Platform for Unique Shit

Soft spoken words,

Lazy cuddles on the sofa,

Picking apart each other’s brains,

Openly bleeding hearts,

Stalled highways of emotions,

The bell that disrupts class; the mundane of the repetitive motion of life’s routine.

Respect for nature, and the naturalness of humanity,

Hanging on to every word, and asking for more,

Mindfulness,

Clarity of deep soul-catching moments of eye gazing,

Water to rescue the burning forest

Of anger and rage,

And to gently take me away,

To a different place,

Primal lust,

And gentle touch,

Brown of earth,

To draw me in,

Swallow me whole,

Not within selfishness,

In warmth,

In love,

In serenity,

In chaos,

In calm,

In all things life guides me through,

Loyalty,

Trust,

To each other’s humanity

And to each other’s

Lukewarm, it’s how the worst is described.

When there is no hot or cold,

No definite,

It allows for free will,

A choice of hot or cold or to stay within lukewarm.

I find myself red faced,

Tears snailing out of my eyes, and down my cheeks,

Not knowing why, nor the reason, just that

My heart hurts.

I have ideas of why, but not solid proof,

My body feels sad,

And I’m not sure if I made it sad,

Or if I brought it sadness.

If I made a choice that eliminated happiness,

Shortened it.

Where have you gone?

My friend,

I’m curious,

Have my choices pushed you from me?

In my search for happiness,

Have you thought that the presence in my life

Fell short of what was needed

To preserve happiness

Within our own

Separate

I know I am only human.

I know I am not worth more than anyone else.

But I feel that I am still not understood.

As if my creator could only sympathize with my internal and external struggles of thought.

It isn’t a meaning to be found,

But a feeling to be felt.

A constant battle in my mind for the correct choice of good and evil.

To know what love is.

Will I ever know?

My mind grasps at a certainty only based on memories I currently have in my head.

It loosens its grip on the months before-

As if they have no longer happened.

How can I love if I can’t remember it’s depth?

How can I feel life if in old age I have nothing left?

But the touch of your hand on my worn face?

But the warmth of another human who has felt the struggles I have?

To be in solidarity in the life not chose but the life continued to choose.

Is that what love is?

To stand with someone as if you were standing alone.

To outstretch your arm and offer eternal loyalty as you would want?

A pact one makes to understand humans are not without flaw

And that life has beaten and battered us in ways we cannot begin to explain over a coffee in a busy shop.

Everything has rules, and I’m tired of it.

Rules of love, rules of life

I want freedom

But I want security

And maybe love is finding the balance between when one is alone and when together- you piece together the person life has chipped away at.

At youth we are young but not wise

And as wisdom comes the opportunity of youth fades,

Love is all encompassing in every facet of life,

It is why God is love,

And how he is everywhere,

In him I find my perfection

And in him I have no questions

Because how can you question a God who has made everything you could ever experience,

And without him- not a thought would exist

And so I trust in him alone.

Because before I was anything he was always something.

So I trust in him.

And learn to forget.

What it is to love.

That the water we drink isn’t the same as the birds who bask in it.

That we are not connected to this world simply because we’re “smarter”.

Because we have lost the meaning of humanity, trying to find happiness in ourselves and the things we’ve done.

The beauty and meaning has always been around us.

When you find someone you love,

Everything they do you want to capture,

Because everything they do is done in beauty,

    (TW:Sexual Abuse) I’ve noticed as I’ve aged into my 20′s, my memory is quite literal shit. I usually have my boyfriend help me remember things that only happened months ago. This isn’t unusual for a trauma survivor who blocks out most of her past in a way to cope with the literal dump truck-fire of a childhood and teenhood that I had. I can, however, remember back to the old trailer I lived in as a child. It was small, but for a little squirt like me it was just enough for me to bolt around in and grow. I was... Introduced to some things early on and it stuck with me. I remember being in my parents room and sleeping next to my father while his chainsaw of a snore rung throughout my body. It was always hard sleeping with him in the room and that continued throughout my life.

    This wasn’t the only memory I had as a child living in a trailer park. I remember laying on the scratchy carpet and hearing some odd noises coming from my parents bedroom. Me, being the curious and invasive fucker I was, decided to peek under the crack of the door and investigate. This lead to me seeing a mesh of pink bodies moving to and fro and maybe that’s where this all began? I knew I saw something I probably shouldn’t have because as the 4/5 year old I was- I felt icky. Icky like the gum stuck in your hair that your mother would try to get out with all sorts of different food items but then turning to the good ol’ scissors and ultimately making you look like you crawled out of a car engine.

   Now I know what you’re thinking- mostly because I shared those paragraphs with my boyfriend and he replied, “It’s sad.” To this, I say, It wasn’t sad when I grew up. It was actually pretty normal. Shit piled up and continued to pile up as I grew older and it was just the norm. So here I am, at work, sitting on the toilet as most writers tend to do when it isn’t only shit that comes out of their ass that needs to be said- but their mind. I was a child. All of us older humans have gone through those developmental phases with little to no trauma and have flourished. I, speaking for myself here, have only started to grasp this as a 20 year old.

    I was born into a family with a history of PTSD and bad parenting engraved into their bones. Illinois was my home and in poverty we lived. I remember hearing stories about the sacrifices my parents frequently made to make sure I was taken care of to the best of their abilities. These stories would range from funny to kind of sad. I guess it runs in the family. My dad once had to sell his entire drum set for groceries. My mom would go months or years without proper clothing she needed. The fanciest clothing she would wear would be from Walmart or gifts given to her. I do not doubt their sacrifices in any way.

    The first place I can remember us living is in the trailer park in Manteno, Illinois. I had two friends who lived next door to myself. They were Taylor and Tori and their mom Bridgette was not especially fond of me. I remember accidentally leaving my pink ladybug bike in the driveway only to find it crushed beneath the bottom of her dust covered slushee-blue van. This angered my mom and I was able to see her motherly rage seep through her eyes in a beaming way. Taylor and Tori played with me like little girls usually do, and had even gifted me some of their toys when my family decided to move out of the armpit that is Ilinois.

    Pulling from the back of my memory box of age 5, in the corner where dust bunnies like to gather is solitude, there lies Michael. A firm bite from his dog had been placed on my ever-so-small rump, piercing my skin and causing what I think was a hospital visit.

    This wasn’t the only searing pain I was left with. I remember being told to go to a park where I was met with a boy who was not much older than myself. I place him as Michael. I remember my pants being pulled down and the rest is just a scene of him giving me a penny for the acts he had just performed on myself in the red tunnel slide. This wasn’t the only time this had happened. I remember being under neighbors porches and privately having my body explored. The rest is a blur. It’s so weird how easily the pure form that is a 5 year old, can be changed so dramatically. I remember going to school and taking the glittery red shoes a girl had brought to school and putting them in my backpack because I thought they were pretty. I remember knocking on the neighbors doors and asking for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I remember putting notes in two boys (I’m ambitious) backpacks and telling them I liked them.

    I was a kid and my start to this life was already pretty fucked up. In poverty, with a family hanging together by dental floss, already shown that the only thing they’ll want the most is your body, I struggled to learn what it means to be safe. I struggled to learn what it was to have a healthy family unit, to be protected, to be nurtured.

Since this account seems to be popular, and I have a need to be known by the world, I will be posting stories from my life on this page. I hope there is someone out there who would like to listen. 

I am the lipstick stains on brown napkins and spoons. I am the paint you see on the basement floor. I am the prayers written on post-it notes stuck under the stairs. I am the scattered guitar picks you find in the house. I am the wet footprints standing in front of the mirror. I am the kid who had a rather impressive booger collection on the side of my father’s seat in the car. I am messy. I am a little girl who knocks on stranger's doors and asking for peanut butter jelly sandwiches.

I am scared of the past. I am confident in the future. I am neat. I am controlling. I am unique. I am kind. I am mean. I am fashionable. I am not one thing. I am not to be labeled before I have a conversation with you. I am bossy. I am compassionate. I am classy. I am loyal. I am confusing. I am divided by what’s right and wrong. I am depressed. I am happy. I am a philosopher.

I am the tired eyes you see in the hallway. I am confident. I am shy. I am anxious. I am not calm. I am fake. I am a terrible Christian. I am a lover of God. I am a person who’s deathly afraid of disappointing people. I am afraid to ask for things. I am the only person who thinks like I do. I am lonely.

I am surrounded by amazing people. I am loved by many. I am a loud voice in a small crowd. I am annoying. I am a lover of music. I am distrait. I am a dreamer. I am too weird to live, too rare to die. I am a warm breath exhaled on a cold, windy night.