Inferno

“You don’t need to choose 
mediocre
when fire exists.”
– Victoria Erickson

You don’t need to settle for less.

You don’t need to take in
the “Cute”s
the “Naive”s
the “Innocent”s.

I swear those who mock
white
are too busy
washing out their own
stains.

I swear those who insist
you “bang” everything
that walks
aren’t getting any.

And I’ll let ‘em think
that when we’re contracting against each other’s bodies
and you’re are pulling me against you
until the air is choked between us,
that I’m still a good girl.

I won’t tell them how you feed me the universe
and that you lit my blood up.

I won’t tell them
your name is forming scars on my spine.
And you’ll make up some elaborate story
about how some you were in fight club
and that’s why you got the split lip.

Because both you and I know
“virginal”
is not a synonym for
“settle”.

But we’ll let ‘em think, babe.

And then you and I will set fire to our bed,
rolling to douse out our clothes,
without removing them.
Sometimes the best infernos are
internal.

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Used & Abused

He looks at me and says,
“You’re too nice.”

And she looks at me, and says,
“That’s how you get taken advantage of.”

Because how quickly something I view as a compliment becomes crippling;
because right now,
I’m supposed to be “healing”;
recovering.

Because do you know
how many times
I didn’t stand up for myself
and took
whatever
the HELL
I could get?

The months after (you) left,
and I came crawling back,
tail between my legs,
begging for confirmation
that I was more than just sloppy seconds,
that the one who didn’t give a shit
might need me
when he dumps
whoever is filling the void for the moment.

Does she know
how I put up with a guy
begging for blow jobs
within two weeks of meeting me?
Or how I tried to be there for the guy
who was texting his girlfriend
while reviving something
I confused for “happiness”
by mouth to mouth resuscitation?

Tell me does she know
about the guy in between
who said he wanted me
and knocked down my beliefs
every
chance
he
got?

You shouldn’t be telling me,
“That’s how you get taken advantage of.”
When I already
fucking 
know.

You should be asking,
how I’m
still
“too nice”
after everything
that has happened
thus far.

 

 

My Sister; My Friend

You fucking asshole.
You unlucky bastard.

You have made me hate her.

Because the day you decided to use
cheesy one liners
before bringing my mouth to yours,
I was willingly to let you split open 
the meteor that had taken orbit in my chest,
hollowing and throttling forward,
ready to destroy all hopes
of a good thing ever happening to me again.

It had been eight months, love.
And I had accepted that I would not feel wanted 
again (if at all) for a long time.
Until you.
Until touching me was like 
oxygen,
sucked probably from my very lungs
because every time you did,
I got light-headed searching for breath.

But it’s okay,
because the day you walked away,
all of that air knocked right back into me,
until I was falling over myself at the idiocy of 
falling for you
because I was about to bear my soul
to someone who insisted that they wanted to see me.

Superficially.

Because every since then I
have let manifest inside me a newfound
hatred for myself.

Because there are days when
because of you,

I hate her.

I can’t freakin stand her perfection.

Because I envy her
and the way everyone just loves her,
falls at her feet begging
to be
inspiration,
consolation,
vindication for whatever
she needs and I am right
there
with them
willingly.

She says I give her too much credit,
and goddamn it,
someone has to.

I am good at certain things.
I have my own style of writing,
that is okay in comparison,
but not the charisma,
the ambition,
the congeniality
and understanding of someone
who insists I could hate her.

And I hate her.

Because I’m not her.

And I hate me.

Because I’m not her.

Because,
darling,
you never realized I was dealing with my own insecurities.
Resurrecting from a self you know prior
to learning the syllables in my name,
let alone that there are three,
when everyone calls me by two,
and you obliterate me to one
“kid”.

I didn’t think it was possible to become broken after everything he did.

But until you hate someone 
you love so much,
you care about so much,
because you,
as yourself,
were not them,
and therefore not enough

because you crave touch,

because you miss the rush

what he did to me was merely sin.

You did what you did to me,
and subsequently,
that’s the blow that
did me in.

Perhaps,
I needed you
in order to know
what it feels like
to be truly

broken. 

Where’d You Go; I Miss You So

Passion Pit is playing and I’m remembering your profile,
as we drove through Clayton, somewhere on Delsea and I
listened as you sang on key,
one hand on the steering wheel,
fingers on your free hand
tapping absentmindedly.

I don’t ever remember hearing Passion Pit in your presence.

I wrote a story where you died and I visited your gravestone,
with two Coronas, in a baggy flannel and torn up Chucks because it was easier
for me to pretend you were dead than to accept you had willingly left.

I still want everything to do with you.

I have written probably over a hundred posts, prose, poems about you and I don’t know how to stop.
I don’t know what else to say to you to make you get it.
You broke me,
and I’m still sweeping up the pieces, trying to glue myself back together,
rise from the ashes…
but your smile still burns like raided villages,
and your laughter is the like the cries of terrified children
and murder and massacre take place simultaneously;
easier to believe in a harsher reality,
than accept and live with whatever the hell you did to me.

You fucked me up.
You fucked me over.

All without making love to me.
All because you tried to make memories.
All by making promises you never intended to keep.

Old songs are playing,
and I wonder if you would still sing along
if you knew all the words.
I wonder if you’d link the fingers of your free hand
with mine, and we could just drive,
in silence, in moments
that I live in more than reality.
Frankly,
I hate that I still think about these days,
I still think about you this way.
That it’s been almost nine months since August 28th,
and I still see you
sitting in the Lazy Boy as I sit at your feet.

I always bowed down to you,
kissed the ground you
walked upon.

I can’t get you out of my head and I hate it.

I hate it.

I absolutely
fucking
hate
this.

Mannequin

I was just a mannequin;
a body for your lips to press against.
And I can’t lie,
That’s partially why I detest

You.

We aren’t even friends,
we never were (first),
And I don’t know who
is to blame for that.

Because part of me wants to sit here
And beg
and plead
for you to take me
into your life somehow;
fit me around
your room-mates,
Taco,
and Kali.

I’m jealous
that you respect her as a person,
while I’m just a means to an end.

And don’t say
that she’s what I thought you wanted.
Because you do want her;
and your ex,
and me…in ways you shouldn’t
be thinking about.
Remember,
“respect”?

Deep down,
I know you’re not good for me,
and I know that
whatever we had for a week
should end in smoke,
and you should let me seethe.

But you made me feel like shit,
and I think you ought to know it.
I think you ought to know,
that you aren’t as great as you want to be.
And she may satisfy a craving,
when your real problem is,
you don’t know what you want,
or how to be lonely.

Two and a half years
is a long time.
I know.
Try two years and ten months;
then bring in her ex.

But if your mind still wanders,
it’s not because you’re human.
It’s because she isn’t your everything.
That’s something you have to realize
and accept.

And you shouldn’t need her to be
complete.
But right now you’re selfish,
and can’t see the forest for the trees.

This is a rant,
without me expecting an apology.
This is me stating you are
quickly becoming nothing and no one to me.
Because where I thought you were friend,
you used up what little I had left of me,
and disguised it as respect.

Yet I know,
if I let my lips,
get close enough to kiss,
things like time and space,
will no longer exist.

But what should it matter?
How do I feel,
if I am just your mannequin?

That last piece

Was inspired by its title song: “Sometime Around Midnight” by The Airborne Toxic Event and my unrelenting masochism.

But I’m writing this to tell you,
It’s a moment in time, not truly experienced by me. It is an image brought to a page, but maybe not to life.

It lacks my passion behind it.
I wrote it to possibly impress him (?)

But not for me.
So if you get something out of it, great.
But just know this,
I honest to God can’t relate.

It’s probably because I’m the one who usually gets kicked out.