She only reaps when it is fertile,

only takes when there is enough.

Today she is overflowing

with a white, hot anger.

If she bottled it all up,

she could burn the whole world to the ground.

If only with her stare.

Those blue, diamond eyes that want to suffocate all of the light,

that want to blacken the soil with char and sulfur.

Resurrect her past offenders and fucking b r e a k them.

With her bare hands.

Her eyes a bloodthirsty cobalt, as hard as glass, and thirsty for blood.

She wants to rip them limb from limb.

Today, is the reaping.

She will meet those murderers of her past and present life, chrome .45 in hand,

staring down that barrel of death saying the last words they'll ever hear...

"Today, you die.”

What I wish I felt:

I walk into rooms, warrior, as if I know they will collapse when I leave.

As if they know this is one they cannot collapse on.

I look at my place in the world and see how I give to the greater good.

I wonder who is worthy to walk with me on my journey through life.

I know I am worthy of good things, good people, love.

And in my dreams the world greets me and shows all of the splendor there is:

a girl with big eyes and a hopeful heart.

What I actually feel right now:

I walk into rooms as if no trace of me will be there once I leave.

As if the walls will shrink towards this girl who doesn’t know she shines.

I look at my place in the world and only see what I take from its goodness.

I wonder if I will ever be worthy of someone to walk with me on my journey through life.

I know that I wonder whether I am capable of good things, of good people, of love.

And in my dreams there is a found love for myself that only sometimes comes to visit.

I walked into my school and swiped my badge,

a burning in my head.

I slow dance next to the m u n d a n e.

I work with the little ones and tell them the secret of coping with your emotions.

They don't need to know that I struggle with this too. But I still do.

I tell them adults cry, I tell them and show them that wounds can talk.

Now you might be thinking, "

Anna are you airing out your grown up thoughts to little kindergarteners?"

The answer is: yes and mostly no

I say it like I'm describing another person. That even adults can cry and not understand why, that even adults can read their limit.

Then I go home and I wonder, "Is this what I want to do for the rest of my life?

I get that guilt that can sometimes occur when working in a Social Services job:

Asking myself, "Am I making a difference, what am I hoping to achieve does this work even matter?"

The short and long answer are: yes it matters, no you might not see the long term effects, but you are doing enough.

And I know this. I. know. this.

But I still wonder what am I doing for myself? Am I doing enough for me?

So my life is a series of questions at the moment. I am trying very hard to find the answer-between my ears, between my heart and my lungs, "What makes me catch my breath with joy, fear, or passion? What makes Anna ALIVE?"

So that is me right now. A detective picking up breadcrumbs on the journey for more.

It will never end, but right now the road seems to be flat and long with no rest stops.

So I guess I will have to learn how to set up camp, find a way to make time for me.

That is me right now :)

Hey lovebugs,

YA GIRL IS BACK!!! I am finally coming back on the grid, and by that I mean I will still be woefully ignorant of pop culture but I have cell reception. I needed this time. Like I REALLY needed this: to figure my shit out, to feel like myself again, and to hear my own voice in my head instead of all of the voices I believed knew better than me. How wrong I was. I love you all and appreciate your support even if ya'll thought I had lost my mind.

To be completely fair: I had, but I am close to finding it once more.

And don't worry you will all be seeing my finished novel soon. And sorry for my essay text but you guys now how I roll. Anna outtttt -love ya dear ones :)

What do you do

when your feelings

are as big as the sky?

To be stretched

over night

and shone brightly amongst the eyes of God.

to laugh the devil in the face and

become fearless of fate.

That fate never stood a chance against you.

You, the master of your soul and

the captain amongst all captains.

Conquering dragons in your sleep

with talons of menacing nightmares

licking at your heels.

You laugh in the face of fear.

Only hopes of tomorrow are you filled with.

You,

woman,

antidote to war

and bringer of peace,

mightily wield power

you know not of.

There is a broken thread in the spools of blue that gathered at the base of her jacket. She saw all that was to unravel and felt unglued from the human she once was. In an instant, she became a scarecrow, a clown of the field. But this is no clown of God, no martyr to offer herself to the God of her ancestors.

No, she became the laughing stock, guarding crops that you did not even attempt to sow. The ones you so carelessly planted with false seeds in minds so fertile as to accept the fecal dribble you let sore from your mouth.

So when she says “I hate you,” she means you have made her into that spineless scarecrow who cannot protect that fucking field she never wanted in the first place. She hates you for making her into a person she never knew could exist, let alone become.

So when the world remembers her, she will gouge out her button eyes and sewn-on smile, to forget and never see the limp existence of a woman hell bent on never knowing herself.

Do not ask after her again.

(Allusion to Tomie dePaola’s “The Clown of God” children’s story)

I think I have grown until I am confronted in all the ways my rapist has created a stagnant 16 year old in me. A woman too scared to say anything that would bring disapproval to their eyes. I think I can have a fling until I am again confronted with all the ways I am not equipped for the aftermath. Myself. I wanted it until at moments I didn’t. I didn’t like that he choked me -at certain points it was too hard. Why didn’t I say anything? Because inwardly I was freaking out. Sometimes he went too hard. He didn’t try to build it up, he just tried to create it in a day.

I think I am better at navigating relationships but the passionate woman in me and the survivor are at odds it seems. Both should have a voice, but I do not know how to let them share the stage.

I wish I had said, “Don’t do that. Too hard, please be more gentle.” Instead I stayed silent.

And the gears start to click and grind and the old warped/ thinking begins to enter into my mind once again.

"Maybe this is all you deserve..."

And I go to sleep thinking of all the ways I have failed only to wake up and remember that the nightmare was real and the only monster in my mind is... me.

My thoughts echo;

dangerously and anxiously

climbing from my mouth

before I can take them back.

What will you do if you lose him?

I answer:

I will

Love anyway.

Break ground

with teeth in stomach

biting acid until air arrives.

Love loud with no words,

etching my heart on giving trees,

until there are stumps left of my love.

Until I burned it to the ground.

Leave the house in cinders,

walk away clean.

"You could never screw your head on straight enough for Phillip..."

The man grabs a bud light and takes a swig.

As all the men take turns telling stories on a summer night where the fireflies hang in the air.

It is a breathless sort of night where the scent of booze, sweat and sex stick to your skin until the next morning.

Everybody is wanting somebody and not everybody will get that somebody.

And you wonder why the music swells louder in your ears and that same sentence continues to repeat in your head.

"You could never screw your head on straight enough for Phillip..."

And you wonder what type of god Phillip is to have so much dominion over a person's head,

while simultaneously wondering if your head was ever screwed on straight enough to begin with.

And the night swims in your eyes and you are a delirious sort of man wanting that scent of booze, sweat and sex to stay with you forever,

because that would mean the night would never end and that this youth would be with you always.

Your mind hanging on by a thread and you answer Phillip in your dreams that same night,

"No, Phillip I think my head was screwed on loose from birth."

Words were always so easy

until you.

It is as if lead has infiltrated my tongue

to still it.

I call this the 11th plague.

You are it.

You are the leaves in my rain gutters,

clogging up my arteries,

stilling all thoughts of a life with you.

I ache for you still.

Even in moments when I wish to forget you.

Even when I know you do not want me.

You are the 11th plague.

An open wound,

made more painful with every encounter.

You are you.

How can you help it?

And I am me.

How can I bear it?