Empowered Wallflower

(written in college) *content warning mention of sexual assault

The last drunken voicemail

reaches far past the

time you sat next to me

as I was hiding in the corner of a bus

Praying you would be civil

like I was trying so hard to do

when all I  wanted to do was scream  

your smirk made me think of

the final words you left for me to

replay over and over until

I could not listen to them

again.  

Why did I feel like I had

to put on an act for

the fence of bodies around us

when all I had to do was

let go of whatever words I had ready and

expose your scales in the fluorescent aura of spring’s daylight.

Against a harsh canvas of melting snow and dirt.

Your last words nicely

chipped my porcelain dream

and I knew then I should

have run away when

I first rested my reproachful eyes on you.

How do I repent the time and

lies I threw away trying to

convince myself that I loved

you?

I knew, I knew

when I saw the picture

of you at age 5

on the fridge in

your family’s home-

I mourned the loss of innocence

that I saw in childhood’s unrecognizable smile.

I wanted to cry like I did kneeling

in the pew of my grandfather’s funeral

Like something I found so precious

had died.

I should have never put up

with all those wasted nights

when you were so reckless.

I should have run away from you

and the pain and

my  useless meditations

trying to pretend  

I was anywhere else

Than underneath you.

But it came down to you

or my sanity.

And then you imploded into

a pile of bottles and people

which you played with like toys-

trying to give you some sense

of entertainment and power.

I never want to see you again.

I dread the day we both graduate

and I may catch you in a cap and gown.

I think it is despicable that you

might pass as respectable

in a suit and tie

A devil in sheep’s clothing.

“You think you control this shit? I control this shit.”  

You laughed hysterically

a day and a few hours from sober into

your phone

Echoes to this day

that is the only way that you know how to

unfold the twisted and scalding chains of hate inside you.

That you liked to wrap

around me and

anyone else you could

nothing but proof

of your fragile strength to the world

when I was so obedient

and loyal, so expendable.

I delete this message.

I deleted it.

But you are branded into

my memory.

My predator

I have never had such a

close call with a soul like you before.

I’m no Catholic like I was raised to be

but I believe in evil.

Let’s be substantial.

Wake up as the operation begins. I want to feel the tantalizing colors of a matchstick’s flame. Painfully hot- yet swaying in motion after a burst of light for however long it can sustain itself. 

(a trip with some friends) 

By Laura Dowd

A technicolor wash of gray November sky

And remaining, hanging foliage.

Golden carpet of papery decay underfoot,

softening a black wash of pavement

Sitting aside each other silently

Wind poured through thin jackets,

And seemed to freeze the blood in our cheeks,

Muting the sounds of cars accelerating, sirens shouting

Beyond the city park’s reach

Three young women

Remembering each other as the girls they used to be

Free of scar tissue and cigarette smoke,

Before shoulders stooped deliberately  

All aching subsided

Polished away under a piercing amber breeze

And I leaned against the bench to indulge in imagining

this moment, together, was lasting infinitely 

But before long, our bodies protested against evening’s chill

we had to move them along

And our thoughts turned separate once more,

(written several years ago on reflection of ED treatment)

A diagnosis scratched hurriedly on a sheet, two words, .

Draped bows to cover an entrance wound .

Validate my existence.

I could not stand being intolerable.

Watched my brain unfurl

into a scorched sheet, disintegrating into ashes,

while my body decided it would be a martyr

for an unholy cause

A hidden maze of rehabilitation centers.

Carousels for the behaviorally-damned.

An intimate family of strangers

rejected and filed into a room

while still fervently looking for somewhere to hide

settling for the inanimate comfort of corners and folds of fabric

Hoping to pacify the collective sting of a rawness, exposure under fluorescent lights. 

A mother who purges uncontrolled feeds, with cardiac arrest at an unseasonable age.

Like someone was sitting on my chest I heard my second day. 

Ridiculous misplaced rage.

Such ideas only comes from laying eyes on runway models people say.

Caused by the stupidity of a technology-infused, selfish and visceral generation. 

Yet we are not mindless sheeps following the blur of media streams.

But there is so much to lose to the flames of a wild fixation.

Real danger can not be read from bodies

as easily as the glossy paper and small words in magazines

We know what’s really on the pages between our covers, despite seeing the world through fractured lenses. 

Superficial perceptions, while internal physical mechanisms wreck havoc universally. All bodies. Different experiences.

I think addiction is a stack of contradictions

that always tips over.

Seeded in the mind, germinating under atmospheric pressure.

Blue is the mood we are all trapped in.

And the color of hospital tiles you look at when you want to pretend you are somewhere else. The cloudy eyes of a few close ones, anguished over drawn-out suicides

Red is what we see.

The color of raw skin on the back of your ankles when you have been racing down side-streets, pounding the cracked roads

Unable to just be

because that was not enough to get through the day but then

weakened shins shattered, a web of fractures. 

A danger in a false sense of productivity

Black is the ink of the social worker’s pen, poised and judging. The color of mourning and loss for your individuality, rationality, and maybe more. 

Most of the battles are waged in our skulls, hidden under the armor of bone. The chills, palpitations, and stomach pains have bypassed squadrons of defeated foot soldiers.

Proof of an invisible war

which gave me a relief sweeter than any high I have experienced.

Time is everything and nothing.

A number and reality

A fictional scraping of neat Roman numeral lines

Day by day on a cell wall

Time is everything

A literal scraping of neat Roman numeral lines

Day by day on a cell wall.

Time is nothing

The days we spent together

The years we’ve been alone

The length of our favorite album playing in the background

But taking up the foreground

Of moments of a million thoughts and none at all.

Time is everything and nothing.

“Life goes by in a flash” the 67 year old man toothlessly grimaces at the train conductor.  

“So you have to live it up - you’re as old as you act.” I smile at the new ink poking out from her sleeve and the crows feet around her clear eyes

As we rattled forward predictably.

Timing is everything

Who enters and leaves the dark hallways of your life

Timing is nothing

Who enters and leaves the dark hallways of your life

This time, I hope you waste nothing with me.

It will be everything.