Fires Don't Apologise

Yes I am jealous.

I am jealous of the wind

For see how gently it brushes past your skin

I am jealous of those sheets

You lay on

I want to feel just as fluid under your weight

That scent you so carelessly leave in that jacket

I swear I would kill for it

I am jealous of the way

that shirt clings to your body

While my arms remain empty

And I am jealous of this moon,

Even with all this distance,

there he is constantly watching you

while all I do is

Talk to the stars about you in whispers.

“he’s only doing it to get a rise out of you.”

a rise, here meaning a reaction, here meaning, don’t make a scene, it lets him win, here meaning make no retaliation, let him keep playing, sit there and force every howl you feel building in yourself down into a whimper, wipe your nose and limp back home

at sixteen i was already familiar with this concept of sinking, of submission by point of silence, where i would weigh in one hand my safety and in the other hand, burning, the sheer rage i chewed on every time a boy whispered things that belonged only inside a bedroom

“he’s only doing this to get a rise out of you,” here meaning, a boy can’t be a bully, here meaning flirting looks like abuse, here meaning - let him run his wild hands all over you,  do not cower, it will only lead him on, do not fight back, that’s  slutty too

at twenty i was a raging feminist asshole, couldn’t just make friends, couldn’t just slink in and out of parties, would start fights with frat boys about shit they should know but turn their cheeks from, would be kicked out and snapchatted and called crazy because  i asked them to their faces if you knew what he did  why didn’t you say anything and while i watched these same people cross stages at graduation flip me off and then keep going

i was reminded to be the feminine emotional mess aka no emotions at any point, ever showing, for fear  they might be conceived of as inappropriate “he’s just doing this to get a rise out of you”  because he knows you won’t cry without being told you’re overemotional and you won’t yell because ladies aren’t loud and you  won’ speak out because then you lose in both ways, don’t you; he won when he hurt you and you, stupid girl, you lost when you actually felt it

at twenty five i am exhausted, can’t see the light, am sipping  on the drink i don’t want at a house party that’s too pretentious  listening to white boys debate things they’ll never be a part of  and the trial comes up because it’s gotta - and you know how it goes because you’ve been here before, the sliding in of a devil’s advocate, that sleek smile, that bitter on their lips, that victorious well i think he’s innocent, boy as heroic, like we asked for it, like we  deserve this, like he’s blessing us with a wisdom we had somehow missed, like we should be thanking him, like - oh, everybody, move over and let this man say things we’ve all heard before;

later, my panic attack is subsiding. i think it was his comment,  “if she was drunk, she should have seen it coming,” but i can’t  pinpoint it. things like this happen to me now. sometimes it is like dew, sometimes it is flood. i am shaking on the floor of a bathroom. my friend is petting my hair. we are gently talking around a subject.  one of his friends peeks into the room. passes me a warm cider. assures me, “he’s just doing it to get a rise out of you.”

i am twenty and he puts his hands on me. i am sixteen and he puts his hands on me. i am six and he puts his hands on me. my knee is torn open. 

BOOKS READ IN 2018: the importance of being earnest by oscar wilde

There is a saying, sweet prince, if I may be so bold.

It involves angels and demons tight in revels around you, heads of pins and teardrops on suede. Shoulders that bear worlds.

There is a saying, and it has nothing to do with fear and who walks which floor.

Treasure, this time I don’t know who has a right to speak here, or where my own voice has gone.

Terrible things were said. Things more steel than stone, more petrified than sticks.

Things that lost track of the deception in moving shadows. Things that hurt. You. And also

all of these souls pierced through, these bodies swayed by strings you always play like percussion. Thudding in anticipation. Easing a back-bend over a piano.

You have not stolen, but broken in. Not beaten, but crushed.

I wish there was heart in it. For you. I wish it for all of us.

In the end, you are not winged. You are still spoiled for choice. Ophelia does not dive here.

They say that wounds heal time.