Tag Archives: art

The Worst Part

The worst part
of being cheated on
is knowing that even for just a few moments
you weren’t enough
to make him want to stay.

My consolation prize is knowing that neither was she


Trying on Forgiveness

In response to the apology
she never graced me with:

How dare you,
how dare you show remorse,
when at one point
hurting me
was all you thought about?

How could you stand there,
watching me beaming
like a chandelier with a second chance
to dazzle in a different foyer,
and not see
that he was shining the light
that bounced from my skin?

How was it
when you kissed him
and tasted my lips there,
previously having claimed that landscape for my own,
determined to lock you out
but not reaching the deadbolt
in time?

If she asked me for forgiveness
I’d choke on the memories
she forces me to drown in each morning
and spit out my tongue
because the taste of it still reminds me of him.
I’d tell her how completely she killed me,
how I can’t look in mirrors anymore
without seeing ghosts and hollow eyes,
the shell of a person who was once almost whole again.
I would tell her
you meant more to me
than she would have ever realized;
you were the sun,
the moon and all her stars
and I was the blackness that surrounded you,
happy because being beside your light
detracted from my darkness
and I was content being background noise
to a beautiful solar system.

I’d ask her
if she had known
that you were the only strings holding me up
would she have still been so willing
to bring the scissors?

California Sunset

The idea of a California sunset
has always seemed, to me, romanticized,
overrated and glorified,
like a movie cliche you’ve seen
time and time again.

But the first time
you see the flamingo pink haze
collide with seagulls and baby blues
in a distant heaven
that crashed against
the ocean horizon
then you realize:
it’s nothing like they said it was,
it’s better.

Rape Poem

This wasn’t what she had learned about
in every fairytale her father read her
each night before bed.
This knight in shining armour
had bad breath
and worse intentions,
teenage acne
and an army of hands,
fingers sliding up her skirt.
Princesses in the stories
never said, “Stop”
when the knights kissed them,
they always liked it.
So she clenched her fists,
grit her teeth
and gave in, for one moment,
forgetting that she was not a princess.
When the knight with acne
began to hurt her,
she remembered she was a queen,
and that she had the right to deny intruders access
to her castle,
her temple,
her body was not his high school playground.
She refused him there, at the dried-up moat,
told him,
commanded him,
But his army invaded anyways, taking what was never their’s to take.

“Okay, that’s it.”
“We’ve heard enough!”
the jury screams, demanding answers.
The public thinks
they have the right to throw blame
at whomever it sticks to the most.
They ask her the same questions she herself asks
every night after brushing her teeth but before falling asleep;
what if I had pushed back,
shoved away, hard,
beat my knight
like the dragon I know I can be;
what if I had filled my lungs
between gasping, crying sobs,
and screamed for help;
what if I had just learned
the correct pronunciation of the word,
in whatever language that boy must have spoke
because surely it couldn’t have been English?

They command her to come up with answers
when she can’t even come up for air,
all she knows is her world was never a fairytale
and now it never would be.
She will go down in her high school halls instead as a fable,
The Girl Who Cried Rape,
the one girls gossip about behind manicured nails,
the one guys joke about in locker rooms.
They ask what she wore,
as if her clothes could speak for her,
and no matter her answer,
their’s still would have been rape jokes and slut shaming,
resentment and judgement.
They ask what she said,
as if he couldn’t understand her tears
even if he couldn’t hear her, “No”;
as if he never had to pin her hands behind her
to keep her from escaping.
They ask her why she dated him if he raped her
and she choked on her answer:
she thought he was her knight in shining armour,
but real knights don’t use your love
as a weapon against you.

They never ask him, though,
why he ignored her tears,
her body language,
her words,
why he ignored her, period.
They don’t ask him
what he wore,
or what he did to her,
or what he said afterwards
to get her to stop crying.

They never ask him
why he raped her.