poetry and the occasional rambling

SUMMER

Sat, 18 Jul 2015 09:42:43 GMT

Today I fell asleep under my gazebo, crying.
Yesterday, I smoked 3 joints and 14 cigarettes.
The day before I ate 30 fun-sized candy bars.
—

Rain speckled flowers under a cool July moon make me feel alive again.
Tall, tan-line scattered boys floating through my room make me feel dead again.
Your skin tones are geometric masterpieces that I’m all too familiar with.
—
Today I fell ill.

The antibiotics aren’t working, but the caffeine sure is.

Today was tiring.
Yesterday was exhausting.
Tomorrow will be just the same.

—

“Crack lighters” (that is, cheap Scriptos) look great under moonlight, but we look even better, don’t we?
Fluorescent flames burn us down, along with the blunt you’ve dissembled into a Coke can.
Thanks for that.

—

Is this revolution or a resolution?
I’m not sure, but the amount of people I’ve spent time with this month would be just as indecisive.

Teenagers are most genuine when high, or drunk, or even tired, I’ve learned.

—

We all never really meant for it to turn out like this.

It’s a little ridiculous, don’t you think?

Summers in southwestern Pennsylvania are always interesting.

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DOOMSDAY

Sat, 18 Jul 2015 09:28:47 GMT

Waking up in a sweat,

tired and hungry,

but no one seems to listen anymore.
Smoke another cigarette, drink another water bottle, fall asleep in a lawn chair.

Riding in a car feels like doomsday, but I swear I’ll go anywhere with you, babe.

I don’t eat anymore, but I still want to devour every inch of you.

My mother still asks if I’m okay, but she doesn’t want to know the answer.

At least you know to listen. You know what you’re in for, you know?

I’m so overworked and overtired, I just want to bawl. But I know that isn’t an option.
Not yet.

They told me they were sick. Sick of this shit, sick of everything. Sick of all of it.
I understand.

I miss them, still. Can we at least pretend to still be friends?
No one seems to listen anymore.

But you do. At least, I think you do.
I think you should. We all do, right?

I ask how you’re feeling, too.
Just to make sure.
You always answer the same, even though I never do.
Are you sick of this shit, too?
Same old same old, commonplace complaining, secondhand sadness.
My anxious tendencies leave me on the floor. Again.

When I woke up, I heard that old song playing in my ears again.
Acoustic, of course.

♫ I tremble… They’re gonna eat me alive... ♪

But there’s nothing left to eat.
Not even a bone to pick at.
You left me out for the vultures and I let them devour me, like you’d hoped.

No one seems to listen anymore.

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THE MOST UNCOMFORTABLE POEM

Sat, 18 Jul 2015 09:16:50 GMT

“1 out of every 6 American women has been the victim of an attempted or completed rape in her lifetime. Among all victims, about nine out of ten are female.

Girls ages 16-19 are four times more likely than the general population to be victims of sexual assault.

100% of completed rapes, 39% of attempted rapes, and 17% of sexual assaults against females result in injured victims. Only around 36% of injured victims receive medical care.”

— Rape Crisis Center

What if your daughter, aged 16, fresh-faced, beautiful, and intelligent, became part of that 1 out of 6? What if your sister, aged 17, fun, energetic, and lively, had her light stomped out because she was part of that 36%?

What if I, aged 15, young and violent, dumb and angry, told you that…

“There is an average of 293,066 victims (age 12 or older) of rape and sexual assault each year. That’s 1 sexual assault every 107 seconds.”

— RAINN

After you make your coffee, someone’s been raped. And another rape has begun.
When you’re walking to work, probably about 33 people have been raped. And another rape has begun.

While you’re in school, over two hundred people have been raped.
Will someone you know become part of them? Will you become part of them? Will I? Will we all?

“Sexual assault is one of the most underreported crimes, with 68% still being left unreported.

Those rapists, of course, will never spend a day in prison. But even when the crime is reported, it is unlikely to lead to an arrest and prosecution. Factoring in unreported rapes, only about 2% of rapists will ever serve a day in prison.”

— RAINN

What if I told you that your son was part of that 98%, roaming freely, without consequence? What if I told you that your son was part of that 2%, being punished for around two years in a jail cell?
Which would you prefer?

“51% of female victims were sexually assaulted by a current or former intimate partner, and 41% were sexually assaulted by an acquaintance. Assault by strangers, in contrast, accounts for only 14% of the total.”
— Roger Williams University

What if I told you that you had the highest chance of being raped by your husband? Your boyfriend? Your fiancee? Your friends? Your coworkers? How would you look at them?

“Sexual assault victims often suffer from a wide range of physical and mental health problems that can follow them for life – including depression, anxiety, chronic pain, diabetes, sexually transmitted diseases, eating disorders, and post-traumatic stress disorder. They are also more likely than non-victims to develop alcohol and substance abuse problems and attempt or consider suicide.”

— Roger Williams University

What if I told you that not only would you or someone you know have to suffer through the horrible depression, trauma, and pain surrounding a rape, but also possibly an STD, suicidial thoughts, or serious chronic injury?

You probably don’t think about these things on a day to day basis. Who thinks about the number of rapes occurring in their country over breakfast, or counts up the number of people in their lives who could hurt them if not properly educated on consent and sex?

What if I told you that if you educated men, women, and all other people on rape, you could prevent it?
What if I told you that your daughter knew that her rape was never her fault, no matter what she drank, wore, or said? How much pain could you save her?
What if I told you that your sister knew there were resources for her to go to once she was ready to talk about what happened? How much pent up trauma would that eliminate?

What if I told you that you could educate others on rape and sexual assault, regardless of whether or not you were harmed? How many people could that save?

What if I told you that your son knew the rules of consent, and knew when he had to stop, if need be? How much prison time could that save him?

This poem is not to make you feel bad for the sake of feeling bad.
This poem is not about guilt or hurting others.
This poem is about scaring you into becoming educated, into educating others.
This is about changing what’s begun, moving, reversing the statistics, and starting all over.
Start over with me.

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CRUMBLING CEILINGS

Sat, 18 Jul 2015 09:15:40 GMT

Houses fall, roofs tumble into the dust.

A pile of shrapnel and glass from a broken home stand at attention.
My mind is a musty pile of old drywall,

building material that no one ever really cared about anyways,

so who cares if I fall? I don’t mind;

no one ever really cared about this anyways.

Whoever really cared about this, anyways?
My mother gave up the house today;

my father signed the divorce papers today;

we all moved out today;

my old life was crushed today.

Today, it was demolition day;

today, a wrecking ball went into my house;

today, we filled our empty hearts back up with cement in hopes that no one would notice (1 part water to 1 part aggregate to 1 part cement mix to 1 part truth to 99 parts lie ((It’s a lie, it’s all been a lie, from the birthday parties to family picnics; I don’t care))).

What’s a little white lie, anyways?

Whoever really cared about this, anyways?
(Not me, oh no, no, surely not me; you must be mistaken.)

I’m crumbling into smaller and smaller pieces,

I’m blowing away with the wind,

but…

no one ever really cared about this anyways.

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CONSEQUENCES OF A SURVIVOR

Sat, 18 Jul 2015 09:14:58 GMT

“Have you showered yet?”
“Have you brushed your teeth yet?”
“Are you sick?”
“Why aren’t you wearing any makeup?”
No, no, somewhat, and because I don’t feel like it.

Because my bed was extra unwelcoming last night and I only got an hour and a half of sleep.

Because I spent my night staring at the ceiling, tears welling in my eyes, blood rushing to my head.

I can’t recall everything that’s happened, but I know that my bedroom isn’t the best place for me to be.
My bedroom is a bar filled with old men;

My bedroom is an alleyway filled with those boys from your high school;
My bedroom is a party chock-full of screaming girls and drunken mistakes;

My bedroom is an echo of the sound of a middle aged father cat-calling you even though his kids are walking alongside him;

My bedroom is a busy city bus, bustling with people too busy to notice the man taking shots of your underskirt.

I hate the way it smells. I hate the way it feels, I hate the way my mattress fills the curve of my back just like your arms on a warm summer evening.

This is not glory. This is not an uprising; this is not activism.
This is crying every night in front of the mirror before your evening shower because looking at yourself like that hurts.
This is screaming into your pillows because you’re angry you didn’t escape at the first sign of danger.
This is wearing a sweater over your t-shirt because today, you feel a little too pretty.

This is eating granola and coffee for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, just in case anyone ever thinks about calling you ‘thick’ again.

This is taking a few extra pills to keep the night terrors away.
This is sobbing whenever someone raises their voice.

This is living off of music and melodies of poems about people like you much farther gone.
This is losing any and all function in society.

This is not pretty, this is not strong, and this is not majesty.
This is not what you expected. This isn’t what you see in the movies or what you hoped for yourself.

This is not how you envision your children growing up or what you saw your sister admitting over a Christmas dinner in your head.

This isn’t what your parents made life out to be all those years ago.

These are the consequences of a survivor.

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K-I-S-S-I-N-G

Sun, 10 May 2015 17:16:11 GMT

“I wanna go for walks with you on brisk fall days, the leaves crunching under our feet, our fingers tightly laced together. I want to feel your warmth beside me on cold winter nights and the softness of your touch on warm summer days. I want to make you tea while you study for a test in college and whisper sweet nothings in your ear every night. I want to feel the grass between my toes as I hug you in our yard; I want to feel the cool tile of the floor as we brush our teeth in the morning. I want to sit together, watching the sunset. I want to experience it all with you, Madi. And all that comes our way, the good and the bad, I want to be with you through it all. Having you by my side, I know we can get through anything.”

“I just want to do normal people things with you. I just want to enjoy the little things, like your wet hair after your morning shower or your crunches coming from the kitchen while you eat cereal. I want to hold your hand while you flick through car magazines and kiss your cheek before we go to bed at night. I want it all with you, Owen.”

“As long as I’m around you will never be alone, okay? I will always be here for you, even if I’m not with you at the moment. I’m only ever a text or call away.”

“My love for you is absolutely indescribable.”
“Putting it into words would be impossible for me.”

“I love you.”
“I love you too, You make me so happy. I really wanna cook with you.”

“That sounds so lovely, baby. I’ll get up extra early one day a week to mix up my never-fail homemade pancakes. You can help me make some ganache for them, if you’d like. I’ll be sure to get chocolate and batter all over you, just to hear your adorable giggle. Of course, what’s a pancake without creamy chocolate? I’ll also top it with maple syrup. Just for you. You’re so special to me, making some pancakes for you isn’t anywhere near enough, but it’ll have to do until I find the right words (although this feeling is indescribable). I can’t breathe without you. I can’t live without you. You are my everything… all of your quirks, flaws, everything… I live inside of those things like bees in their hive. You are my entire life, baby. Seriously.”

“I love you no matter what and I always will.”

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TO LOST FRIENDS

Fri, 27 Mar 2015 08:41:08 GMT

L I’m ok by myself but you have to agree we make a pretty good team and I don’t want to lose that. I never wanted to lose that, miss that.

M I miss you. Sometimes, I get hopeful, like you’ll come back and rescue our broken friendship, but it’s damaged beyond repair.

We’ve lost it.

L I never wanted to lose you but I’m a ticking time bomb, we both know that.

As my mind counts down faster and faster, my heart skipping seconds as I’m thrown into absolute hysteria.

10,8,5,2,1

M Explosion -- scattered hearts, scattered memories

Scattered, shattered, and battered

I can’t remember exactly what happened but all I know is I can’t move -- I can’t think.

L I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe

But you’re telling me to

Breathe, you say, as if it’s the simplest thing in the universe, as if there’s not a ball of clay in my throat, not a haze of panic clouding my mind. You say it as if my life hasn’t become a low quality movie download, where the sound is off a few seconds and the picture is too pixilated.

M The air hitches in my throat and I feel like I’m drowning -- can you tell?

I can see the tears welling in your eyes, a sea against the bluest of skies

I want to tell you it will be okay -- but I’m stuck.

I’m lost in this world of nothing and I can’t find my way back. Please find me.

L My mind is a perpetual lost and found, filled with gloves and stability that no one wants to claim. I can tell you won’t claim me.

I can tell by your stony grip, I can tell by your completely ineffectual commands.

I can tell by the way you won’t even look at me.

Like I’m some kind of embarrassment, some crybaby you’re being forced to look after. A nuisance.

M I’m afraid to look your way, out of fear that you won’t be looking back.

Will you look back?
I feel ashamed, like a child stranded in the aisles of a grocery store.
I can tell you’re angry. I know. I just know.

L&M Friends like us could let this go

But you stopped looking at me as a friend a long time ago.

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"IT GETS BETTER"

Fri, 27 Mar 2015 08:39:19 GMT

It’s what they throw at us like an afterthought, an attempt to humor us.

“Don’t be sad, it gets better!”

“You shouldn’t whine, it gets better!”

What would you know about our pain?

About fear, blood, screaming into the void and having it scream back,

Don’t tell me it gets better.

After a week of lying in bed, everything always feels worse.

Don’t tell me it gets better.

As if I can just wait this out like the flu.

This is a fever that will not break.

Don’t make this seem like something that will go away and stay gone.

As if it’s not a continuous battle,

Every.

Single.

Day.

Even when the weight of my armor is enough to bring me to my knees.

Don’t tell me that it gets better,

because after 14 years of hell with a man who never learned how to love

I ended up with another who didn’t know what to do with someone so broken,

so he chipped away at the glass.

And, then, I was stuck with someone who knew EXACTLY what he wanted to do with a broken girl like me--

break the glass more.

Because the gay girl in your new family was the first one you’ve ever met,

And she seemed so fragile, like cracked glass,

Ready to snap into a billion pieces at any moment.

And, what’s more satisfying than the sound of a hammer against a chunk of old window?

Because “stop” and “no, please” never really meant what they should’ve.

Because his hands kept wandering way past the metaphorical stop sign plastered across my waistline.

Because his hands crossed my mother’s too many times,

battling and bickering, bickering and battling, snap, slap, crack,

cracks in fragile glass never heal themselves.

Because no one listens because girls are too soft to be a razor edge, too fragile to ever hurt another. The bruises still blossom like a gunshot wound to my head.

How many times will I have to explain it?

Not all damage is visible

It’s strategic

Like a war fought inside my head, divide and conquer

Take away the power that lies in numbers

Until I only know her

When I don’t even know my own army anymore

Who am I fighting for?

“It gets better” when I stand to say it does.

It never gets better when you’re stuck in the same cycle,

pain, crash, yell, collision, crash, pain

Pain, pain like the fresh wounds created by the words of your peers

or the knives within your desk drawer

or the hands of a seventeen year old boy.

“It gets better” when you stop sitting around, telling me that and take a stand to MAKE IT BETTER.

Because complacency gets you nowhere,

Because I know you don’t really care when you’re whispering hollow phrases in place of sincerity and action.

“It gets better” when our safety comes before your comfort

The future will never erase my scars

And thinking of the past will only bring more.

So we only have the present, wrapped in the same bloody tissue I wiped my wrists with last week

wrapped in the love letters I tore apart, every word that bound us together

It “got better” because I screamed and fought until it did.
Because I spent every day and night making these years more like a war won rather than another fruitless battle against terror,

Because I took your words and crushed them beneath my feet,

and owned my identity like it was finally mine.

-m. jarnot & l. myers

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WRITE WITH ME

Fri, 27 Mar 2015 08:36:41 GMT

You, Sir, are beautiful.

I want to write with you. Can I write with you? I want to correct your grammatical errors while we giggle over casual, accidental alliteration.
It’s not hard to be a writer; I can teach you how. How? How! All you must do is put a pen to paper (or pencil, in case you’re not into something that permanent, you have options; I rarely use pen, as my creativity isn’t set in stone) and allow yourself to feel. Even if it’s angry or sad or cliche… write it down. Let it out. Pour your heart and soul into mine.

Let them mix. Let us work like dyes on canvas -- spreading, leaking, filling.
Fill.
Fill up these pages. Fill up my heart.

Just let loose for one single moment. I promise, it’s the best feeling you will ever experience.
Write some poetry with me. Better yet, make poetry with me. We are our own lines and stanzas, made up of an entirely unique combination of the alphabet.
Rest your broken mind in my arms; I will be its infirmary. I will pluck the little negativities from your poor soul like a child picking weeds from his mother’s garden.

I will heal your wounds and release the caged bird within you, so you can finally…
Breathe, deeply. One, two, three (there you go) write fucking poetry with me. Please.

I love this and you and us together.
We’d make a great piece.

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SELF-CARE

Fri, 27 Mar 2015 08:34:43 GMT

It’s been a week since I’ve last brushed my teeth (do ice peppermint Halls count?) and probably longer since I’ve even checked the handles on my shower.

My hair is in knots (I didn’t think it could get this ratty when it’s so short) and I can’t nervously run my fingers through my bangs anymore.

My chest hurts and I’ve spent so long laid out on my back that I don’t think my little legs can carry me up anymore. My head won’t even support itself anymore; I can sense it wobbling back and forth as I type.
I can stomach soup and crackers but anything else feels too heavy, like it’s blowing my stomach up to proportions even I can’t grasp.

My pajamas are the same ones I wore last Saturday to bed.

I am gross. I am pathetic. I am dirty and a mess of balled up hair and dried up tears and shriveled up dreams.

But, today I was going to call you.

So I got up.

And brushed my teeth, hair, and put on new sweatpants.

I ate breakfast; a feast of cereal and citrus fruits.

And then showered, all the while rebrushing my teeth.

When I finished, I blowdried my hair (the first time in 13 days), the warmth of the dryer making me smile.

I got to curl up in bed with tea and my laptop and enjoy your face. Finally.

This is a once in a lifetime feeling.

This is purity and wholesome love in its finest, rawest state.

I will drink -- no, chug -- it faster than my tea, devour it faster than my nectarine, crave it harder than I crave the feeling of my mattress against the flat of my back.

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RUMORS

Wed, 25 Feb 2015 03:39:55 GMT

“Slut!” they chanted.
“Use a mirror the next time you curl your hair!”
“Did you even turn the lights on in your bathroom this morning?”
And that commences the beginning of a life-ruining sequence of events,

in which one snooty pre-teen passes a ‘secret’ onto the next bratty pre-teen

and that bratty pre-teen passes it along to another arrogant pre-teen who passes it down (a warped rendition of what once was, of course) to another [insert negative adjective or derogatory noun here] pre-teen to another [insert negative adjective or derogatory noun here] pre-teen and… you get the point.

When I was in the second grade, I thought I liked a boy named Josh.

I told my best friend that, and, promptly, she told her other best friend, and so on.

Eventually, it got warped to the point where people thought that Josh liked me.
Needless to say, I heard about that one. And got excited over nothing.

When I was in the sixth grade, I started wearing makeup. Too much of it, of course.

And, to make matters worse, my overly-makeup’d appearance (blue eyeshadow, heavy eyeliner, red or bright pink lipstick, dark brows) made someone along the way assume I was a prostitute.
And, courtesy of snooty and bratty and so on preteens everywhere, I was being called a whore left and right.
Eventually, someone decided they’d call me a bombshell as if it was an equivalent to skank.

I got home that day, cried, cried, cried some more, and then remembered I didn’t actually know what a bombshell was.

Twenty minutes and about four awkward google searches later, I realized what a bombshell I truly am.

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LETTER TO LYDIA: 2/19/2015

Wed, 25 Feb 2015 03:36:56 GMT

Mon cher Lydia,

This letter is late, I know, but this week has been crazy.

With band concerts and mock trial havoc, I haven't had the proper time to sit down and respond. Now's a decent time, I guess. I'm glad I don't need to get up at 5:00 am tomorrow.

Having a four day weekend is so satisfying; I'd rather have it than Easter break. I need time off during the week to just fucking recharge. School is so draining and I can't ever make it through a whole week without at least one breakdown.

I haven't called Owen in three days, which made this week even rougher.

At least I didn't have to go to school today and don't have to go tomorrow either.

I had one of my signature breakdowns in the middle of one of our calls. I think I maybe scared him off a bit.

I reminded myself of a story my parents told me when they got back from Palm Beach.

They said they saw some girl throwing up (with her bathing suit bottom torn at the crotch) in the middle of this public restroom, along with some panicking friends and paramedics all around her.

No one really did much to help. They didn't even try to dress her or help her cover herself. They just watched.

My stepdad laughed about it. He said she was drunk enough in public to be asking for whatever came to her. I'm sure he doesn't think of himself that way every time he gets fucking plastered in downtown Pittsburgh.

When he walked around drunk with my stepbrother on the Southside last New Year's, I'm almost positive he wasn't thinking "Wow, I really deserve to be assaulted tonight!"

Typical cismen. *gagging noises*

Grosses bises,

Madison

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NORMALCY

Mon, 16 Feb 2015 23:48:47 GMT

Today, I posted my paragraph about you on Ello and in a Facebook group I’m a member of.
While posting in the Facebook group, I noticed you were online.
You were online, entirely oblivious to what I was doing. Entirely oblivious to the fact that you are the causation for the paragraph I was posting.

You get to live normally. You get the ability to tackle reality; everything you take in is packaged into lovely, lifelike, bite-sized pieces that you swallow whole.

My plate will forever be full of chunks of meat that my small canines can’t tear through; pieces will get stuck in my teeth, I will choke, I will struggle.

Today, while I was copy-pasting my paragraph about you, I remembered something. I tend to do that when thinking of you; I remember something I shouldn’t have.

The forcefulness with which you grabbed my hips and flipped me over, making me bounce on my bed ran through my mind. I had to shut the computer off and breathe.

The computer I’m using happens to be your dad’s. Your dad.
I never get to escape from that, or from your name. You aren’t afraid of Jarnots. You can walk past females on the street and during school without feeling like someone’s going to leap at you and drag you away at any moment.

You get to live normally.

I, however, don’t get to enjoy that privilege. I will forever fear Irish surnames and scrawny, tan Floridian boys (and others).

I have trouble lying in bed sometimes. It’s hard. I have to be sleeping most of the time, just so I don’t think too much about what’s so wrong with my bed.

You know, I haven’t washed my comforter since your last visit. I really don’t think I can.

You were the first real boyfriend I ever had around here. Though you lived 1,064.1 miles away normally, you were here. Right in front of me. For twenty three days, and then for another thirteen.

My current boyfriend made me promise last night that it wouldn’t happen again. That I wouldn’t let you do anything anymore.

But I don’t think that’s my promise to make.

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LETTER TO LYDIA: 2/15/2015

Mon, 16 Feb 2015 22:58:54 GMT

Dear Lydia,

I'm glad you ate the seasoning packet with your ramen. That's too good to miss out on. Life is short. Enjoy your overly salty package of broth mix (which is never really enough, I always have to add in extra bouillon anyways).

I've always known that package is two servings. That's why it's broken into two distinct blocks; so you can break one and use it and save the rest for later. But, really, they intended for it to be one. Why else would it only come with one packet of seasoning? The fuck are you supposed to do? Break it into halves and save it for later? Fuck that shit.

I used to be sure that I experienced polyamorous feelings. Now I just think I have an inability to stay faithful.
I get bored easily. Like I said, life is too short. It's really hard for me to settle down with people. I have to rest assured that I can live out the rest of my life with someone, which is really hard to do when you're fourteen.

But I do it anyways. Maybe young love is as flawed as Mrs. Wukich believes it to be.

Today I spent most of my time crying, eating ramen, and sleeping. Sometimes all of those at once. Sometimes I just lied in bed and stared at the ceiling.

I am tired. I am weak. I am a baby with nothing to do when my boyfriend is out on a Sunday.

I tried to make a funny piece compiled of some text messages, but it fell through my fingers, I believe. I feel like I can't make a good piece without it spilling from my hands like grainy sand on a hot beach, the sun burning away at my ideas.

I am an ice cream cone on a humid summer day and I'm melting. No matter how good I am in theory, it's useless, because no one will be around to experience it before I evaporate from the pavement and waste away.
I'm the broth in ramen you leave boiling for too long, simply bubbling away into thin air.

On the topic of sex, I keep reading Rachel's post on sexual abuse victims over and over again. It doesn't feel like it's about me. Do you ever feel like that? Like something you should be so deeply connected with just flies right over your head?

She's right. I should've had patterns of purpley bruises and trauma that everyone around me felt. He should've been put in a correction facility or jail. I should've been bleeding, screaming, horrified. I should've lost physical pieces of myself and he should've left his DNA all over me.
Instead, it was love that honestly just took a turn for the worst. I remember holding hands under fireworks and kissing while our parents yelled at us from a few feet away; I remember feeling like Romeo and Juliet, hopeless lovers lost in families entangled in a dangerous way. I remember hot summer days cooled by rainy nights. I remember kisses that tasted like grape Fanta and romance that was even sweeter. I remember straddling his lap while I cried over my father and feeling safe.
I barely remember when I said no. When I said stop, when I pushed him away... it's a blur. It's like it happened too fast for it to be a "real" rape, like my voice was too quiet and it was overshadowed by a sea of his desire.

I thought he loved me. I really did.

Yours forever,

Madison

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LETTER TO LYDIA: 2/14/2015

Mon, 16 Feb 2015 22:49:20 GMT

Dear Lydia,

(I've decided to write in barebone gmails so that I don't concern myself with over-formatting.)

Yesterday was a weird day.

I woke up at 3 am and showered. It reminded me of those weird teenage-ry movies in which the main protagonist's (the "loser-but-somehow-still-normal-and-stereotypically-attractive-in-every-way" girl archetype, of course) only problem is catching the bus on time. They always seem to sleep in and come to their local ideal high school in shambles (not real shambles, of course, like you and me; just "not-enough-makeup-and-too-much-casual-attire" shambles) and get made fun of by the most popular girls while the boy of their dreams happens to walk past and compliment them (or something coincidentally ridiculous).

That wasn't my 3:00 am. I just showered late.

I never seem to get those cutesy fairy tale endings (or beginnings); you know, with my boyfriend living 415.883 miles away and my own mind lost even farther.

Do you ever shower at 3 am and contemplate the meaning of female sexuality?

Why is it so easily taken? Whose really is it?

Why can't we keep it?

I wish my only problem was getting to school on time.

I've got 99 problems and all of them happen to involve men. Of course.

Manipulative, disgusting, abusive men. But #notallmen.

I just received your letter immediately after waking up this morning. I wrote some of it while I was half asleep around midnight and I'm now continuing it today.

I tend to do that. Leave messages to others broken and fragmented, unintelligible, nothing more than a scrambled mix of the English (and sometimes French) alphabet.

Which is why your poetry graveyard is so important to me. <3

I'm not very good with communication. It's why I write. And why I'm so honored to write with you.

We make an excellent team, you and I.

I want to grow up and be like Rachel and Fallon; I want to make something of the shit I spew from my fingertips and the grip of a messy pen.

I'm going to walk to the post office now and hope I can get enough money for a stamp outgoing to Canada. Why do we even need special stamps for Canadian packages? It's not like you're crossing an ocean or going on a plane or anything. Ontario is only six hours away, but the post office is making it seem farther.

I hope I make it there one day. He doesn't know I want to be an author yet.

He thinks I'm going to be a physicist, like everyone else. But I don't know.

He wants me to live with him and make lots of money, but I'm perfectly content with a small Pittsburgh apartment in which I write my novels and poems and short stories (okay, maybe I've never started one of those).

But I still love him. Which is why he bleeds into all of my work.

Wish me luck,

Madison

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MIDNIGHT TO ONE A.M.: THE EMOTIONAL PROGRESSION OF A TEENAGE GIRL

Sun, 15 Feb 2015 06:46:32 GMT

12.00 - I am tired and lonely and I think you’ve fallen asleep again. All my friends have long gone to bed and I’m scrambling through this darkness for some sense of security before I have another late-night panic attack; before another emotional disaster strikes my feeble mind.

12.05 - It’s been (about) a mere 300 seconds (I’m shocked I can do that math in my head), but I’m still fidgety and crying. I think some would call this “fear of detachment,” or maybe simply “paranoia” with a mix of obsessiveness.

12.10 - I’m still tired, less lonely. My stuffed animals and slow, sad music bring some peace but you are still missing. I want to get lost in your voice again over the late hours, playing dress-up and reading bedtime stories until my tiny almond brown eyes can’t bear the weight of the air anymore.

12.15 - Do you call me babygirl because I behave like one? It all makes sense now. I am a baby. I’m a kitten, too, annoyingly mewling with my squeaky, newborn voice after four seconds without attention.

12.20 - Now that I’ve started counting, I think it’s been three (four?) days since we’ve talked in what you call “face-to-face” and I feel a bit neglected, although simultaneously clingy (you pretend it’s cute, which I’m okay with). For some reason, the anxiety that you may, at some point, not love me anymore hits me. Hard. You are not yet here to cease the storm.

12.25 - I recall that you worked this morning, from a prompt and early 7am (you are very punctual, if I remember correctly) to 3pm. I slept until one and played on Webkinz again until three so I wouldn’t feel like I do now. Isn’t that upsetting?

12.30 - I can’t really tell why I ever thought that boys would be reliable when you need someone to lean on. All of my girlfriends would’ve ran cross-country (in a literal sense) at midnight just to see me if I was ever sad. We are empathetic souls.

12.35 - I refresh my email. I refresh my twitter page. I refresh my messages. I reload our Couple app (and turn my phone off and on, just for good measure). I checked the Skype status to make sure they were correct in saying you’re online (hoverclick, click click, click, on a mobile device, click, sigh, click, Last activity 13 minutes ago). They were.

12.40 - I stayed up until 4am last week on a Sunday and woke up at 5am (to be clear, an hour later) just to make sure we called and I’m starting to wonder how appreciative you are of that.

12.45 - I heard a noise in the kitchen and stopped typing. I hoped it could somehow be you. Just grandma. Cigarette break from sleeping at 12:45am? Okay.

12.50 - I forgot to tell you that I’m reading Lolita. I thought you’d think that’s cute. I won’t tell you until morning, though, because I’ve already sent you two messages in a row (“Are you asleep?” “Goodnight, dear”) and three would be too risky.

12.55 - I need to get someone to stay up with me until I fall asleep and tuck me into bed before I rest my little head like my mom did when I was five. She would sit at my bedside while I cried my demons away and brush her calloused hands against the side of my face. Sometimes she sang me lullabies. You sing to me sometimes. I like that.

1.00 - It’s very late and I’m very sad. I have barely talked to you all day and it is Valentine’s day, you know. I sent out your letter today. I really hope you gave me the right address and not your dad’s by mistake. You tend to do things like that.

1.05 - Speaking of Valentine’s day, I didn’t like your gift to me. No number of orgasms will amount to the feeling of hearing you say I love you or the sight of your mouth curling while I start to doze off. Sex is not love, and love is not sex. I always forget that when it’s most important.

1.10 - Maybe I should do my math homework. Maybe I should do my English homework. Maybe I should start a less embarrassing, revealing piece. Maybe I should go to sleep. I’ll drift into emptiness while I’m sure you’re counting infinite sheep and dreaming of things that have nothing to do with me.

1.15 - I hate puppy love. It leaves me empty and broken during times like these.

1.20 - I’ll make myself some food to keep myself awake because, oh my gosh, what if you wake up? I really can’t miss that, baby.

1.25 - “Read at 1:22 am” is plastered under my messages to you. The lack of new notification bubbles in my app collection is concerning. Are you angry with me?

1.30 - I counted up our messages today. You sent seventeen to me. 47% of which were three words. They seem more empty now.

1.35 - Sleep is clouding my childlike eyes (you really like those, I know) so I think I’ll curl up with Angels by The xx on repeat. Everyone at CWR will be curious as to what came to this work a few weeks from now. I am too.

Goodnight.

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KISSES

Sat, 14 Feb 2015 03:11:25 GMT

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1pqVCNHRiraUdonfM2aEhx3kexmCGb0X2WqM7MqKDSww/edit

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TEN TIPS FOR A LONELY FOURTEEN YEAR OLD

Sat, 14 Feb 2015 03:04:32 GMT

When they hit you, strike back.
1. Strike with full force. Put the fight to a full stop. You’re stronger than they think. Let it be known to all.
When she leaves you, do not become bitter.
1. It feeds her. You’re better than that. I know the loneliness consumes you. I know the pain of that breakup will devour you for weeks. Don’t show her the success, though. She lives off of others’ pain and suffering.
Know he’s lying when he holds you and says it’ll all be okay.
1. Life is never going to be ‘okay.’ You’re not okay. It’s okay to not be okay. Let yourself be ‘not okay.’
He won’t call you when he gets back to Port Saint Lucie.
1. He just won’t. You know he won’t, too. Don’t trick yourself into thinking he cares. You’re the last thing on his mind.
Those kisses aren’t real.
1. They truly, honestly, are not real. They are not genuine. They are not meaningful or lovely. They’re little pecks of empty, hollow lies. Stop thinking about it. Stop analyzing them. Accept the truth.
Stop objectifying yourself.
1. That obscene rap music isn’t cool. These television shows don’t depict proper interpersonal relationships. Those boys aren’t complimenting you. Those girls don’t care about your being. Wake up. You’re more than your body.
Self-care is important.
1. You come first. You’re allowed to treat yourself. Buy more lotion and less makeup. Buy more food and less diet pills. Eat that extra cookie. Sleep that extra hour on Saturday. Skip your third run of the week. You’re worth it. Really.
Boys and girls suck.
1. Neither is better nor worse. You don’t have a preference for either. It’s not trendy or cool to hate men and it certainly isn’t okay to harm your fellow sisters. Accept that all types of people can be equally bad and leave it.
People are always going to dislike you.
1. Stop trying to please everyone. The only person you must make happy is yourself. Someone will always hate you for the sake of hating you. Stop setting yourself up for failure.
Get motivated.
1. I know it feels like you can’t. I know it’s hard to even get out of bed sometimes. I know you want to press snooze on that 5:30 alarm. Don’t. You can do it. I promise. You always have been able to, sometimes you just refuse.

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HOW DARE I

Sat, 14 Feb 2015 03:02:19 GMT

“women don’t get raped because they were drinking or took drugs. women do not get raped because they weren’t careful enough. women get raped because someone raped them.”

— jessica valenti

“you got yourself into this mess,” he says.

he’s right.

how dare i not be strong enough to push him away.

how dare i let his fingers forcefully bruise my skin.

how dare i even let him in my room.

how dare i not be strong enough to begin undoing the years of conditioning to give into all men’s commands.

how dare i.

—

“you’re smarter than that,” he says.

he’s right.

how dare i believe i am good enough for someone’s love.

how dare i think anyone could ever find me beautiful enough for them.

how dare i allow someone else in.

how dare i.

—

“how could he do such a thing?” he asks.

he’s right.

how dare i accuse such an intelligent, respectable man of doing something so despicable.

how dare i think someone could believe me.

how dare i.

—

“how can you say that?” he asks.

he’s right.

how dare i use and appropriate a word as ugly as rape.

how dare i think i deserve that word.

how dare i evaluate my own experiences.

how dare i.

—

“you asked for it,” he says.

he’s right.

how dare i believe my noes meant something.

how dare i believe my shoves and pushes were valuable enough to get him off of my body.

how dare i let myself think the damn pajamas i was wearing were acceptable.

—

“another rape poem,” you say.

you’re right.

another goddamn rape poem.

another one,

made out of the same material that probably one fifth of the other female poets pulled from.

—

this is a poem filled with material that will consistently restock itself,

again and again,

until i feel safe enough without the wrench next to my bed.

until i feel safe enough to take the mace off of my keys.

until i feel safe enough to wear sports bras when i workout at home.

until i feel safe enough to wear a skirt downtown.

until i feel safe.

— m. jarnot

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RAPE

Sat, 14 Feb 2015 02:53:18 GMT

My therapist aka my best friend aka the only person who’s ever supported me aka Miss Kellye says I have to practice saying that word. She says it helps me heal. She says it’ll make me come to terms with the trauma.
“The” word.

The r-word.

But I just can’t. It's so ugly.

I am not deserving of such a word.

She suggests starting with a word like "assault" or phrases like "taken advantage of sexually."

My step-cousin aka ex-boyfriend aka RJ aka Regis James just told me that I’m being ridiculous. He says my life is a lie and I’m playing off of someone else’s tragedy.

But he still supports me, he says.

Lies.

Like the r-word.

My step-brother aka ex-boyfriend aka ex-lover aka Collin aka the worst man I’ve ever met said that he was sorry. And I shouldn’t have listened.

My english teacher aka my “school-mother” aka my smurf friend aka Mrs. Spada asked me if I was okay for the fourth time this week. And it’s Thursday.

The girl who sits next to me in French class aka the brown haired one aka Rhiannon (?) told me I seemed strung out.

I am. Very much so.

The things in my side desk drawer aka the shiny ones aka the blades I’ve had since I was eleven are beckoning me.

But, I haven’t touched them since May 30th, 2014, or 8 months and a week and six days ago, or 8 months and 13 days ago, or about 36 weeks ago, or 259 days ago, or 6,216 hours ago, or 372,960 minutes ago, or… or zero seconds ago. Fuck.

The girl from creative writing aka Maddy aka I… can’t-exactly-remember-how-to-spell-your-version-of-Maddy-Maddy, Mady? Maddie? Madi? wrote a line in her story about being a “virgin” and I feel mocked.

My new boyfriend aka the Canadian one aka the bearded guy aka Owen doesn’t know yet.
I told him I had unprotected sex in December and he was jealous of the “reciprocating” male.

Hah.

I wonder what he’d think about the unprotected “sex” I had in July or the two pregnancy scares I had and oh my god I could never have someone’s r-word baby, shit.

My step-father aka Bernie aka “my family’s savior” told me today that it’s my fault.
That I brought it upon myself.
I probably did.

And, today, I’m telling myself aka the most broken chunk of flesh you’ll ever meet aka the rape victim aka Madison (that doesn’t really feel like me anymore, I am a shell of her) to eat another meal

And wear another layer

And carry another mace

And place my keys between my knuckles.

Just in case.

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novel update

Mon, 24 Nov 2014 01:22:01 GMT

so here's the first couple chapters of my novel, so far, just in first-draft form
( read more )

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feminist criticism of TKM

Mon, 24 Nov 2014 01:13:26 GMT

Feminist Criticism: To Kill a Mockingbird

Feminism, is, most simply, the equality of all genders and sexes. It is made to include all types of people from all walks of life -- something which is essential to human culture. To Kill a Mockingbird reflects many different aspects of feminism; from misogyny to the patriarchal system in which society functions, it all ties into the novel and life itself. This originates from the author’s childhood and the environment in which she grew up in. Harper Lee grew up in Monroeville, Alabama: a small country town where southern ideals were strictly enforced. Gender roles were rigidly established for men and women. Women were quiet, calm childbearers and men were the strong working people who ran the household. The patriarchal views which permeated society prevented women from behaving in any way which could be deemed as masculine and kept men from exploring femininity. Harper broke and bent these stereotypical roles, establishing herself as a ‘tomboy.’ Above all superficial labels and standards which people attempted to force upon her, she became a world renowned author. This characterization of her childhood self is shown through the character Scout Finch. Other influences around her, such as the way men treated women, what women could and couldn’t do, and the relationship between women’s view of themselves and men’s view of women is also shown throughout her novel. These nuances are hard to miss whilst reading To Kill a Mockingbird.

Women and men are presented very differently within the text, which supports the ideas of the patriarchal society Lee grew up in. Women were portrayed as religious, quiet housewives who were intrinsically more stupid than men yet still well-behaved and polite. They’re only worth their attractiveness and what they can contribute to children. A good example of this portrayal is given through the character Miss Maudie, who is a widowed housewife that now can only interact with children. This is because she is outcasted by the adults, since she doesn’t have a male companion in her life (Lee 47). Women are also hated by other women simply on the account of being a woman. Examples of this within Harper Lee’s text are when Jem expresses his content for Scout’s “g-irl,” and the fact that Scout must spend her days with Miss Maudie, simply because she is a girl (58; 46). This internal hatred also damages the character Scout. As one author states, “at the beginning of the book, Scout is introduced as an intelligent tomboy that plays with older boys and is known for her vicious fights. Later on, Scout begins to act more girly and more cautious about certain actions than her playmates” (Spotting Feminism in To Kill a Mockingbird: Analysis of Character-Scout). Scout is transformed by the internalized misogyny that To Kill a Mockingbird’s female characters possess. Not only this, but women are also given less page space and smaller stories than male characters. Miss Maudie, yet again, is a good example of this. She is given a paragraph of backstory, yet Atticus Finch, another main character, gets a full two page spread (Lee 47; 4-5). Atticus’ story also continues on throughout the novel, yet Miss Maudie’s backstory ends there. She is only talked about, from then on, in relation to other characters’ lives. Women are portrayed in a drastically different way than men are. In summary, they are viewed as stupid, unsuccessful, and subordinate to men. They also rarely get a full back story or duties other than things like house cleaning or childbearing.

On the contrary, men are given the roles of smart, well-rounded people who are allowed full-time careers. This is highly resemblant of the time in which Harper Lee grew up, as she watched women fail to obtain jobs simply because of their gender all of her life. Men, again, are rarely at home and are known to be strong. A concrete example of this characterization is Atticus Finch. Atticus is a lawyer who is only home from his extremely busy job at night (5). Not only that, but boys (and men) are allowed to make mistakes, as they’re “just being boys!” For example, Scout is punished at school for reading and writing, but Jem isn’t even punished for walking around outside without a pair of pants on, as Atticus states it’s “just a phase” (24; 61-2). Also, they are generally viewed as ‘greater’ than women and better in ways that are unfounded or unfair. Jem expressing his contempt for Scout’s g-irlish behaviors is, again, a prime example of this misogyny that occurs within the story; he says things like “I swear, Scout, sometimes you act so much like a girl it’s mortifyin’,” and tells Scout that “girls always imagined things, that’s why other people hated them so, and if [Scout] started behaving like one [Scout] could just go off and find some to play with” (42; 45). These ideals reflect greatly on when Harper Lee was a child, as she likely felt afraid of her own gender because of the hatred men expressed for it. The misogyny she internalized may be why she even acted like a tomboy in the first place. Growing up in the 20s and 30s affected men’s portrayal in To Kill a Mockingbird immensely, as shown.

The relationship between men and women is also presented in a way that references Harper Lee’s childhood environment. Men are portrayed as above women and inherently inferior, as femininity is viewed as a negative thing. Harper Lee, growing up in a small Alabama town, likely faced this relationship dynamic on a day-to-day basis. As one author states, Harper had a very weak, overly feminine mother and did not want to grow up to be powerless like her (Harper Lee: Feminist Lens: Analysis of Author - To Kill a Mockingbird). In addition, men are made to view it as bad to “act like a girl” and women are made to view it as bad to “act like a man.” This is because of the misogyny within the book and the misogyny within Harper Lee’s young environment. When she was younger, women and men both had very strict roles to fill and were not allowed to break or bend them in any way. In To Kill a Mockingbird, men and women both also rarely interact outside of a familial or romantic context. Husbands and wives may spend time together, and so may brothers and sisters, but that’s nearly it. An example of this occurring is when Jem refuses to talk to anyone besides his male friends at school, leaving Scout on her own (Lee 18). He doesn’t want to be seen playing with a girl around people he’s supposed to look masculine with. All in all, the relationship between men and women in To Kill a Mockingbird is very harmful and has power dynamics within it that are misogynistic and problematic, as that’s what Lee grew up around.

In conclusion, Harper Lee, growing up in the early 1900s, was a masculine girl who was outcasted, judged, and labeled negatively by her peers for her behaviors. These things are reflected within her only published work, To Kill a Mockingbird, by the character Scout Finch and via the relationships between men and women characters. The way women and men treated each other and were portrayed in her childhood society is also connected with the way women and men act within the novel. It is imperative that we notice these differences and complexities through a feminist lens, as they tie the entire book together and help us make connections between culture and what it creates.

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STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE

Thu, 20 Nov 2014 00:16:32 GMT

do you remember the day you told me

it was all my fault?

and you never saw it before because the grass is always greener

and even though the house has never been cleaner

i feel dirty.

today will go on

do you remember the day i cried because

the memories kept flooding on back?

and, honestly, i could feel the sting of his slap

and hear the crack of that plate against your face.

you know, the plastic one,

plastered with an image of strawberry shortcake.

i will get better

the images

and sounds,

the mixture of lines and words

pouring from your mouth along with spit

never go away.

i will get stronger

the worst years of my life

are the only years i’ve ever lived.

but i’m getting better at battling my past,

and my present,

i promise.

it always gets better.

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SMOKE & RAZORS

Tue, 18 Nov 2014 03:16:16 GMT

they tell me i'm worthless

i'm a burden; a troublesome chore

a cheap whore

with my dark eyeliner

and red lipstick

and overly revealing clothing

i'm broken

but the sexually sarcastic overtone,

the terrible attitude,

and the hardened shell

remind me that

anger is the best emotional plaster

—

the smoke

it lights my lungs

and ignites my emotions

reminds me i'm alive

makes me feel

more than she ever did

reminds me that i'm not okay

but that i don't have to be

more than the razors ever did

it still burns my tongue

and makes my throat feel near shattered

but it stops the shakes

and the tears

and screaming

it mutes me, numbs me, soothes me

and i'm waiting for the day

that it overtakes me

—

addiction is

like a nagging mother

in the back of your head

not physically forcing you to do anything

but reminding you

that the opportunity's always there

to inflame your lungs

to slice your skin

to stuff your face

to throw up your guts

you can smoke

and drink

and cut

and bruise

and burn

and purge

and binge

you can do it. you can do it.

it will do you more good than anyone or anything

addiction

knows me best

—

it's okay

to leave

i understand that

i'm not the best

and that i can't put you before my selfish addiction

she left

and continues to do so

without a care in the world

and she left

and loved it

brags about it

loves to talk about it

about my worthlessness

and her weightlessness

so i get if you

want to leave

and never come back

because

they've already done so

why haven't you?

— m.jarnot

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SHE/HER

Tue, 18 Nov 2014 03:14:06 GMT

I cradled my cup of coffee to my chest as I watched you kiss her.

All I hope is that she gives you the same chills she gave me,

running up and down our spines like favorite poetry.

I hope you grow to understand that she is poetry herself,

and her curves and imperfections should become your favorite lines and stanzas.

I hope she still dips her tongue the same shy, adorable way when she kisses.
I hope she still has her same nervous ticks,

like curling her fingers through her hair.

I hope her heart is still as soft and pure as the day she left.

Because those pieces of her are what make her the most beautiful.

Her broken fingernails she swears are too dirty and split ends she’s been too lazy to cut out are intricate and gorgeously rich.

And that is what you must treasure the most.
Fill her empty soul and mend her broken heart.
Make her whole again,

because I sure didn’t.

Remember that she is art.

To be studied,

To be analyzed,

To be learned,
To be appreciated,
To be adored,
To be loved.

Loved.

I can only hope you love her more than I did.

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