1. |
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abandonment issues
“love takes you where you need to go, no exceptions.” - jim moore
the day i adopted my dog
i expected him to have
abandonment issues.
i expected him to pee on everything
tear up my pillows
and howl into the void of
his missing trust,
the same way we all handle
our heartbreak.
that day
i expected him to look at me
like life was pavlov’s experiment unfulfilled
all bell and no treat --
the same way i look at people
like they are a betrayal
waiting to happen.
but that evening
he ran across my yard
like my childhood on four legs
until he came to a stop at my feet
and hopped into my arms
like he had always belonged there.
i wonder what it must be like
to love like that: like no one
has ever given you up.
to make new friends without the snarl
of old ones stuck
between your teeth.
to sleep in a person’s bed
without worrying
they’ll push you out
at any minute.
that love follows me around the house,
and i trip over him every day.
he always gets under my feet
and love always forgives me
when i step on his paws
with a wagging tail.
because of him
i am learning to forgive people
when they accidentally kick me.
i know they don’t mean it
just as he knows i don’t.
it’s just that i haven’t convinced myself
that i do not deserve
the rolled up newspaper
of other people’s disappointment
forgiving others isn’t half as hard
as forgiving myself
for all the times i drove someone’s trust
to an unknown neighborhood, and let it
out of the car, knowing
it would never find me again.
these are the bones i have buried
in my backyard, and he brings them
like gifts, like i might chew and digest
the marrow of all the pain i’ve buried
in the dirt of my shallow skin.
i am learning to forgive myself,
the same way he forgives me
on the days my depression
keeps me in my bed
and I tell him “i’m sorry.
we can’t go on a walk today.”
but on my good days,
we walk around our neighborhood
and i keep watch
when he pees on another dog’s pee,
because honestly,
that feels like a victory for both of us.
and when it’s time to head back
he trails after me
like i am a star
he can always trust
to point him in the direction
of home.
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2. |
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when we were falling in love
he told me that he felt we
were destined
that we were tied together
at our little fingers
by a red thread of fate.
that it would never be severed
no matter the distance.
he was my first love.
i believed him.
and even across state lines,
i could feel him tugging
on that string and i
would tug back.
we would share
all that we could:
text messages
and phone calls.
the instant gratification
only technology can provide
to say
you are loved.
you are loved.
you are loved.
he tied more threads.
he slipknotted them
around each of my fingers.
he told me i held his fate
in my hands.
i thought this
was beautiful
at first.
one day, i realized
i could no longer move
without him knowing.
i could no longer speak
without him hearing.
i could not leave
without him threatening
to sever every thread
inside of his body.
i could not set our thread on fire
without it running like a fuse
to his burning temper.
i knew i would not escape the blast.
he kept tugging
but this time, it meant something new
each text and phone call rang like:
you are mine. you are mine. you are mine.
i remember the way
his panic would tighten
like a crying throat
when i didn’t respond in time.
so i would let him
guide my fingers -
my nerves had worn themselves
away long ago
it was easier to let him
move my atrophied muscles
to where he wanted them.
that is why
i could not tell you when things changed.
falling asleep
is like that.
and i had been asleep
for a long time.
one morning, i woke up
with my severed fingers
on the floor.
20 missed calls.
100 unread messages
and voicemails that echoed every word
i couldn’t have imagined
in his mouth
when i first fell in love
with his smile.
the night before
after a week of studying
and sleep deprivation
i had fallen asleep early
without telling him.
he could not stand
pulling on the string
and feeling nothing
in return.
i want to tell you
i didn’t call him back.
abuse
does not always work that way though.
instead, his honeymoon phase
waxed to shed light on my forgiveness -
he held my hand
so tenderly
as he used the thread between us
to sew my fingers back.
that’s how he got under my skin.
it felt like if i cut our thread
i’d be broken again.
he told me i couldn’t heal
without him.
i want to tell you i left him
but that would be a lie.
i can just tell you
that i woke up one day
afraid of cat’s cradle
jacob’s ladder
wedding rings.
i can just tell you
that these days, the threads i tie
are loose. slip away easy
when pulled.
some call this ‘commitment issues.’
i call it survival.
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3. |
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4. |
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mid semester evaluations -
the rules come down from their
ivory tower into my basement and tell me
i need to start failing my students -
not all of them, just the ones
i’ve been giving incompletes.
when i ask why, they say
without Fs, As are worthless
other people’s success is built
on the backs of failing students.
i think about my failing students -
two weeks into class, i finally get the courage
to tell them my pronouns -
a shy student asks to do the same,
tells us, “my name max. i use
he/him/his pronouns.”
it takes the class a few weeks
to catch up with the news, but they do.
a few weeks later, max goes missing
i get a call from his mom, she says
“abby is in the hospital. she
tried to hurt herself.”
i am told to give max an F
but isn’t that what everyones already done
checked that F box
on his birth certificate
his student id
his hospital intake form
and i don’t want to add to that list
when he probably already equates
F for failure
at being recognized in the mirror.
and i think about danny
danny showed up a month late
out of prison, and spent his first week
hiding,
behind the drawers in the back of the classroom.
it took a while, but he finally
wrote his story down in a poem
and told us he’d share it
at the final show.
a week before the final show
danny goes missing
and we all know where
even though the administration
won’t tell me.
i am told to give my students Fs
for the days they walked out for justice
F is for justice
and i know that’s not phonetically sound
but real justice doesn’t play by the rules
because the rules put a bird in a cage
and the rules told me to fail that bird
for not singing anymore.
the thing is
i’ve got a lot of missing students
students i’ve never met
students who never came in to class
students who can’t wake up in the morning
for first hour
and though i don’t know them
I am told
to give them Fs
like felonies, fears, and faults
when i know
an F won’t get a kid out of bed in the morning
an F won’t bail a kid out of prison
an F won’t make a kid want to live
i give them incompletes
because we all deserve
to know we can try again
and do better next time.
i give them incompletes
because they don’t deserve
to have their bad days
permanently recorded
as failed futures.
most importantly,
i give them incompletes because
well
aren’t we all incomplete?
and isn’t this fight incomplete?
and isn’t this system incomplete
when any one student
could ever be considered
a failure?
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5. |
church feat. Shane Lory
03:25
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every month or so
my mother tries to convince me
of the existence of god.
it’s so predictable, i’ve considered
marking it on a menstrual calendar,
the way her persistent spirituality has not menopaused
though her actually going to church and praying has.
i’ve tried to explain the ways
my imagination will not bend,
that i was not born with a god muscle
and she said she doesn’t need me to believe
in jesus, just
something.
my mother believes in a lot of things
like my brother and i
like her husband
like this hispanic hand-me-down mantra
i want to believe in so badly:
nothing is more important than family.
the first gift abuela gave me
was a rosary that shone as white as i pictured god would
and i kept it hung over my door for five years –
the love of god was akin to the love of a family
i hardly ever saw.
so i can’t blame my mother when she says church
will bring us back together, but i wonder
who she prays to when walking the generational tightrope
between a god who loves and a god who hates.
and yes, i know jesus doesn’t want me to go to hell
but he’s got a hell of a fan club who wants
to set us on fire.
just look at this world
full of queers who have fled
the burning rubble of families
crumbling around them.
abuela doesn’t have much time left
but there’s a reason i don’t visit –
the sight of me would kill her quicker.
i can thank the god she was taught for that.
i can’t help but want her last memory of me
to be all pigtails and possibility -
i can’t help but want my last memory of her
to be one where she still loves me
in spite of the people
who have loved me
who have looked at me
like i’m beautiful
not to mention the way they have made me say
“shit”
and “fuck”
and “jesus”
all in the same breath
but these are some religious experiences
i don’t need to share
with my grandmother.
she will never know my face
as it is now, but my mother
knows, and loves it still
for all its snarl, for all
its queer, for all its metal-shine,
for all of the holy! places
it has been.
it is with this same mouth
that i asked my mom:
‘are you ever afraid?
that your mom and sisters
and nieces and nephews
will find out about me?
about what they’ll say to you
about your queer child?’
she responded:
‘i didn’t get to choose my family then
but i choose
the family i have made.
you are the family i have made.’
i call that kind of love godly
so i can’t be angry at god
just as i am not angry at oxygen
for allowing a fire to burn.
when queers are used as kindling
in the burning shame of their families
god, like oxygen, is both the culprit
and the one thing we just hope
to inhale enough of
before the smoke closes in.
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6. |
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this morning, you were in my bed.
wrapped up in your fluffy gray sweater
and little black shorts. the shorts
you wear when you’re on your period.
you’re on your period and i have
a yeast infection
and you came over last night knowing
full well that there was a negative percent
chance of any sex happening
but i guess
this isn’t just about sex
anymore
because last night
you watched as i stuck medicine
in my most intimate places
and i listend
as you sniffled in your sleep
because the second the weather
dips under 50 degrees
you turn into a perpetual snot factory
and when morning came
the first thing you told me was
that you had to pee
and empty your diva cup
and i was like, woah
baby
you are just as gross
and human as i am.
it didn’t stop you from pressing
your body to mine in the shower
blood running down our legs
and it sure it didn’t stop you
from smiling at me
in the way that makes me say
woah
baby
i think you like me
as much as a like you
which is cool
because i like you a lot
not like love, but i like you
enough that i’m worried the words
“i love you” will slip out any day now
like,
i’ll be tying my shoes and i’ll catch you
looking at me like i am a beam of light,
wonderful in my most mundane moments,
and it’ll just slip out
and i’ll be like “shit...i love you”
and i just want to make sure i say that
when it is 100% true.
but the second i do,
love you, that is
i won’t be afraid to say it
those words
will shoot out when the time
is right, kind of like
your menstrual blood
when you sneeze.
they will ooze forth
the second i feel them
burning inside of me
much like the yeast infection
burning inside of my vagina.
but hopefully,
my love for you will be
even hotter than that.
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7. |
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the first people to see me relapse
are the people at the convenience store
when the trip i’ve told myself is for milk
or eggs, or a cup of coffee for a long night
turns into snickers, cheddar jalapeno cheetos,
slim jims, sour patch kids, and all of my shame
slid across the counter
to be rung up
and placed in a plastic bag.
sometimes
i will say i am holding a party
or that i have a long road ahead of me --
any narrative
that is not just going home
alone.
i avoid the eyes of the other customers in line.
i know what they must be thinking
because it is what i am also thinking.
i know this part of the eating disorder
does not make me seem
like a good fat,
the type you want to feel
sympathy for.
the type of fat
that is always only ever trying
to not be fat.
the type of fat
who is always wittling away
at themselves
with the pocketknife
of insecurity.
that’s what the purging was for.
so people could know
i was trying to atone.
so they might forgive me.
so i might forgive myself.
recently,
i learned that colleges have to replace their plumbing
twice as often as other institutions
because of the stomach acid wearing away the pipes.
i thought about writing my college a check
for all of the damage i might have done
inside the walls
i hated myself in,
and then i wondered
how much would the check
have to be
to pay for all of the damage
i might have done
inside of the body
i hated myself in.
i don’t think i have that much money.
the 7-eleven across the street my junior year
felt easier to reach than my self-worth.
ice cream tastes better
than all of my ugly.
candy bars cost less
than therapy.
i am learning, however,
that therapy costs less
than fixing the damage
inside the walls of my body.
i have not binged, or purged
for a few months now.
there are no easy fixes
in my kitchen pantry.
only that which must be
assembled with my bare hands.
i coat them with flour
to hold on to the slippery resolve
of a better future i am not sure of --
one that will taste better
and make me feel better
at the same time.
i am learning to tell good eggs from bad ones
and decide which ones i want to mix with.
now when i say i am holding a party
even when i am alone
i mean it.
now when i say i have a long road ahead of me
that is even more true.
every moment is one in which i slow down
chew
decide whether i want to swallow
knowing that what i take into my body
is no longer a decision
i can so easily undo.
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8. |
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9. |
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mid semester evaluations -
the rules come down from their
ivory tower into my basement and tell me
i need to start failing my students -
not all of them, just the ones
i’ve been giving incompletes.
when i ask why, they say
without Fs, As are worthless
other people’s success is built
on the backs of failing students.
i think about my failing students -
two weeks into class, i finally get the courage
to tell them my pronouns -
a shy student asks to do the same,
tells us, “my name max. i use
he/him/his pronouns.”
it takes the class a few weeks
to catch up with the news, but they do.
a few weeks later, max goes missing
i get a call from his mom, she says
“abby is in the hospital. she
tried to hurt herself.”
i am told to give max an F
but isn’t that what everyones already done
checked that F box
on his birth certificate
his student id
his hospital intake form
and i don’t want to add to that list
when he probably already equates
F for failure
at being recognized in the mirror.
and i think about danny
danny showed up a month late
out of prison, and spent his first week
hiding,
behind the drawers in the back of the classroom.
it took a while, but he finally
wrote his story down in a poem
and told us he’d share it
at the final show.
a week before the final show
danny goes missing
and we all know where
even though the administration
won’t tell me.
i am told to give my students Fs
for the days they walked out for justice
F is for justice
and i know that’s not phonetically sound
but real justice doesn’t play by the rules
because the rules put a bird in a cage
and the rules told me to fail that bird
for not singing anymore.
the thing is
i’ve got a lot of missing students
students i’ve never met
students who never came in to class
students who can’t wake up in the morning
for first hour
and though i don’t know them
I am told
to give them Fs
like felonies, fears, and faults
when i know
an F won’t get a kid out of bed in the morning
an F won’t bail a kid out of prison
an F won’t make a kid want to live
i give them incompletes
because we all deserve
to know we can try again
and do better next time.
i give them incompletes
because they don’t deserve
to have their bad days
permanently recorded
as failed futures.
most importantly,
i give them incompletes because
well
aren’t we all incomplete?
and isn’t this fight incomplete?
and isn’t this system incomplete
when any one student
could ever be considered
a failure?
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10. |
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during the times i can’t afford therapy
google is my saving grace.
i ask questions like
hey google:
why am i sad
why can’t i sleep
how can i stop
wanting to die
sometimes
it is just the word help
again and again
sometimes, the word
why
sometimes
in all caps
IT HURTS
IT HURTS
IT HURTS
when i type i’m suicidal
google doesn’t respond with:
did you mean: sleep deprived
did you mean: dehydrated
did you mean: spiritually bankrupt
did you mean: you haven’t tried yoga yet?
instead, i find pages and pages
of links, forum threads,
and blog posts, many millions of people
all asking the same questions.
these days, i know no other way
to offer condolences
aside from saying
me too
i feel that too
i’ve been there too
and here i am
still standing here
you can too.
there is nothing quite like
clicking on a suicide note
posted on someone’s blog months ago
only to see they’ve updated recently:
a selfie of their new haircut.
a new favorite song.
a reminder that so many things
continue surviving
even through the moments
they think they’ve given up.
i know that sometimes the suicide note
is the most recent post.
i know we can’t always save each other
with our own sadness.
but i don’t know what i’d do
if i searched the world for my sadness
and found that no one felt it too.
i am learning not to delete
those sad blog posts --
i am learning not to edit
the pain out of my poems --
i am learning not to lie
and say i’m fine all the time.
i’m not fine all the time. for the record,
i’m not fine most of the time.
i am learning to wear my heart on my sleeve
with all of its ticking trauma
so people can look at it
and tell the time
they have is not, is never
limited.
just look for me
on google
look for all the people
that continue to be here
and our suicide notes
buried beneath
our futures.
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Nico! Colorado Springs, Colorado
i'm a genderqueer spoken word poet that lives in colorado springs. i write identity stuff, body stuff, brain stuff. i write about the things that make me get out of bed in the morning.
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