Month: July 2015

Bad Taste

I have bad taste in guys.
I chase men running away from themselves
And convince myself they are retreating from me.
You spend your life under construction,
But it’s your twenties when there might not even be a foundation claiming your space–
Just rocky terrain and a deed tethering you to the rubble.

I have bad taste in guys.
Not bad guys,
Not Flesh tainted in tattoo ink,
Breath doused in the aroma of whiskey.
No, my sabotage is more subtle.
I’d rather ruin myself softly than make a scene,
Would rather my end be embers than flames.
I have affection for shadow men,
who only appear at certain times of day.
My head reels from mobilizing defenses for games I never wanted to play.
Breathless, I weave intricate webs around stark thoughts,
Persuading myself a thousand stories before sleep seizes my surrender.

I stumble upon closed doors and knock as if the locks will unhinge for me.
They didn’t lock to spite me.
His defense mechanisms predate our meeting.
It isn’t that he isn’t into me,
It’s that he is so absorbed in his own universe
He cannot see me past his own chaos.
I tred light years ahead of the intimacy he cannot provide.
He isn’t trying to hurt me,
Only to salvage himself.

I have bad taste in guys
I don’t want to reorient my geography when learning to love my landscape.
Because I am so addicted to being unloved that love is the most terrifying of beasts.
Abandonment is my expectation,
It stings to fathom anything more.
The familiarity of hollow arms,
Mushy insides dyed black and blue by betrayal,
Question marks as placeholders for experience,
It feels better than the anxiety of losing the body wrapped in my embrace.

I have bad taste in guys,
It think it’s because I haven’t acquired a taste for myself.
I wait for and on no one.
No calendars or alarms are reserved for them.
I would rather be so cool I am a blizzard
Seeking other men’s winters
Than risk hoping that there is a spring who wants me.

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Too Much

I worry I am too much.

I worry I am a being

Overflowing herself into a world unable to palate her.

In classroom corners and time outs,

existed an education that abundance isn’t valued in little girls.

We are origami,

Intended to be folded into something smaller, prettier,

Malleable to the will of another’s hands.

This made me a flight risk in my own body,

Taught me I am an intoxicating idea,

Yet, a dizzying reality.

I worry I am too much,

An indulgence enjoyed sparingly.

I worry people will define me by things I could not control,

As if I am an anthology bound by flesh,

Something that cannot define itself.

The truth is, I would rather be barbedwire than a welcome mat,

Something utterly unapproachable,

Rather than a woman who takes her abuses lying down.

Not again.

I worry I am too much.

Amidst my internal whiplash,

My brain soothes my heart:

The wild does not exist to be tamed, broken, made into something less than what it is.

People do not swim in oceans to drain them,

Nor climb mountains to make them small.

You are a woman undevourable.

You are not a sight to behold, but a force to be reckoned with.

Vastness is only scary when seen through small vision.

Do not define yourself by scarcity.

Disregard it all together.

Don’t bother disregarding the people cursed with these small visions,

because they will fade from significance.

And then you’ll meet people who will not tame your ferocity but marvel at its vibrancy.

People who will not paralyze your spinning world but dance along side it.

To them,

You are not too much,

For them, you are you

And that is everything.

Autopsy of a Job Search

As summer sand dwindles in this post-grad hourglass,

And with it is the last of my calm.

Almost seventy job applications

Without an open door,

An option, possibility.

The thing they don’t tell you about the job search is how quickly you turn on yourself,

How maddeningly your mood swings.

My chest is a relentless moshpit.

I haven’t slept in six days,

Nails digging into my neck,

I wake in panic attacks,

Staccato breath and sweat is my new alarm.

My skin is red and raw from scratching it non-stop.

Perhaps my hands want my outsides to match my insides.

I cry on benches.

Air is a heavy, sour thing now.

I can’t tell what’s more exhausting: the lack of sleep or how I’ve become anxiety’s windup doll.

Pacing around a dissolving world is a painful feeling,

Watching everyone build as your trying your best not break.

With glue in one hand and scotch tape in the other, I can’t bring myself to behold a reflection I no longer recognize,

Assembling into a sum of shoulds.

You can read it in my eyes,

Count their creases in hours I did not sleep.

In my voice,

Hollow from where laugher used to live.

You see, I am the only certainty I have ever known.

Seventy jobs applications, countless “no”s, the worry of wondering if I turned down a job I should have taken.

I feel like I’m getting this all wrong.

Like the grains of sand in the hourglass,

My momentum is dwindling.

I worry I cannot save myself.

I worry I am sinking as I hurriedly try to tred water.

A job is not the answer,

It is only a life raft.

It is not life,

Just a way to make a living.

But the thing about my post grad life is that I’m drowning.

I do not need to swim at Olympic pace,

Answers fueling my breaststroke.

No, in the dusk of summer,

In the depth of uncertainty,

I just want to float.

Depression In SparkNotes

Smile. My midnight insides refuse to illuminate. Through thunderous thoughts, positivity whimpers. In strained prayers to a silent God, I plead for help. But Smile. Smile. Counting my blessings in the hope they will fill the gaping voids inside me, I do not reveal that I am made of mesh. No, I smile, Spin sinking thoughts into hopeful soliloquies As I use my hollow sides as an amplifier. How hypocritical I feel, This false idol, No more than a Faberge Egg. I smile, When you see this grin, Know it is the marquis for a body that wakes to hopelessness at dawn, Spends all-nighters with deafening depression, As if we were conjoined twins and only one of us can survive. I want to write, Soar lyrics from my skull, But Depression and I are joined at the brain. Smile Disappearing into a world that matches the hues of my insides. The thing they don’t tell you about depression is that it renders you mute, Convinces you that pride is an acceptable substitute for happiness, Performance a replacement for living. Depression tells me I’m being dramatic. I am screaming “HELP ME” in desperate silence, and all you see is a Smile.