august

august holds me like a middle school sock i refuse to throw out

it’s tight in all the wrong places

and i’m overheating and my pinky toe sticks out of the side and catches on the hardwood floor

but i can’t let go

not yet/ not too soon

the dreams come back in august.

the ones where

i am thrashing

and he is tearing

where i am crying

and he is staring

bisect

my life is bisected in two.

1. before him.

   be-fore hymn

   unsure/ confused/ wanting/ needing/ begging/

2. after him

   aft-er hymn

   broken/ confused/ split/ crushed/ scared/ cold/

the beach

I see myself sitting on a rock in the middle of the lake. There’s a rock in my fist. There’s an echo in my heart. My therapist tells me to let my little self stay there, exploring the beach, holding onto her rocks for dear life until we come back to see her.

I take a shaky breath. I open my eyes.

We went to the beach yesterday.

It’s my favourite beach. You can feel the energy, there.

It lives in the rocks. It leaves footprints in the sand.

It’s not a nice beach, by any means. The rocks are sharp and slimy. There’s almost certainly something crawling up your leg. It slithers and pokes and gnaws a hole through the bottom of your foot. You shake it off and keep swimming.

I sit on a slimy rock, a bit too far from shore.

I am nothing but this moment.

I am nowhere but here.

I lean back and open my arms.

Small hands place sharp rocks in my upturned palms.

I close my eyes. I close my fists.

I take a shaky breath.

gasping

i have always been

a gasping girl

mouth open

( g a p i n g )

an expanding hole

in your pantyhose

a nick

in your father’s vein

a drop of acid

on your lover’s neck

i am a breath

of fresh/ wet air

swallowing up

your guilt

known

Most people know me because I tried to kill myself.

It’s a very complicated legacy to come to terms with.

I don’t want to write about it all the time - I am broken in so many more ways than that.

I am healed in ways I never believed possible.

We’re approaching the one year anniversary of my attempt.

One year ago, there was a shadow following me everywhere. His hand gripped the back of my neck and he whispered sweet, sickly nothings into my ear. He followed me into my car and my job and my old boss’s eyes. He swirled around me, consuming me in his black smoke until there was nothing left but a girl once again collapsing violently inward on the bathroom floor.

This year, I published my second book. I competed on a national stage. I am recovering. I am in therapy. I have a job that I enjoy. I live with the love of my life and our two cats. I have so many plans for the next few years.

Now, I fear upsetting the delicate peace that I have created. I fear awakening the shadow again. I fear opening my eyes and seeing the bathroom ceiling.

I’m not sure what the point of this is. I guess I’m just trying to say that I’m trying, I really am.

I’m trying to be a good writer and artist and poet and barista and friend and daughter and girlfriend and sister and person. I’m trying to live up to the impact of An Apology to my Cat. I’m trying to be worthy of it. I’m trying to write through the bad stuff and I’m trying not to cry too hard.

I think it will be worth it, in the end. I think my anthology of work will be important to someone, somewhere, in some timeline.

For the first time, I hope for the future.

I do/ I do/ I do/

tethered

i am in a constant state of reinvention. 

i think it's because he stole my identity. he scrubbed my brain squeaky clean and sick. he sucked out all my fat and filed my bones down into toothpicks.

i look in the mirror and there's a monster staring back. there's a monster that doesn't belong to me. so i grab the rusty kitchen scissors and start to cut him off.

i start with my hair. he liked it long. he liked it innocent. i cut it short and choppy. i won't be a kid for him anymore.

next, i trim my eyelashes. no more innocent doe eyes. i am intense. i am scary. i must keep my eyes open at all times from now on.

finally, i snip the puppet strings. my hands and wrists and arms. my legs and hips and vagina. my neck and mouth and mind. snip, snip, snip.

i collapse to the floor, untethered. unsupported. unstable. free.

the sun

i will feel the sun once again/ the sadness cannot overwhelm me forever/ there has to be a way out/ i will find a way out/ of this / i will scream and cry and push until i feel the warmth again/ i will hold on through the sadness/ i will be okay/ i have to be okay/

start starting

I want to have a living autobiography.

I want to show myself and my art as I create it. I want to share what my life is like post suicide attempt. I want to show the hope I feel in my chest. I want to be open and honest and odd.

I am scared of the response. I know the world is cruel, and my heart is sensitive. Nonetheless, I think my art outweighs my fear.

I don't understand what's stopping me from fully committing. I have videos and poems and art galore. I just need to start posting them! I need to fully believe in myself!

There is no concrete thing stopping me anymore. I have the time and the content and the support. If I build it, they will come.

I want to build a little world of my own. 

I want to stop stopping and start starting.

woe is me

what happened to me is not who i am. 

it is something that was inflicted on me.

i survived, and i can't let him take any more time from me.

he did not destroy me, he destroyed himself. 

he is rotting from the inside out.

21

i tried to kill myself 21 days before my 21st birthday. i hadn’t planned on killing myself when i woke up that morning, but here i was, puking sour vomit into a bag.

the back of my throat burned. it was disgusting and i hated it and i vow to never try to overdose on pills again.

while vomiting, i had five realizations.

1. overdosing sucks

2. i am going to marry the man sleeping in the hospital chair beside me

3. i almost died

4. i don’t want to be dead

5. i miss my cat