’s all I’ve ever done.
I just have tunnel vision right now. I’m only focusing on the bad, the negative… I wish I could focus on something else, but this pain is too much. It won’t shift, it won’t budge. I’m fucking drowning in it.
I wanted so badly to cut myself earlier. There were scissors near me that I could have used. Though I was in a lot of pain, I knew that if I reached for the scissors, I would have left a greater deal of damage than I had intended… so instead, I turned to what I have done a few times in the past. I scratched myself with my nails. Hard. [Though I must admit, this is my first time doing self inflicted bruises. I have never done that ever.] First on the side of my face down to my neck. Then when I was in my room, I started at my right leg and then my left. And then on my left forearm. And back at my right leg and upper thigh. And then I reached for my compact mirror in my bag to see if I had left any marks on my face and neck. There is a distinct, red line going down the right side of my face. And a few marks on my neck. The scratching was barely helping minimize the mental and emotional pain I was feeling. I still had the urge to cut myself. So, I reached for the compact mirror and started to hit my forearm and wrist with it. Harder. And harder until it started to hurt and I could see a little bruising. I used the edges of it to scratch myself with it. On my legs over and over. And hitting my thigh occasionally. And then back at scratching my wrist and forearm with it. And then switching back to hitting until I could feel and see bruises. While this was happening, I was bawling my eyes out. My eyelids are puffy now as they always are after I cry a lot. I wanted so badly to scream and yell and hit the walls of my room. But I couldn’t because my family would hear me. So I just cried silently until I couldn’t anymore. And I kept violently hurting myself until I felt like that was enough. I know this is disgusting and scary and gross and horrifying. I know this does not make sense. I know this is not “normal.”
I just feel like… I am so bruised internally, so black and blue and purple and covered in cuts and scars. And times likes these, when I break down, it is like there is no room inside for more bruises and cuts and scars. There is no room for more pain, for more hurt, for more suffering that I have to continue with it externally. All the cuts, scars, scratches, and bruises on the outside don’t even compare to how it must look internally. I just feel so fucking broken, beyond repair now. I don’t know how to fix myself. I don’t think I can anymore. I don’t know if I am going to get better than this and that scares me.