sw33t-moo

[sw33t-moo]

From Joel L. Daniels’ book, God Wears Durags, Too, available at https://bottlecap.press/products/god-wears-durags-too-and-other-affirmations-from-my-twitter-feed-by-joel-l-daniels

[sw33t-moo]

This is quite literally how I’m feeling these days

people on social media platforms speak about healing so lightly… while i feel like it will take me a lifetime to unburden myself of all of this shame

[sw33t-moo]

What do you do when you start to hate yourself again?

Asking for a friend…

[sw33t-moo]

I feel like I’m perpetually stuck between the idea that productivity culture makes people into robots, and the feeling of hating myself for being such a sloth.

I don’t mean to be unproductive; I just don’t know how to will my arms to move, my legs to walk, my lungs even to expand to allow the oxygen to flow throughout my body.

I know I get on people’s nerves. They think I’m too lazy, too afraid of everything, too unproductive, too childish- I wish I could flip the switch in my brain to want these things for myself.

Oh, to have the power of shape shifting;

I’d choose to be a cat. Cats aren’t necessarily lazy; they’re just immune to that aforementioned “productivity culture”. Why expend the energy on a menial task when you can just lounge? Why force themselves to go somewhere they hate for 40 hours a week, when they can just sit on the porch, licking their cracks and crevices for hours on end, bathing in the warm sunlight.

Unfortunately, I was born a human. And I’m bad at it.

[sw33t-moo]

At first, it was torture;

Being without you, that is.

It felt like I was in this endless tunnel, pitch black as far as the eye couldn’t see. If I stretched my arms out, I could even feel the cold cement walls as I walked forward.

Forward. Forward. Endlessly forward.

But then…the end came.

Suddenly. Unexpectedly.

I was wrapped up in light, my body abandoning the cold and instantly melting.

I’d forgotten what warmth felt like until that moment.

Freedom is sweet. Freedom is delicious. Freedom is free.

I no longer ache to be embraced, kissed, or even to be told “I love you.”

No, if I never hear the words “I love you” again, I’ll be just fine.

For years, I’ve been shackled to you; the line between hostage and addict blurred into oblivion.

“You’re nobody ‘til somebody loves you,” you sing.

I remember when I believed that; I was so blind…

But now, I see.

Author’s Note:

I don’t usually do this but I just wanted to treat this poem like a bit of a diary entry. I’ve recently gotten out of a relationship with a very kind boy that showed me love and affection during a time in my life that would’ve otherwise felt like emotional torture; This poem isn’t about him.

My first relationship was a very tumultuous one: one of heartbreak, manipulation, and yes, even many good times- this poem isn’t about him either.

No, this poem is about something far bigger than any one person. This poem is about the common theme in many human beings’ lives; the idea that our self-worth is dependent upon how loved we are by others. The connection between self and external validation.

The ‘you’ in this poem isn’t a man at all; the ‘you’ is anyone who ever made us feel worthless. ‘You’ is forced relationships. ‘You’ is low-self-esteem. ‘You’ is the fear of being alone.

I’ve had this idea or desire since I was a young girl (and I’m rapidly approaching 25th year of life); the desire to be unconditionally and irrevocably loved by someone else (á la Bella Swan). I was so dependent on that idea that, over the years, I neglected to put the time into myself that I truly deserved. Rather than my years molding me into a proper woman, I molded myself to what I thought might be most attractive to those around me.

I’m only now learning how to love myself. I’ve thankfully made great strides and no longer feel the overwhelming fear of not being wanted; in fact, I’m loving the idea of just being left alone. I finally remember what it’s like to not have to think about someone else’ opinions. “Will he like me in this dress?” “I wonder if he’ll have a problem with me doing this…” “Why hasn’t he responded?”

Now, I only think of myself. What do I think? What do I feel? Do I even want to talk to anyone right now?

Needless to say, I’m nowhere near where I was at the beginning of this process- and I hope to get even further away from who that girl was, because she sure as hell wasn’t me.

[sw33t-moo]

I want a memory that’s just mine;

One that makes the corners of my mouth curl up and sends butterflies darting around in my stomach, with only the thought of that memory.

I want a memory that’s just mine;

One where I only vividly remember how I felt when I saw this or that specific thing, ate the really good stuff, smelled that really great…smell?

I want a memory that’s just mine;

One where I don’t have to turn down the radio when that one song comes up because it only reminds me of his smile or the way he held me- no, this song will only remind me of me. Of how it played in the background while I smiled and while I wrapped my arms around my own torso to shield myself from the delicious breeze blowing against my skin.

I want a memory that’s just mine;

One that is unencumbered by someone else’ frown at a minor inconvenience, and unburdened by anyone’s complaints about it being too hot or cold, to sweet or bitter, too much or too little.

I want a memory that’s just mine, and hopefully one day, I’ll have the courage to make it.

[sw33t-moo]

I don’t want a birthday this year.

Last year, I spent it in your arms; the chill of the autumn air nipping at our exposed necks- but we didn’t mind. We sat on a bench and played a card game in which the objective was to share our deepest thoughts…

I don’t want a birthday this year.

Last year, we rode the train on our way to explore the city. You paid for an overpriced Italian sandwich with fancy truffle sauce, and a fancy lemonade with that little piece of aluminum on the can- I fussed over how much you were spending on me, but you hushed me and continued chewing.

I don’t want a birthday this year.

This year, we aren’t talking as much. We’re living two parallel lives, away from each other. Every conversation is menial and seemingly obligatory. There are no more embraces, there are no more stolen kisses, there are no more giggles on a BART ride…

there are no more chilly autumn evenings spent together.

So, this year, it will be like any other day: I will not go out, I will not celebrate.

Because I don’t want a birthday this year

so, I won’t have one.

[sw33t-moo]

My therapist says I need to stop crying.

Not because it’s bad to cry, but because my tears are fake.

They’re a device I’ve used since childhood, to measure the love of those around me.

I cry to say,

“Am I worth saving?”

And if I am, I can live another day.

And if I’m not, I whither like soft pink petals left in the scorch of the summer sun.

So, I must hide my petals for now, so as not to alert others

of my inability to save myself.

[sw33t-moo]

I want to disappear.

Not in like a “kill myself” kinda way, but in a “pause my existence” way.

A way where I can go far away and no one will miss me- but not in a “good riddance” kind of way; I mean a “can’t miss what never existed” way.

I want to disappear.

I don’t want to hurt myself, and I definitely don’t want to hurt my parents.

I just want to be able to put myself away in a box and tape it shut from the inside,

And if I want to come out, I do. And if I don’t, I won’t.

That’s what I mean when I say,

I just want to disappear.

[sw33t-moo]

She rolls onto her side, rapidly blinking away the tears as she stifles a sob that’s been threatening to escape from her for the past few minutes. Her vision becomes blurry but she’s so focused on not making even a single sound-

But she wants to scream, dammit. Her lungs heave in an effort to regulate her breathing but she feels like she’ll burst into hyperventilation at any moment.

He’s right next to her, snoring soundly away- blissfully oblivious to the way she’s practically dissolving into their shared bed.

So much can happen under one’s own nose…

[sw33t-moo]

I miss the rain.

I miss walking home after school, getting drenched from head to toe, strands of my hair clumped together and dangling on the sides of my face

as I walk into the comforting warmth of my house.

I miss the relief of arriving at the safe zone; no matter how much it rained outside, I could watch it all rage from inside.

I’ve yet to feel that comfort in years.

It feels like I’ve been stepping onto foreign porches, ringing bells and being turned away at the door- no one to receive me at the end of that long, rainy day…

What I wouldn’t give to have that again.

[sw33t-moo]

Perhaps some imagine rage to be the color red; maybe they imagine boiling blood, fire- a bull, charging at the man who taunts him.

I imagine an ocean; a wave rising 50ft in the air, threatening to exterminate anyone in its path. I imagine how the water overwhelms the sliver of beach, and yet still wants to stretch out into the road.

It takes rocks, cars, mountains- It leaves nothing in its wake.

Rage isn’t always externally destructive; you could unknowingly look at a rage-filled person and think they’re the most easygoing human beings on the planet

And all the while, the internal ocean hungers to devour more.

[sw33t-moo]

𝒟𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽 𝑜𝒻 𝒶 𝒬𝓊𝒾𝓇𝓀𝓎 𝒢𝒾𝓇𝓁

Her long black hair falls delicately at the sides of her face, perfectly parted in the middle to frame her sharp features: pointed chin, large brown eyes, pretty smile-

Not a stitch of makeup on her- not a stitch is needed. She’s not like other girls.

She’s quite photogenic isn’t she?

You seem to think so- judging from the hundreds of perfectly captured moments of the both of you together; your smile plastered through various parts of her camera roll- you even grace her stories from time to time.

She was always a looming presence for me; inescapable and daunting.

It was like being a daisy freezing to death in the shade of a sun flower.

Eventually of course, you regretted your decision; when her yellow no longer amused you and her tea kettle laugh reverberated against the corners of your ears more akin to the sound of nails on a chalk board.

And now, you search frantically for the daisy you’d forgotten all about; the one you let be swallowed up by the chill of her shade.

What happened? You were once like a stubborn child holding a big bright balloon; the string wound tightly around your fist  no matter how many times I warned you that it was slowly cutting off our circulation… At times, I wonder if she knows. I wonder if she sees the emptiness in your smile, and when she meets your eyes I wonder if she sees them searching far beyond the distance that her petals can reach

the same way they searched when you stared at your daisy.

I guess even your sunflower couldn’t drive away the loneliness, could she?

If only she’d known this  before she’d even tried… then maybe, just maybe we’d have avoided the death of a quirky girl.

[sw33t-moo]

All Time Low

Rain taps against the window softly, and yet so violently. My lips are dry and cracked, my eyes crusted together with the thick, black makeup I’d applied only a few hours ago.

I can hear my stomach practically screaming at me  to fill it with something- ANYTHING- to take away the hunger pains but I can’t bring myself to move. I can barely bring myself to even breathe.

The cotton mouth has me sloshing my tongue around trying desperately to preserve whatever moisture I have left; I know I should get up to get a drink of water but I’m only now starting to appreciate my body’s inability to produce anymore tears…