Blasphemy

“Bless me father, for I have sinned”

they taught me these words

uttered as my nails slide along the left

and right of our savior’s emaciated

body etched into wood 

but the blood seems no less real

piled up under my fingernails

 

“My last confession was…”

I don’t remember, I don’t know

when the last time my heart ever

bent to the idea of popping a vessel

to an old man behind the screen

when all the demons I have 

wear masks with my face and mock me

with my childlike voice, with my

vicious tongue 

 

How do you explain this

to a face behind a blackened screen?

 

The kind-faced teacher in an all-girls’

institute urges me on,

“God will help you.”

So I choke out years upon years of

debauchery, lies, attempted murder

and with each syllable with each

l e t t e r i feel her hands clamp around

my neck, wringing me and threatening

to flush all of hell down my

dirty little mouth, whore, that’s what you like

keep going, worthless blasphemer

you’re a liar through and through

and she mocks me with the patterns

I would draw on the virgin’s shoulders

angel-kissing him to the brink

of temptation where the mind and

morality separate into roads of

heaven and hell

and I am so gone down the icy road

that he’d have to run to catch up with me

because these demons that wear

my face inside out have my by the hands

I spit at them but they laugh

because I still taste of sin

It’s in my teeth, father, they’re in

my mind 

 

The demons tie strings around my 

fingers, father, sometimes I can’t tell

the difference between loneliness and

being awake because whenever 

someone gets too close they

whisper things into my ears, father

they punish me for my transgressions

I will never be allowed to be happy

as long as they pick pieces off me

and let the hell-hounds memorize me

so they know, when the time has come

that their sinner, long awaited

has finally slit her wrists deep enough

to fill the mouths of those she hurt

with enough satisfaction

to have them sail through life

 

“Go in peace,”

he’ll mutter, the years of his body

weighing down on him as i get off my

tired knees feeling the Nothing i have

come to know as normal.

Nothing tucks me into bed at night

and Nothing greets me in the morning

So I turn on my heel and press on

knowing that

today will be the day I die.

 

“Amen.”

25 Things To Know Before Dating Me

  1. I’ve had a colorful past, and I’ve made a lot of mistakes; but if I say I’m working on it– then I really am. 
  2. I am dramatic.
  3. I’ll introduce you to everyone as “This is ______, and he’s lame.” Don’t take this the wrong way, I just love pushing buttons.
  4. Poetry? Oh, expect lots and lots of poetry about you.
  5. Especially about your jawline or your eyes.
  6. I will be your biggest fan, and make banners on demand.
  7. During shark week, or Satan’s Sacrificial Waterfall of Blood, I often have crying fits– But I try my best not to get other people involved.
  8. Sometimes I’ll want to take you out drinking and take stupid photos with you.
  9. I’ll suggest a million things that we can do, and want to do them all at the same time. It’s okay to tell me to calm down.
  10. I love giving gifts. It doesn’t matter how much it costs me, material gifts are one of my favorite things to give.
  11. I will love you with everything that I have.
  12. I can be a huge fucking idiot sometimes.
  13. I swear excessively.
  14. I will want you to communicate with me, tell me the things you don’t like and I will find a compromise.
  15. If I agree to date you exclusively/suggest dating exclusively, that means I’ve written at LEAST three poems about you.
  16. Sometimes I worry I’m not feminine enough, especially on cold days when all I want to do is sit around and watch porn.
  17. I can’t stay mad. Trust me, I’ve tried.
  18. I have crass humor, and will make dirty jokes occasionally. 
  19. I will cry over books and repeatedly suggest that you read them too.
  20. Sometimes I will quietly question your choice in clothing/hairstyle, but I’m not dating you for either, so feel free to dye your hair pink.
  21. “Meeting the family” scares me more than it might scare you. I’m insane, where do you think I got it?
  22. I will try almost anything you suggest, within reason. 
  23. I will poke fun at you from time to time, feel free to do the same.
  24. Something important: I will tell you about things that bother me, and repeatedly apologize for bringing it up.
  25. In short: I’m a huge, awkward, dork; but I will love you like a fat kid loves cake.

The Chronicles of a Serial Overthinker

         The men around me loved to paint pictures of their perfect woman: conventionally beautiful, intelligent, feminine, and uncomplicated. (DEFINITELY NOT CLINGY) A younger I clung to these descriptions tighter than Lady Gaga to her diminishing fame; I would be the perfect woman for any man, after all, I was prematurely provided with this indispensable information. I had a leg up on all the other girls, or so I liked to tell myself. Genetics gave me a swift kick to the ass in the form of turning me into a frumpy, dirty-mouthed, complicated little shit– I mean, slacker. 

         So enter this frumpy, dirty-mouthed, complicated little shitbag against a backdrop of beautiful teenage girls that seemed to have their male counterparts lick the ground beneath them for a chance to hold their hands; it’s sufficient to say that I thought the best thing to do at that point was, well, throw in the towel and wallow in uglydom forever. I liked to pretend I didn’t care about boys or that I simply wasn’t interested up until sophomore year (which was true, for the most part.) But under my trademarked sailorly vernacular was still that whiny little girl that slept in a princess bed– the picture of a believer in true love, and that it would be easy. (Thanks for that, TV. You and your fucking romcoms have ruined love for us all with the expectations you set.)

(also, fuck you, John Green.)

      By the time I hit my time as a dancing queen, at seventeen, I believed I had ample experience in the area of love. The covert love affairs I had would’ve put _____ to shame. In hindsight, though, I realize that perhaps that was just the small bit of a younger I wanting to play house with the projections of my dreams, looking for the prince in the eyes of everyone who would look my way.

     Reality’s kind of a bitch, isn’t she?

     My first real, legitimate, high school crush was fucked up the ass so hard it couldn’t walk for a year. (Not….you know, the literal way….) I wasn’t the statuesque belle of the ball I had planned to be, and I was living under the misguided notion that the more aggressive I was, the better it would work out for me. This, I learned, was the easiest way to drive yourself and the object of your affections insane. You see, like any self-destructive teenager who moaned to Evanescence in their free time, all I really wanted was attention–especially from a guy. In the end of my junior year, though, I was doing all the wrong things to get it. I reduced myself to a slab of meat: used one night and tossed the next. Every single prettied-up vice with potential life-ruining qualities? Tried it. I’m not going to lie and say that I got out of the dark allure of that easily, it was anything but a walk in the park. (Unless, of course, we’re talking about a dog park.) … (complete shit, if you didn’t get the joke.) 

      I was playing chicken with the idea of being a “bad girl”, being the girl that you only saw at night and never forgot, because she had the balls to do everything you didn’t. I’m a Catholic school girl, and I, more than anyone, knew that this perpetually inebriated I was not the girl I wanted to become. 

      Someone once asked me outright why I did it anyway, and I think I wasn’t prepared to answer that question at that moment; but… I didn’t want to be forgotten, I didn’t want to blend in with the crowd of perfectly sane people I spent time with day in and day out. I was forgettable, easy to overlook. Average everything, a sardonic wit counted for nothing when all you wanted was to be noticed. I went from cripplingly insecure teen to a basket case. A whole six months passed with my conscience running at a quiet hum, threatening to shut down from negligence. 

      By the time I started to feel the weight of all the wrong that I’d done, I was too deep in my own filth; recurring fantasies of suicide had become so common that I no longer went cold when I would dangle a leg over the ledge of my apartment building. I was numb, but this was what I wanted, right? Not to be forgotten? I should be happy, I kept telling myself.

      Treading the thin lines of what seemed like they were to be my last days, my past decided to hit me in the face with an unhinged door: chaos had arrived in the form of that very same crush from sophomore year, parading about and reminding me of the finer things in life: sunshine, friendship, and some upbeat music. In my race to become queen of the night, I had forgotten that somewhere inside me was still that little girl who really wanted nothing other than to be happy–even if her ideas of happiness were a little skewed. He walked in, and I longed for a simplicity that I felt like I had not grasped in decades.

      Cheesy as it sounds, he saved me.

         He saved me by reminding me that humanity wasn’t as dreary as I convinced myself it was, that sometimes happiness is waiting just around the corner, you just have to make that turn. Perhaps he didn’t know about the nights I spent crying myself to sleep because I never felt like I was good enough for anyone, or the days I would walk through on autopilot, never really quite present in my own body. It didn’t register at the time, but I was incredibly grateful to this boy, who, I’d wished would be a friend for life.

         The men around me loved to paint pictures of their perfect woman: conventionally beautiful, intelligent, feminine, and uncomplicated. I am still not these things. I am complicated, I can be kind of dumb, and I have my ugly days. (Not to mention I still swear like a teenage boy hopped up on Red Bull), but I am also a believer that it’s something in everyone’s flaws that makes them unlike any other, that makes them beautiful if we looked past the surface.

        That boy, mister sophomore year, with his thick rimmed glasses and his debilitating wit… He may be my prince or my fairy god-gay, but either way? I’m glad he came around when he did. Maybe it isn’t meant to be, maybe the clocks will strike midnight at the magic will fade, but that will never lessen the appreciation I have for his entirety. 

       And I know that, once I gather up the balls to show him this post, he’ll know that sometimes I’m dramatic, sometimes I’m petty, but he’ll also know how much he means to me.

     I hope I didn’t make you sound like an asshole in this post, sophomore boy. 

     Sometimes words fail even me.

It’s OK To Be The One Who Cares More

Thought Catalog

Recently, I had to give some advice I hated. A friend of mine has been seeing this guy (who we’ll call Kellen Heller) who either isn’t that into texting, texting my friend or just isn’t into my friend. We can’t tell the difference. This is because my friend (who we’ll call Uncanny Sullivan) will send Kellen one, two, three or four text messages and hear almost nothing back, except for maybe a passing “LOL” or “interesting,” which is a text euphemism for “IDGAF.” And when they are together, Kellen’s behavior matches his stoic communication skills. He’s also not that into cuddling, conversation, touching my friend, or even initiating sex. When Uncanny will try to fool around or start something, Kellen says he’s not in the mood, has a headache or is too tired — like the bored, sexually unfulfilled spouse on every sitcom. No one wants to be Patricia Heaton…

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Kissed

I’m sorry for

all the terrible things I’ve done

they still keep me up

late at night

when the drugs set in and my 

body turns to stone but I

still hear the rip of flesh

as I plunge my knife into your skin

repeatedly and

I wonder if there’s a god when

your screams fall upon deaf ears

because I had lost mine

long ago

Blood drips down the sides of

my face and they paint pictures

of laugh lines

but I could never have laughed

at the sight of you prostrated

before me white thighs red lips

a chest wide open your heart on 

your sleeve

I’m sorry for leaving the blood

all over your bed when I

pushed you off the 

seventh floor and car alarms

blared beneath me people screamed

and I went back to bed

the scent of you lingering

under my nose

but you were all mine

and your blood made

a perfect perfume for your

sister when I

held her against the wall and 

took her everything her nothing could

compare to the way you clawed

at my face and drew blood

from my eyes

that feasted upon her body

as she swayed in the moonlight

the tracks of her tears

still fresh

when her dear sister

was taken from her family too young

too soon

I am still sorry

for all the terrible things I’ve done

when she rides me

and I see your face looking down

inspiring the invisible blade 

in my hands and I choke her

and I push her off the seventh floor

but there was nothing like you

no one like you

and the way your blood

spread out like wings before you

my little moonlight-kissed angel

 

Perhaps I am not 

so sorry after all, the world

could never

appreciate your beauty like I 

did