i’m 19, and a college student--

no, strike that,

i dropped out after a semester

because i couldn’t afford it--

no, strike that,

i flunked out because i couldn’t handle it.

the truth,

the honest truth?

a month before i turned eighteen

i was raped.

and with fingers on my throat

and in my skin

and in my dreams,

i only barely made it

through senior year,

but i thought that i’d be better,

for sure,

because i didn’t know what else to be,

but the fingers never left me

and it took all i had just to keep on

being.

and then two months after college started,

i listened to my friend kill herself,

heard her sob into the line,

and the bang, and the silence,

and i hated myself for not saving her

and i hated myself for hating her

and i hated myself because all i thought

before bursting into tears

was

no fair.

why did she get to do it,

why did she get to leave?

all my problems,

all my pain,

and she got relief,

and i was left behind.

and i couldn’t do it,

couldn’t go to class,

couldn’t go to work,

couldn’t find it in me to crawl out of bed

and look at the world.

everything was shit--

no, strike that,

i was shit,

and everything went wrong.

so i lied,

because it was all i remembered how to do,

and after i’d been kicked out,

i’d been taken in,

because i cried and crooned,

and wove a tale of not how i was pitiful,

but how i was poor,

because it was easier to deal with money issues

than mental issues.

but i made it through the year

and back to a place

that everyone else called my home,

where i was beaten and cursed

and told to die

(and what kind of home charges rent,

by the way)

by a person who didn’t even know how useless

i was.

as far as my mother was concerned,

i had a 4.0 gpa,

but even that

wasn’t good enough.

and now,

i’m out, or will be soon,

but i’m poor, for real,

working as a waitress at a job that doesn’t cover

my rent, and forgetting my past,

my skills,

in favor of the lunch and dinner

menu.

(i knew languages once, didn’t i?

built websites and programs,

spoke with natives in France

and learning more)

and what was the point?

no degree, no experience,

no money, no pride.

the fingers haven’t left.

i hear his voice,

and hers,

and mine,

all screaming.

i don’t know where i’m going.

i’m scared.

SOMETIMES I WANT THE NIGHT TO CHOKE ME.

IS THAT SO BAD?

IS IT SAD THAT I WANT RED HANDS?

SOME NIGHTS IT GETS SO BAD THAT I WISH FOR DEATH TO TAKE ME AND MY DEMONS TO BREAK ME.

SOME NIGHTS IT GETS SO BAD THAT I THINK THEY WILL.

IF YOU'RE READING THIS:

I'M HALFWAY DEAD

AND I NEED YOU TO TAKE ME TO THE OTHER SIDE.

I'M TOO WEAK FOR SUICIDE.

I NEED YOUR HELP.

THIS IS A PLEA-

PLEASE TAKE ME.

I DON'T CARE IF THERE'S A HEAVEN OR A HELL,

I JUST NEED A RESTING PLACE FOR MY SOUL TO DWELL AFTER I RIP MYSELF TO SHREDS.

I CAN'T DEAL WITH MY HEAD AND THE THOUGHTS LOCKED INSIDE.

BLOODY LIPS AND VIOLET KNUCKLES ARE GROWING ON ME.

I THINK I LOOK GOOD IN BLACK AND BLUE.

I'M BEGINNING TO COME TO THE UNDERSTANDING THAT

MAYBE GOD DIED BECAUSE HE WANTED TO

BUT MAYBE I ALREADY KNEW.

misnomers.

contradictions.

euphemisms.

fucking-pathetic-isms.

yeah, maybe i have some fucked condition where my arms are always either on fire or as numb as my empathy.

yeah, maybe i live in a house where the only relevant dinner conversations vary between divorce and ambiguous cynicism.

yeah.

maybe sometimes i lie on my bedroom floor for hours.

but that’s not why i’ve run away.

that’s not why i’ve been AWOL for so long.

it isn’t because of sadness.

it isn’t because of self-loathing.

it isn’t even because the floor is comfortable as fuck.

it’s because

it’s because

i’m

apathetically

unconditionally

horribly

irrationally

inevitably

scared.

of what?

well,

maybe it’s because i happened to luck out

because i happened to write something that isn’t shit

scared that maybe it’s done.

i’ve hit top.

oh bottom!

i’ve hit you so much

i could call you a slut without even blinking.

but top?

fuck this is scary.

it’s scary being appreciated.

it’s scary having things expected of you.

it’s scary to not be useless.

fuck i must sound crazy spouting all of this

but i can’t help it.

i have words.

i do.

but me?

i’m just a person

just another guy

just human.

and i will admit to all of you

that yes!

I

AM

FUCKING

SCARED.

and this is how you breathe:

i. my mother plays with

knives

while i play with the lock

on the bathroom door

my hands have stopped

shaking on

the doorknob a long

time ago

ii. some days

i'd rather be splayed dead

and bloody on the

street than walk all

the way back

home

iii. she never lets me sleep

as long as i need;

can she tell that closing

my eyes is all it takes to fade

away from this place

iv. i want to be somewhere

a million miles away

v. mama,

please stop screaming

i can't sleep

She died

in a pool of blood

Red blood then

Brown crusts now

Her eyes

Staring sightlessly into the sky

They used to be a blue grey

Now they're mushy and bland

I bet they taste mushy too

You can feel her skin

Once pale and smooth

Now wrinkled and rotting

And bloody and grey and blue

Maggots

Crawl in and out

Of eye sockets

And the nose and mouth

And even the ears too

They've eaten her up

From the inside out

I look down

On this grotesque

Disturbing spectacle

And I think to myself,

"What a beautiful way to die"

"Supplementing nature"

And I take her bones and grind them while watching the maggots feast

I make them into ceramic

If you can make ceramic with cow bones, why not human bones?

And then I melt them into little pots and paint them red with her blood

I take the maggots and squish them, one by one

I fill the pots with their insides

Oh, there's enough bone to make one more pot

a big pot is made

and I take her head off of her body and stare at it

"This would make wonderful soup"

My cackles

Ring into the night

As blood

Stains my lips

And dribbles down my chin

And I enjoy

My soup

My steak

My pots and pans

My life

as an undertaker

She laid on the hard, cold concrete floor in pain. Her left eye was swollen shut, and her lips and nose were busted. A few of her ribs felt broken, almost as broken as her soul in that moment.

She was naked and shivering from the cold. Her hands and feet were bound by a thick rope, and every time she tried to move, the rope dug into her wrists and ankles.

She was so tired, not just physically but also mentally. She fought for so long to try break free, but the more she struggled, the worse the pain became.

Then, she heard the door open. Light flooded onto her bloody face, with the warmth from outside the room rushing onto her cold and bruised skin. He slowly approached her, as if examining her from a distance to see how much enjoyment he could squeeze out of her.

He grabbed a hold of her by the hips. She wanted so badly to move or scream, but she absolutely couldn't. She had no energy and, more importantly, will left to make her do something. She just looked out of the open door to what was beyond the room. She saw a moderate sized desk with papers and a lamp sitting on top of it. There was no chair beside the desk. Instead, a stool took its place.

Then, he picked her up to where she was on my hands and knees. He began to take off his belt. Then his pants. Then his underwear. She felt the pain and pressure of a penis up her anus. This was the third time today, and she had lost count of how many times this had happened in total. Yet, she still wasn't use to the penetration. She still felt violated each time. She still felt as if she didn't deserve this. As if this was the first time.

He rode back and forth for just a few minutes before being finished. But it felt like eternities were between each movement. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Then, as he was redressing his lower body, she managed to utter, "Why..?"

He paused for a moment. Then, as he continued putting his pants on, he said in the bitterest of tones to her, "Because I like it." He began to walk away. "And you do too, bitch."

Then he shut the door and walked away. And there she laid, vulnerable and hopeless. She knew that this was her life now and that she would always just be an instrument for men's sexual frustrations. She had accepted that.

But what she couldn't accept was why it had to be that way, why God had to play such a cruel joke on her, and she knew that that was going to haunt her for all of her life.

She makes believes her house has new walls and creates allegories about rotting foundations. In her mind mildew crumbles at her feat and the stench of disillusion is so thick in the air she cannot breathe. She has never seen these wall, but she pretends that there are terminates nesting in them. They come out while she sleeps and crawl into her ears, breeding in the crevices of her brain. They feed on her will. She calls countless exterminators, but they look at her like she's lost her mind. There are no walls, there are no termites, it is all in her head. The stench of disillusion is so thick in the air she can not breathe, mildew is growing on her body, it starts on her feat. She begins to imagine that the walls are stretching, they have created a labyrinth around her that she cannot escape. The termites are back. They are nesting in the walls. If she stills long enough she can feel their babies teething on her brain.

“Come here, come on.” A soft voice cooed. I poked my head around the large green dumpster.

Two hands held out a red container. “Come here.” The container waved back it back and forth.

My mouth watered as I smelled something sweet and salty. Waves of steam rose off skinny golden sticks. I crawled closer ignoring the urge to run and hide. Two large orange shoes stepped closer sending me flying back down the darkened alley.

I peeked around a bag of trash only to find golden sticks laying on white paper. I crawled closer to hot food my stomach yelled with excitement. Within seconds I had devoured what was on the paper. As I licked the salt off my lips, my eyes caught another pile of steaming yellow sticks. I ran towards them forgetting about danger. I had gone too long without food all I wanted was the warm salty sticks. I was licking the paper when the soft voice spoke again.

“Hey, look at this.”

This time I didn’t shy away instead I crept closer to the road. There was a line of yellow straws that led to an open car door. On the seat lay a large sandwich. Fear gripped me, but it was food, good hot food. Finally I couldn’t help myself I jumped on the seat and buried my face in the sandwich.

I wasn’t scared when the door slammed shut. I only looked up when the other side opened as a boy with shaggy brown hair slid in. The sandwich dropped out of my mouth as terror set in. I banged my body against the door trying to get out.

“Hey, there. It’s okay.” The car rumbled under my feet and I began to whimper. The sound of crinkling paper made me cower. “Hey, look. Look at this. I bet it’s better than what you’ve had to eat in a long time.”

My attention was drawn to his hand. There was the prize of all foods—a doughnut. I lunged, trying to grab the pastry out of his hand. He laughed and patted me on the head.

“Sit down. Sit. Good that’s it.” He set the white circle next time me, I dove in. “Hey, watch the fingers now.”

After a few minutes I sighed and slumped against the seat. For the first time in months my belly was full. I looked over at the boy who kept stealing glances at me. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the warmth.

I woke up to strong hands gripping me. Fear over took me. I let out high pitched screeching sounds as I clawed and bit. This wasn’t right memories of the dark gripped me making me thrash more. The boy wrapped his arms around as he pulled me to his chest.

“Hey now, it’s okay. We’re home now.” He grunted when my teeth found his arm. He pushed open a door, blinding white light hit my eyes.

“Mom!” The boy called out. I shoved myself out of his arms. I landed on a hard white surface. I sat there for a moment until I heard footsteps. Footsteps usually meant bad things were going to happen. I scrambled to find a hiding spot. The floor was slippery like the ice on the pond in winter. I couldn’t get a grip on the ground. Finally I shoved myself in a corner my eyes darting around wildly.

“Mom!” He shouted again.

“What?” A tired voice responded.

“You have to come to the kitchen.” The boy was facing me, his legs spread wide and arms held out ready to catch me if I ran. A tall willowy woman stepped in the room.

“Brent, do you realize I had to stop in the middle of—oh my God Brent!”

“Mom, can we keep it?”

“Brent where did you find it?” Her eyes were wide and her voice trembled.

“I found it in the alley digging in a dumpster over on 56th street.” Brent shrugged his shoulders. “I figured it needed a home. So—can we keep it?” Brent’s mom sank to her knees in front of me. I bowed my head and looked away.

“Brent! This is a kid! A human being, you don’t just pick them up and take them home.” Tears flooded her face. “Go call the cops. We can’t keep this child.” She turned towards me and opened her arms.

“Come here, child. I won’t hurt you.” I turned away from her, facing the gleaming cabinets. She inhaled loudly.

“Who would do something like that to a child?” I flinched as she ran her fingers over the scabbed over welts on my back.

“Yeah, so can we keep it since nobody wanted it?” Brent asked eagerly.

“No.” The woman responded. She wrapped her arms around me, rocking me gently. For the first and last time I felt the love of a mother’s touch.

Growing up piss poor

Treated like a whore

Eating food off the floor

Sleeping uncomfortably

Back always sore, period pads

Used up blood flows continuously

While the spell of vagina ligers

Through the room, no water to shower

Time is moving slow minutes seems like hours

Rats crawling on the counter,

Roaches are crawling out of the baby's crib, while one just crawled from the baby's ear

No water to clean baby bottles

Screaming baby in need of food

Baby vomits from the spell of its mother's breast that hasn't been

Washed in days

She cries because she's helpless

Walks to the bathroom, and screams while she urines from the

Burning piss

Darkness, thanks all I seem to attract

That even as a child my soul's been detached

And I trod a life already set for me

Poverty stricken, pity she...

Yes! That's what they say when they see

A sad child trying too hard to be somebody

Beaten down by words, by the enemy

Good for nothing! Loser, you're nobody!

The words sing in my head even today

Calling me to come but I refuse to stay

And even though cold pavements were my home

Have faith, what's the sense? I break.

Men come and go from my mom, from me

At age fifteen my innocence was ripped away by three

It was then I contemplated tasting blood

My own blood-

- I just couldn't bring myself to do it.

I grew on hating the world, addicted to sex way too young,

At one point it was the rope around my neck giving me comfort, then it was the inviting sharpness of a blade to my skin, hate win!

And each day as the sun set and stray away

So does my thoughts, I reflect on that day

When I liberated myself, I'm twenty now;

Still fighting a battle life's already won.