a chaotic mess of gorgeous emotion...

I missed two days, though for me “days” are relative, because I sometimes stay up for 24+ hours and sleep a lot, which blurs the lines and makes it difficult to keep track of “days”.

Today’s prompt was “Clouds”. If you decide to write a poem today, send it to me. I’d love to read it.

thoughts in the sky my brain contains thoughts like the sky does clouds some days there’s one immeasurable layer stretching from edge to edge stagnant, strong, blocking out everything else nimbostratus other days wispy and fleeting taking no real shape floating away, dissolving to nothingness before you can grasp it cirrus

often an overwhelming multitude scattered across my mind patchy and disconnected yet difficult to distinguish from one another stratocumulus the sky, however, is unfazed clouds coming and going it remaining the same and for that i envy it

I'm going to try and write a poem every day based on the prompts in this book I just bought. 

Today's prompt is "Write a poem about: The Ocean". If anyone wants to join me I would love some community and accountability. This is my first time writing in a very long time. Be gentle.

Sea Glass

a poem from a victim

trigger warning r*pe, graphic language

Since that was sufficiently depressing, I'll just jump into what I've been thinking about.

I am an extremely sexual being. I know this sounds really random, but I'll give some context I swear. Right now I'm a senior in college and am starting to write my Senior Thesis. My friends and I have always joked that if I am given free reign when writing a paper (aka no prompt) I will always find a way to write about sex. My friends are not far off, and appropriately for my thesis I will be writing about sex and desire's negative impact on Stanley from A Streetcar Named Desire. But this is not what I'm claiming makes me a sexual being, it is rather a small facet of my obsession with sex.

I am constantly thinking about sex. Whether that be a day dream, logistics of certain sexual acts, looking at every guy that walks past me like a piece of meat, relating 99% of what is said to something sexual, or just being desperate to get laid. I am fairly certain that this insane fascination with sex is currently due to the unfortunate dry spell I'm experiencing (7 months and counting thanks to that breakup I wrote about most recently).

Anyhow, aside from the raging hormones that are currently making it hard to focus on anything else, I am finding that I cannot define how I identify in terms of sexuality. I know this is tumblr and as a somewhat active user I am supposed to have infinite and perfect knowledge of all things relating to sexual and gender identity and such, but I do not. In the meantime, I am most definitely 100% totally into males (as a female myself). Of that much I am certain. On the other hand though, there are certain women that I see and think "damn. I would definitely fuck that girl." For example, Blair Waldorf. That woman (though fictional) is my motherfucking kryptonite. I simultaneously want to be her and make sweet love to her. I usually define this phenomenon based on Jenna Marbles's Girl Crushes video, because it's hysterical and it made me a lot more comfortable with the way I was feeling. However, if I were to fully describe the level of this to your average 20 something year old peer they would probably tell me to get over myself and accept that I'm bisexual. I personally don't feel like bisexual is the proper word for myself. Typically I can find men of all kinds attractive and totally fuck-able without actually knowing anything about them aside from what they look like. I rarely feel that way about women. For me, my sexual attraction towards women comes with a serious melding of looks and personality. If a woman is not physically attractive, I will never be attracted to them, but that alone is not enough. They have to have an air of confidence, an attitude, or just a general overall quality that I admire. Then, with that beautiful combo, I will look at a lady and be like DAMN GIRL. Get in my bed. Now.

I have tried to write this letter at least ten times now. Each time something interrupts me, or my words do not cooperate. Even now, my roommate has interrupted me multiple times for help writing a paper for our British Lit class. Interruptions are not as upsetting though as the inability to put my thoughts and feelings into words. So I preface the rest of this letter with an apology for any moments when my words seem ungenuine, are littered with clichés, or are choked by generalizations.

There was a thunderstorm tonight. Two bright flashes of lightning and loud crashing thunder and it was over. I am not as big a fan of metaphor as you are, but this notion of something so striking, startling even, and beautiful, but unexpectedly short lived too accurately compared to one of my most recent relationships.

We started dating a few weeks before classes ended last year. Getting him to agree to a romantic relationship with me was a struggle. In hindsight, that probably should have been a sign that it wouldn’t work. That and him specifically telling me he didn’t want it and that it wouldn’t work. I was stubborn though. I persistently insisted that there was something more there. I knew, or at least I thought I knew, that if he gave me a chance, things would be great. How could they not be? He was my best friend, and everyone always says that if your significant other is your best friend, the relationship will be perfect. They of course leave out the part where you need physical and romantic attraction on both sides.

Looking back on this is really difficult. There’s nothing I can do to change what happened, but my stomach still churns when I think about it. I frequently play it back in my head and critique every word I said. That’s a perk of my anxiety. If a social situation goes poorly, my brain dissects it for weeks, months, even years. Sometimes it will have moved onto something entirely different, and someone or something will bring up the memory of the event, and it becomes the subject of my obsession until it again eases its way out. Sometimes even situations that went well receive this sort of attention, but my brain usually lets them rest sooner than the more unfortunate interactions.

One of my brain’s favorite ways of critiquing this particular situation is alerting me to the fact that I begged for him to give in. I pushed and pushed until he likely became entirely fed up with my pleading and said, “Ok. We’ll try this.” He said, “No expectations though. No labels. Just live in the moment and see what happens.” We were in his room. He lived in a hotel room at the Best Western at the time. The room was much bigger than the residence hall rooms I was so used to. The bed was bigger too. I was sprawled out on it, making myself comfortable as usual. I had books and notebooks out to work on my homework, but I wasn’t doing any of it. The Lion King was playing on his huge computer monitor. I was on suicide watch and we both knew it, but avoided mentioning it. I had told him earlier that I had been thinking a lot about it, and he said he wouldn’t let me be alone then. So he took me back to his room, and we watched the Lion King.

At the end of the movie he finally agreed. There was a lot more to it than I’ve described, but I’ll just say that those extra details would have further proven that I should have just let things be and stopped pressing.

I stayed in his room that night. It was slightly awkward since we had never been physical even in a friendly way. He wasn’t even comfortable with my leg getting too close to his in class accidentally. We would pass notes back and forth throughout our two night classes, but the second I got too close he’d pull away. So while the typical behavior when sleeping in the same bed as your boyfriend or girlfriend would be cuddling, we refrained from doing so. He mentioned it sarcastically since he could tell I was slightly disappointed. He said “Oh, did you want to cuddle?” His tone was teasing and sarcastic.

“No. Not if you’re going to make it all awkward like that.” So we both dropped it and curled up facing opposite directions, on opposite sides of the full size bed, clutching opposite edges of the worn out green comforter.

I awoke to the sun peaking in his window; the clock read 6am. He too was awake. “Come here,” I heard him groggily mumble. I wriggled closer to him and allowed him to wrap his arms around me and pull me against his chest.

For months I carefully avoided his touch, knowing he did not want it. After a while it felt as if an energy had built up between us. The more I closed the gap, the stronger I could feel the electricity. That sounds horrendously clichéd, but it is truly the only way I can describe it. Eventually, I didn’t need to see him getting close to know, and then I would adjust my body accordingly to avoid any accidental contact.

Now that we were touching at every point, my body felt like it was on fire. I thought the current between us had been tension and electricity. I thought it had been a warning to stay back, but it was merely a glimpse of what being close to him really felt like. It still could have been a warning, but it was one I was happy to ignore. We had a connection, that much was clear. Whether that meant the same thing for him as it did for me is an entirely different story.

Anyway, we had our honeymoon phase as all couples do. We spent all of our time together for a week. Eventually it was time for me to head home, and it was hard for both of us, though I realize now that we had different reasons to struggle with the distance. I was sad that I wouldn’t be able to see him for a while. He was sad that he was again alone. Had there been another person to fill the void, he would have been fine, whereas for me it had to be him. This sounds bad, but we must keep in mind that he never wanted this in the first place. He was trying. For me.

We visited each other a few times over the summer. I got to meet his family and his dog. He got to meet my family and my cat. Things weren’t perfect, and I knew he was struggling to continue humoring my notion that we could make this work.

To make what has become much longer of a story than I intended slightly shorter, we broke up just before school started. While things weren’t easy over the summer, with a two hour drive separating us and both of us working jobs with very different schedules, I was still very happy with him. To use another cliché, he made me a better person. Not only did he make me better, but he made me feel as if I could achieve any goal I set, and I knew that he would help me whenever the journey got hard.

The break up hurt. Seeing him every day in classes, at extra curriculars, and even at work hurt even more. When I’m hurt I lash out. I do not think at all before saying or doing things that could hurt someone. So for a couple of months after the break up I was a complete and total ass. Every time I did something mean my brain kicked back on shortly after, and I would be knocked on my ass by a solid brick wall of guilt. Sometimes I’d suck up my pride and apologize. Sometimes I’d pretend it never happened like a coward. But every single time I felt awful afterwards. I am well aware that this doesn’t make it any better. It doesn’t justify what I did. But it does explain it.

So my intentions were never to hurt him. If I could, I would take back each hurtful thing I did. I tried, in between the rudeness, to be kind. I tried to make up for what I had done. It probably did not come off that way. I’m not even sure if this letter is really getting at what I wanted to, but I’m going to continue trying.

Throughout the year his relationship to me has fluctuated. Sometimes we’ve been friends, sometimes not. Right now, not. He called me malicious on his tumblr the other day. I am not supposed to be reading it, but every so often, my fingers hit the keyboard of my laptop while a browser is open, and suddenly I’m on his page. That sounds like a cop-out, but it happens all the time. Anyhow, he called me malicious. The word didn’t hurt, but the knowledge that I had made him feel that way did. It hurt a lot.

So what I wish I could say to him is that I am sorry. I’m sorry that I never thought before acting. That he ended up caught up in my whirlwind, my chaotic mess.

I am sorry that at many points I made him feel that my actions were based in malice. I made him think that I truly wanted him to feel pain. I am sorry I made him feel horrible. I am also sorry that I never made it clear to him that all I’ve ever wanted was to be there for him, to help him through all of the bullshit, to give him everything he wanted and needed.

I am sure by now you have realized that “he” is you. So as I again find myself in the union at four in the morning, curled up in the ridiculously comfortable red chairs, I say goodbye. Please remember that I have meant every word.

  Love always,

Writing: Tomorrow's letter is the last one. I know they're not a lot. I plan to write more. But tomorrow's is the last officially written one.

It is 3:02 in the morning, and I decided to relocate. I have been feeling less than inspired to write to you as of late, but I still feel like I need to. On my walk from Oaks 2 to the student union, I wished I had worn a jacket, since it is a little cold out. It was oddly peaceful though, being out so late on a Sunday. There were very few people out, and it was simultaneously quiet and quite noisy. Birds were singing their songs in the night, and since there wasn’t the typical buzz of human activity, I could actually hear and appreciate it. I wonder if that is all I really need; just a moment where the rest of the world slows down enough to notice and appreciate my song.

Last I wrote I told you about the time my parents finally called it quits. My mom ended up with custody and the Sunday/Thursday visitation continued to be my time with my dad. Sometimes if there were holidays or family parties I got to see my dad a little extra, but most often it was once a week.

I must have been eight when my dad took me on one of our visitation days for dinner at Frannie’s hot dog stand in some Northwest suburb of Chicago. I can’t remember exactly which town it was in since at that age when my dad decided to go a couple towns over for a good beef sandwich, it was unlikely that I questioned where we were going.

The building looked like it was probably once someone’s house, and it may have been. It had a big wooden porch on the front of it with tables and big umbrellas. My dad and I went inside, and he ordered a beef, fries, and a large coke. I asked him to order a hot dog, fries, and a small coke for me. It was nice out, so my dad opted for sitting outside on the deck. I used to love eating outside. I really hate it nowadays though. Bugs crawl way too close to your food, at least one napkin is bound to get blown away and make you feel as if you’re killing the environment, and whether it is warm or cold out, my body refuses to regulate to a comfortable temperature. As I’ve grown up, I suppose I’ve just become too high maintenance for outdoor eating. Anyway, my dad and I sat at the table eating our hot dogs and beef. Being eight, a girl, and me, I babbled on and on while my dad listened attentively to all of the things going on in my eight-year-old life.

I had only had one bite of my hotdog and one french fry since my mouth was otherwise occupied with my constant chatter, when my dad took one of my few pauses as an opportunity to change the conversation’s path.

“Pumpkin, I have something I need to tell you,” he said.

With an oversized bite of my hot dog in my mouth, I shifted my brown eyes up to him and looked expectantly, unable to speak with my mouth so full. Mind you, manners were not holding me back, but rather the physical inability of my tiny mouth to hold that much food and still talk.

“Lately I have been spending a lot of time with someone from work. Do you remember Cindy from when you visited me?” he asked. I shook my head. All I remembered from visiting him at work with Nonna was getting to spend extra time with daddy that week (plus I got yummy dessert).

“Well Cindy is very nice, and she has a daughter only a year older than you.” My dad was uncomfortable. I was too young to see where this was going, but I could feel the tension, and it made my stomach flip. I felt queasy, and I wasn’t sure why.

He continued, “And Cindy and I, well we are… She’s my girlfriend.”

My heart sank and my stomach was even queasier. I responded with a short “Ok,” but I had nothing else to say. For the first and last time in my life I lost my appetite and left all but two bites of my dinner to be thrown away.

My parents had separated countless times. I knew that this time was a little more serious since they were actually getting a divorce, but I never expected this. My dad had never brought another girl up. I didn’t even realize he had a spare moment for dating. In my mind my dad had one night a week off of work, and it was spent with me. The thought that I had only this one day with my dad and some other bit of his free time was being spent with a woman who was not my mother was infuriating.

My chatting stopped. Suddenly I had nothing to say.

I don’t remember much else from that day. I’m sure I put a smile on my face until my dad took me home, but I don’t know.

A few weeks later my dad wanted me to meet Cindy and her daughter, Amanda.

Cindy was tall with long, stick-straight dark hair. Her nose was slightly too prominent for the rest of her features and made her a whole lot less attractive than if it had been smaller. I realized right away that she was too young for my dad. I found out later that she was 29 and my father was 39. Even then I knew 10 years was a big difference.

Her daughter Amanda was slightly taller than I was and, like me, overweight. Her hair was brown too, but not so straight. She had two facial expressions: pissed and plotting.

The day I met them we went to Woodfield Mall in Schaumburg and took a trip to the Build-a-Bear Workshop. I don’t know if this is the first attempt my dad made to buy my love and happiness, but this is one of the first times I remember.

When we walked in I tried my best to ignore the two new females who I wanted absolutely nothing to do with. I had my sights set on the spotted fur of a limp casing for a Dalmatian stuffed animal. I was excited. Build-a-Bear Workshop was my favorite, regardless of the company I was with. Hell. I am 22 years old, and if you said we were going to Build-a-Bear I would still get excited.

So we went in and I got started. I stuffed my dog with fluff, kissed both sides of a plush satin heart and stuffed it in the chest cavity, sewed up the gaping hole, “washed” away any excess fluff at the bathing station, and named my new favorite stuffie. I am surprised to realize that I have forgotten the name I chose. It was probably Spot thought, since I have never been creative with naming my stuffies.

You can tell dad really wanted this meeting to be a positive experience, because he even let me buy a whole outfit for my new puppy.

Amanda spent the entire time whining and demanding more. If Cindy said the word no, Amanda whined. If Amanda whined, Cindy said yes. Cindy smiled the whole time, but even then I could see it was fake. So the stuffed animal may have been everything I wanted, but I knew that Cindy and Amanda were two people I never wanted in my life.

I don’t remember if I told that to my dad in the car that night. I vaguely remember crying about it to him, but I could be mixing this memory with another. There were many more uncomfortable outings like this one. They never got easier.

A short while later, my dad took me to my Grandma’s apartment after my elementary school’s Christmas sing. I was sitting on the gold shag carpet of Nonna’s living room, playing with the crystal bowl of ancient candies that sat on the bottom ledge of her coffee table. I was told countless times not to play with the bowl since it was fragile, and my parents were convinced that at some point I would remove and replace the lid too many times and it would shatter.

Nonna was in the kitchen, cleaning as usual. My dad asked me to come into the back room with him. This day the room was being used as an office, but it had many uses throughout my childhood: game room, second bedroom, dad’s bedroom, Christmas cookie cooling room. It was set up as an office this time, but dad was using it as a private room for an important discussion. In my memory the room was completely dark. This doesn’t make much sense though, since my dad surely would have turned on the lights for this.

My dad sat in one of the beige, metal folding chairs next to the speckled beige card table. He lifted me up with ease and sat me on his knee.

“So pumpkin, there’s something I need to tell you. Cindy and I have been seeing each other for a while now, and we’ve decided to get married.”

I jumped off of my dad’s lap and ran to the living room to crash into Nonna’s embrace. My eyes stung with tears and my grandmother pulled me into her massive bosom, as if she knew ahead of time I would not take this news well and was waiting for this exact reaction. My dad tried to soothe me, but I was not listening.

Eventually I calmed down enough to think of a bright side. “At least I’ll get to be a bridesmaid,” I said with a glimmer of happiness in my voice.

My dad’s face fell. “Well actually, honey, Cindy and I are eloping in Las Vegas.”

I didn’t know what eloping meant, but I was pretty sure “Las Vegas” meant I wasn’t coming. I began bawling again and at that point there was no stopping the tears.

My parents tell me that I found out about the engagement on a different day than my dad told me I wouldn’t be at the wedding, but somehow my memory has lumped the two anyway.

From then on, I had your classic evil stepmother and stepsister situation. My relationship with my dad suddenly began to shift until Cindy became a middle man. Thoughtful birthday and Christmas presents from my dad turned into presents from “the two of them” (aka Cindy) which were just duplicates of the girly bullshit she had bought for Amanda.

I spent years receiving makeup and hair products which I had no interest in using, and hearing how much prettier I’d be if I learned to use them properly.

Eventually, it wasn’t just an effort to get me interested in beauty products. One day, when I was at my dad and Cindy’s apartment, I grabbed my dad’s two-liter of Coke from the fridge and poured myself a glass.

Cindy walked in the kitchen, gasped, and said disgustedly, “Oh honey. You’d be much better off drinking the Diet in there. You really can’t be gaining anymore weight.”

She grabbed my glass and poured it out in the sink. She poured me a fresh glass of diet and walked out.

I have been drinking Diet Coke since that day. I am addicted to the crap. It’s probably causing me cancer.

Anyway, I’ve been writing for two hours now. This is definitely the longest letter yet. The student union is dead. It’s silent aside from the TVs which are on 24-7. The lights just went out in my section. I don’t know if they are on a motion sensor or a timer, but this is quite an inconvenience.

I suppose I’ll take that as a sign to wrap this up. My hand is cramping up and I need to get ready for class anyway. Til next time.

  Love always,