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@dimepoetry

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He came to me there then, flayed God, mad God, divinity left bleeding, against the ceiling of the room, against the walls of my own skull, broken and bleeding from the teeth and mouth.Â
A car crash.Â
His fractured spine, his limp leg, his missing eye, his broken raven wings in crimson red. My God is dancing along the ridges of the spine. Too much red to be left sane. To much brokenness to be divine.
Rebirth.
My feet screwed on backwards. My feet hanging from the rafters. He speaks in tongues and kisses me all-riddled-up. The Bible flayed open (made sacrifice).Â
Crack of your spine and the whiplash.
The steering wheel will leave dirty teeth on me. The screaming will leave dirty teeth on me. My gods are made of porcelain.
My God is a promise of fragility.
I welcome the riddling madman, I welcome the soft-spoken sage. My God is an exercise in the vulnerable. Car-crash god, bent-backwards Testarossa. Redhead is your brother in the chitter of darkness. Redhead is the blood from your gouged skull.Â
Three teeth beneath my ribs, to crack them open.
The day comes when he doesnât call. You donât want him to, you donât know what you would even say if he did, but it still stings like tearing off a bandaid too swiftly. Sharp, quick, this flare of pain that dies quickly but leaves a sort of ache behind. You try to rationalize that he never loved you, and now he doesnât have to pretend to -- but when you were little, he did all the voices when you asked for stories, he sang you Disney songs in the car, he bought a movie because he thought you would like it. You were his favorite once upon a time, before you grew up. . You tried to make yourself vulnerable for him, trusting that he wouldnât bite, but he pierced you with the biggest teeth youâd ever seen. He took your wrists and twisted. . It has been years now since you severed all the ropes that tethered you to him. It has been years since the word âPapaâ has sat in your mouth like poison. It has been years since you heard his voice on anything but old recordings of sisters and brothers you used to love, all the people that you had to sacrifice in order to free yourself.
fatherâs day // maddie c.
you are in love with a girl. . there is a jar on your bookshelf adorned with her name and full of coins and folded up dollar bills. The Laura Jar, you have lovingly called it; an aluminum beacon of hope disguised as a bookend. . a continent away, she laughs bubbly affection over the telephone line. she calls you beautiful in a way that feels like she means every word. . though your bed is empty now, for the first time, you can envision a future in which it won't be. . and when you walk your fingers across the map, the distance -- whether in miles or in years -- doesn't seem so far.
the laura jar // maddie c.
To sit here next to these delicate things And see the tenderness in their dark eyes; To feel the soft touch of hoof, paw, or wing, And share this sweet moment with other lives. This gentle birdsong, that lionâs proud mane, Every scale of every fish in the sea, Claimed by we humans for humanityâs gain, Stripped of their grace and freedom to be. If mankind could recall the state we shared, With no cages nor fences to keep them, No guns to kill them, no highways to scare, Just man and beast and the earth between them. Until all God's creatures are loved as we, I will lend them our peace and chance to be free.
all godâs creatures // maddie c.

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these tumblr kids and their made-up genders. like you cannot be someplace in the middle; you must be right-or-left, give-or-take, man-or-woman. curves are made to fill out dresses. flat chests and deep voices belong to those who wear BOY on their lapels like a badge. . i was born in january and my mother called me GIRL. sweet, pretty, quiet girl. if i dressed as BOY, that's okay. if i spoke as BOY, that's okay. if i laughed into the mouths of girls and wore shirts that hid my breasts, that's okay. . if i call myself not GIRL, not BOY. not quite anything. somewhere between. . then i have to choose. . i learned to love WOMAN as a second skin, though one i felt never fit me. i grew out my hair and wore dresses and called myself PRINCESS and FEMME and everything but BOY, everything but NEITHER. . i wore tenderness like a threat. like a baring of teeth. like a noose. . softly, now--- so gentle, slipping on THEYÂ like a scarf in winter. folding SHE into fondness to hang in my closet should i want to look back and remember. pressing femininity into a drawer to be taken out and worn again when i need it; not a permanent skin, but a shirt, a jacket, a lipstick. . wearing THEY like i've always worn it. freckles under the eyes. the mole on my left shin. flecks of gold in green irises and ringlets in my hair. . story of a girl who swallowed sunlight to feel warm again, and shed her armor to remember her skin. story of a girl who wasn't a girl at all.
they, them, theirs // maddie c.
there was once comfort in being at my worst. the ugliest parts of my soul reach out in yearning to return to that state of nonbeing; not well, but not dying, either, old infected wounds that refuse to heal and that most cannot even see. . my writing was at its best then. . i am not well, but i am better than i was, and i still speak about my bipolar disorder like it is my constant companion. it does not leave me, but it keeps so quiet sometimes that i forget that it still lives inside of me, still breathes itself to life with my lungs. . some people name their illness to help it become more manageable, to recognize it when it comes knocking. i simply call mine by its title because i don't want to be defined by something i cannot control. Bipolar wraps my body in scars and trauma like a blanket and makes it feel like home. it gives me wings to soar with, and cuts me down with the same tools. . my scars remind me of the warmth i felt in being sick, like Sadness is an ex-girlfriend i cannot stop texting, like photo albums full of pictures of my Mania that i will not stop revisiting. every spent dollar on something i didn't need. every hour i felt superhuman. every cut against my skin and every person i have allowed between my legs. . Bipolar exhausts me in a way no lover can. it works me to the bone and wrings me dry. Bipolar is a full time occupation and fuck anyone who has ever told me otherwise, who has pushed me toward yoga or green tea with sickly sweet intentions. . Bipolar may have felt like home to me once because i knew no other way to be; but wishing myself empty is not synonymous with living, and there are better things to write about than pain.
bipolar // maddie c.
no poems today, the poet said. i am too tired to come up with anything pretty to say. the words won't come, the phrases won't fit. there is nothing lovely or inspirational in any of my usual routine--- the brushing of teeth, the combing of hair, the quiet damp outside and the dark within. day in, day out, there is nothing worth mentioning, not on paper, not immortalized. . the poet held her breath until the lightheadedness made sense, then let it out again. . there's nothing, the poet said. there are no words today, no poems to write. when things take a turn for the worst, she said, talk to me then. things might look beautiful when they're on fire.
writerâs block // maddie c.
simple things. something sweet on the tongue. rainy tuesday afternoons and water dripping from the eaves. warm socks and the way they slide on a cold floor. . (simple things. her voice on the telephone. her laugh when she's sleep-drunk. the way she makes 'i love you' feel so honest.)
simplicity // maddie c.
early morning wakens you with frosty little kisses and freezing toes. the house sits silent and still in the last few dredges of sleep; nothing but the low rumble of traffic outside, the quiet whisper of your breath. soft animal heavy at your feet. soft body heavy beside you. there are things that must be done, as things are always done, but it's so warm beneath the blankets, and the world will still be there when you're ready.
five more minutes // maddie c.

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this year is already the year of lowered expectations; i no longer ask to be painted pretty, to find happiness in unexpected places, to be the sun in someone's turning world. . i ask only for enough peace that i might not hurt the ones around me, and i ask that if this year forces me to learn to breathe smoke, then i breathe enough of it to spit fire. . i ask to still have the strength to smile at people i don't know without fear of their intentions. . i ask for a heart strong enough to hold myself and my mother, too. . i do not ask for much, just that this year shapes me into a girl with enough courage to still dare to be kind.
this year // maddie c.
you have just turned eighteen and can now purchase your own R-rated ticket at the theater; you get your picture taken for your California state ID card, all gap teeth and pink cheeks and a hope in your eyes that refuses to extinguish. . at twenty-one, i take you to the pub for your first (legal) drink, and i watch you sip hesitantly at a raspberry lambic, pretending not to watch me watching you. . but at two years old, you couldnât say my name, slurring the harder middle syllables in a childish sing-song. at four, you splashed in mud puddles and played pretend with the garden hose. at eight, you accidentally called me âmamaâ instead of my name. . at ten, something lovely and golden inside of you shattered, and you spent an agonizing hour over the toilet with your finger down your throat. . at fifteen, you chased a bottle of pills with a bottle of wine and waited. you hallucinated for two days even after they pumped your stomach in the emergency room. . at fifteen and a half, you had panic attacks every day for a month, and we all said things that we regret now, and you forgave us anyway, even when we didnât deserve it. you always forgave too easily. . at sixteen, you tried again, and we almost didnât get you back this time, and i stayed up for days watching your heartbeat on a tiny screen as you slept. . we had you back for seven weeks, and then you were dead. . but sometimes i imagine what it would be like to see you at eighteen years old, buying your own R-rated ticket; to see you at twenty-one, ordering beer; or at thirty with a job, or at forty with kids. . i wonder what it would have been like to watch you fall in love with someone who deserves every inch of you, or to see you travel the world, studying in germany, teaching english in japan. . i write you a novel in this quiet heart space where you used to reside. in this one, a happier protagonist. in this one, a happy ending.
writing a better ending // maddie c.
I remember him as a body too broad, too bright, white skin and white teeth and large hands on my tiny bird-shoulders. I remember him as scotch-breath and cigarettes and wide, wet, hungry mouth. . Hard bites of fingernails into soft thighs, and his voice, gravel-rough and animal growling. His taste in my mouth is one I cannot rinse away; his sin on my skin, and I still scrub myself red and raw and bloody. . I remember him pink, I remember him sweat-sticky. I remember him large and tense, a wild animal, victorious. . I remember myself starved, I remember myself aching, I remember myself limp and cold. . But I still remember himâ I remember him, I remember, and thus I cannot remember myself at all.
the carnage after the hunt // maddie c.
to be lovelyâ to be flower delicate, sweet soft petals, bright-eyed and gentle. to be home to someone, to be unwaveringly kind. to be the sort of girl-woman that authors write aboutâ to be cool and clear as water, warm and pretty as a summer sky. to be the subject of song, to beâ- not yearned for, but missed. . to be someoneâs tender heartache. to be a homesickness. to meet someone for the first time and have them say, âoh. there you are. iâve been looking for you.â
daydream // maddie c.
Thereâs something about the stark contrast of them, chalk-white on a dark backdropâ all of the people to whom you once swore your body, now humming in grocery stores, now sat silent in church pews. Phantoms of old ghost stories in the living places they donât belong. They now blossom into warmth under cleaner hands than yoursâ They melt like warm butter for a gentler touchâ They find themselves starving for a love more fulfilling. And the caverns you once carved into your own hardened heart are filled with ghostly echo, the nightmarish mantra of a weeping woman: Alone, Alone, Alone.
ghost story // maddie c.

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i was fourteen when i first admitted aloud what had been done to my body. ashamed and tearful whispers let those closest to me know that my body was no longer a place i felt safe in, that this armor had been ripped open and invaded, and i had become a stranger in my own skin. . i was fourteen and my best friend asked me if it was REALLY rape, if he put his penis inside of me or just his fingers. she asked if i was sure it wasnât just molestation, and why i had not gone to the police when this happened a year and a half ago. . between classes, lunch breaks became interrogation rooms, and they asked why i did not keep the clothes, why i did not fight back, why i would tell my friends but not the cops, all while never having known the touch of a hand they did not want touching them. . two years ago, i began seeing a new therapist, and during our first session, i let his name slip from my mouth, like dropping a fragile glass. . i was twenty-one when i first said his name out loud again in the context of his crime. and when my shrink reported the incident, social services went to my fatherâs door and asked him to his face if he had ever raped his children, as though he would ever tell the truth, as though his mouth had not already done worse than lie. . i never saw that therapist again because running has always been easier than facing whatâs in front of me. . in my philosophy class, i shared this intimate detail of how my body had become a crime scene, and one man dared to ask if this is what made me gay. . i am forced to listen to every boy iâve ever known make jokes about assault, using terms like âprison bitchâ or 'rape whistle,â like these things are something to be openly mocked, like i do not think about the moment my father forced his hand down my pants every single day of my life. i am forced to play audience to every Nice Guy turning my trauma into slapstick, and i feel him still, sandpaper beard against my thigh, and i am very small and very cold and there is nothing i can do. . a girlfriend once tried to go down on me, and i froze like a frightened animal and began to cry. . when i told yet another therapist what an unnamed man had done to my body, she asked me why i never went to the police. . how do you fight back, when the same man who violated you is the same man that tied your shoes? when he is the man that buckled you into your car seat and did all of the voices for The Little Mermaid when you could not find your tape? . how do you fight back, when society tells you to step forward in the same breath it hands you the blame?
fighting back // maddie c.
here, locked in my heart, old memories i once forgot. an open field, a bruised up boy with bruise-like eyes; the flesh would heal, but underneath, the fire died. . those days, they once were gone, all left behind like ones i've loved. a monster boy, who grew into a monster man; a broken toy whose life means nothing in the end. . you say i'm human too, but you see only what i let you see. i was born with masks i can't remove, not for you and not for me. . so here, locked in my heart, a box of things i take apart: . a futile dream to save the ones i lost to time, to wish instead their deaths were mine.
a locked heart // maddie c.