Wonder

TW: Rape

 

I wonder if you’re scared.
If you think about me when you see the news.
I wonder if when #metoo circulated our Facebook pages if you thought to check mine. 

 

I wonder if you remember that car ride.
You were driving a luxury rental car because you crashed your Audi into a poll when you were drunk. 
No consequences, 
Just the inconvenience of driving a different fancy car for the week.
 
You told me to stop telling people you assaulted me. 
You told me that would ruin your reputation, 
That it was a fucked up thing to do. 

 

We  both didn’t say what really happened.
That you raped me.
That you took my virginity away from me in an instance. 
My right to make a decision about who I had sex with for the first time was taken from me. 
My body was taken from me, and seven years later I’m still trying to reclaim it.
I wonder if you remember that night, 
You were so drunk and high, your skin looked green. 
I hope when you think about me you squirm and feel nauseous, your breath escapes your lungs and you feel faint. 
I hope you wonder, if I wonder.
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Panic can’t stand in my way…

Im sitting here in Amsterdam,
On a stoop in an alley.

 

My foot hurts,
Will I get sick in the middle of the night?
I look up in the midst of my angst.

 

Tall lanky town homes line the street,
A canal stands with bikes hugging it tight-
The smell of fresh stroopwaffel wafts in and out.

 

I fade out of my mind and into the beauty.

 

Soft Touch

I like to touch.
I like to squeeze,
grab,
hold,
They like it too.

 

When we’re in the confines of a bed-
Our habitat for 45 mins, 
An hour and 30 mins if they’re feeling generous. 

 

When we step away, 
Outside the tangled sheets,
Sweet with our sweat
They drop my hand.

 

I search their face.
Do you remember me? 
My touch? 
My smell?
My kiss?
My bite?

 

I’m a faded memory.
They’re a still picture in my mind. 
They shift their eyes away from my gaze.
“It’s too soon” they say
“We hardly know each other”

 

I stare harder,
Pinch my hand into theirs.
“But yesterday,
Yesterday, we became one
Today, 
We’re strangers?”

 

A furrowed brow looks back at me
“That was just sex” they say
“Oh, just sex” I say back
Holding the salt water tightly back into my ducts.
They take a step away,
I look down at my body,
“Just sex” I repeat

soft_touch_by_elentori-d5wuuts

Good to be back…

I go in and out of wanting to write when my anxiety is blaring. Sometimes the medium is my salvation, my way out, but other times it feels as if its a way in too deep. I often wish i had other inspiration. Sometimes I worry I’m repetitive, that all I want to write about is the same, which is this hair pulling struggle of panic disorder. Negative thoughts creep and lurch around my brain, dripping with toxicity that causes my head to ache, and my stomach to clench. It feels constant, and I begin to feel bored with myself and wonder if i am boring others. I mean, if you are bored with yourself, would that not translate into to your relationships? Perhaps I am too caught up with self. I find myself sitting and staring out, waiting for the thoughts to break open the door to my mind and sit comfortably on the couch in the corner, the one with the stain under the left cushion.  They grab the remote and begin sifting through channels of irrational fears. I feel my head get light and I need to sit down, and so I join them on the couch, shaking as they laugh in my face- the assholes that are my thoughts…

Thursday, April 12th

A Recap:

I am awoken at 6:51am by the pressure of my bladder and what felt like a possible bowel movement. 

My anxiety whispers “get up! you’re gonna shit yourself!”

I obey and stammer up the steps to the cool bathroom tile. 

I retreat back to bed, repeat my mantra of “you are light, you are love, you are perfect” for the 10th time of the morning trying to quiet the monkey that is my brain. 

I feel my heart rate slow down and my eyes blur to sleep. 

As soon as I feel the soft sleep take me, I am alerted by my alarm clock.

My heart races, anxiety nuzzles deep in my chest 

It’s as if my body is responding to the bear lurking behind me. 

I turn to look-

No bear, just the day ahead. 

I press snooze and begin to count objects I see in my bedroom to ease the panic that is bubbling up the sides of my body. 

I call my mom and put her on speaker.

Her voice is a warm blanket I wish I could lay over my fears

Tears begin to stream out of their ducts 

in an attempt to release the tension that’s been building over night. 

Mom tells me to breath, stay calm, and that I can conquer the day. 

It’s hard to believe her when I feel like I am being sliced and eaten alive. 

As I drive to work, my morning nausea  demands attention 

“Hello nausea” I say aloud,

It takes the welcome, and begins poking and prodding at the tension in my stomach.

Anxiety whispers “pull over loser, you’re going to vomit.” 

I obey and grab the plastic grocery bag I have waiting for me on the passenger seat. 

Blueberry protein shake finds itself in the bag as well as my sweater and pants. 

“shit, I’m a fucking mess!” 

Panic is ready to join the party, and I begin heaving over the bag again- with tears streaming I look around to see if anyone notices me. 

Thankful for the metal shield that is my car I collapse into myself and cry. 

I check the time, “shit, i’m late”

Wiping my face with my shaking wet hand I tie up the bile bag and start the ignition. 

“You are light, you are love, you are perfect” I repeat it until I hear nothing else. 

 

Lonely.

Lonely sits in my chest

begging to be fed.

I ask it to go away nicely-

it quivers, and looks back at me with sad eyes

so i hug it close,

trying to warm the empty

that permeates up to my head

and pulsates my temples.

 

I ask out loud,

“Will anyone truly love me?”

And not a parents love, which is hopefully undying.

That love is a whole other poem.

 

This love is the love my lonely wants to eat,

mouthfuls of companionship and fulfillment

 

How I yearn to taste what the opposite of lonely proves to be.

“Be full on your own”

 

Oh, if only I knew how.  pexels-photo-791300.jpeg

“Rough” Days

I’m so fucking tired of each day being a “rough” day.

That’s what I say when I don’t want to scare kind faces off.

That’s what I say when my body purges the nutrients I am so desperate to hold on to.

That what I say when it feels like I am constantly slipping on ice and there is no one there to catch my fall.

Thats what I say when it feels like I can longer carry on.

“What do you mean, Jessie? What does that mean?”

I promise to family, friends, co-workers that it doesn’t mean what they think-

That it’s just been a “rough” day.

And the promises I make to them I sow  to my heart with thick yarn

So when I want to break them I can’t.

The yarn tethers and gets thin with my pulls but it doesn’t rip, it can’t rip-

after all,

its only been a rough day.

1cac27340cada565834150ab9049ab54

Drawing– The Nude Nubian credit: @khleo_t