unlikelyanthology-blog

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i descend into what i believe to transcend into moments of you like dark hues under eyes i used to pour into i break into motions with men i fought on a darkened end of streets where i scoured to find signs in the night like which way to write, which way was right and i prose you in thought a slumber in deep hum a hymn to a rhythm, a tango i once fought in front of desire and passion the way you hold a lighter in echoed moments from mountains atop midnight where i eclipse my mind and transcend to find out how i used to sleep at night in dire moments with a rhythm of you as we’re slow dancing to a cause i fail to see yet hide to ignore because beauty sees and the ego hides in what it wants like melting with you holding onto past mirages of men in might in false knight armor darkened elixirs to bring desire i paint you a picture for what you want to see i breathe you into a world where i paint you to be how i’d like to see how i’d like you to be how the fog at night masked you to be in summer of thirteen

how i painted you words by dominic riccitello (via wordsbydominic)

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From Blythe Baird’s book, IF MY BODY COULD SPEAK.

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connections

connections are a strange thing, we often don't see the connections we have. its through conversations that we decode them. number the 16 has always stuck out to me, i have no idea why but it has, just felt connected to it for some strange reason.

i’ve always felt so close to is my uncle, how thats possible, I'm not too sure but i just feel such a strong connection to him. i often believe he has put people in my life to teach me lessons he would have. the words he would have spoke, i believe i have heard in my own head.

when i seek advice he is usually the first person i go to. i hear a voice in my head that is not my own, maybe that makes me crazy, maybe that makes me a normal person who grieves the loss of someone.

but back to connections, i feel one with you. its oddly frustrating because you are so confusing, you lack communication skills. yet conversation is amazing. darling why do i miss you even without knowing your heart? without knowing the way your fingertips trail down my back and through my hair?

i have had these questions answered, not by me, or you, but somebody else. maybe an all knowing god, maybe i have put that thought into my head to make me feel better. but connections with people are rare, i know that, you know that, they know that. so maybe you were placed into my life for a connection with no real meaning that i know of yet.

i might never know the way you feel against me, or the sound of your laugh. the way your smile could bring joy to my heart, which day by day is decreasing in size, maybe you wont know that this is about you.

you might read this once, twice, or even three times. this is not about me you’ll think to yourself, this is about somebody else, just like the rest of her work, right? maybe you will question things just as much i do. maybe you will also understand connections.

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promise #1

i promise to love every inch of your egoistic entity more than i love anything about me

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i would think of you and some how you would know

popping up out of nowhere, it feels as though

i am being submerged into water

you’re holding my head there, watching me fight for my own life

a life you want to destory, so just when im on my last

breath

you move your hand and walk away

i come up for a breath of air

hoping you’ll be there when i emerge from the water you put me in

why am i trying to use you as a reason to live when you given me every reason to die?

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Sunlight

Sitting by the window always brought me comfort. Staring out at the apartment buildings across from mine, their windows were bare- covered by blinds or drapes. Feeling the sunshine in on my room gave some form of light in my life. I used to get so lost in the way the beams melted into my pores, filling me with something other than rage. My mom would always tell me that if you can stare at the sun and not squint your eyes, you were strong. I was five when she told me that for the first time. Every time on the playground- I would look at the same with my eyes wide, feeling each ray pierce my pupils. I know somewhere my eyes were damaged but being able to look at the sun meant I had power, even if it was only over one thing- I still had power.

I watched my mom be powerful, she would never squint when the sun drew near her face, or even if it surrounded her in some way- she was always in control. There were times though when I watched my mom lose everything good about herself. If it wasn’t to Jack than it was to Morgan, or some other drink of her choice. She lost herself by the first glass. It amazed me how she drank so much but needed so little to get a buzz. When she lost herself in a drink, she also lost herself in some random man. To me they were no different than the alcohol that cursed through her veins.

When I was a child, she would put me in the closet. Not to punish me, but when the Boss came over, I could never be seen. She never explained why, though five-year-old me was fine playing with her Barbie doll in the closet while he was over. After he would leave, we always ordered a pizza. It was the Sunday traditions, we got to have pizza, and sometimes, if I had stayed really quiet, we would get a second topping. I was about eleven when I realized who the Boss was, and what him and my mom did while I was in the closet. I’m not sure if I had just realized in my brain, or if it had been the banging of the headboard on the wall that made me understand. This one Sunday, I watched him give mom a large stack of cash. It was then I realized my mom was whore. She slept with men for money, hell that is probably why I don’t know who my father is because she doesn’t even know.

Jim was mom’s on and off again boyfriend, he started coming around when I was thirteen. He always telling my mom how I should get a job and start helping around the place. I wasn’t too sure how to explain to him that I was too young because I don’t think his pea sized brain would be able to understand what I was talking about. See, Jim never finished high school, he dropped out in freshman year. He told me a story about how he knew my mom back in high school, and that one day he knew he would be with her. He said he knew my dad too, mom hit him for that one. She told him to ‘shut his mouth, and sweetie he is just pulling your tail, he ain’t know your daddy’. I knew she was lying because her upper lip twitched a bit, and she got a line of sweat in between her brows. I shrugged them off before I went to my room.

I think my daddy was a smart man, because I know I didn’t get my brains from my mom. She was never a smart one, I always had to help her with our budget because when the Boss didn’t come for a few weeks, we ran low on cash and she barely had food to feed me. So, I know my daddy must be a smart man, he must be handsome too. My mom comes in my room when she thinks I’m asleep sometimes, to talk to me about him. She could never say it to my face when I’m awake because I would have too many questions, she says. My daddy has bright green eyes, just like me, and curly hair that used to be long like mine. She told me how they met in high school, right in freshman year. They fell in love, and they had me. But my daddy’s parents were rich, and they didn’t like how my mom wasn’t. The basic storyline, my mom was poor, my dad was rich, and they couldn’t be together. She says she can still see the smile when my dad first held me, “you are my little angel,” he whispered.

I would think about the things my mom would tell me when Jim came into my room hours later. His large hand would cover my mouth. He was so smart, putting a blanket between the headboard and the wall so mom would never wake up. He told me I was his perfect daughter. But I wasn’t a daughter, not to him. He was nothing to me. He reminded me of the useless organs in my body, they were there but I didn’t need or want them in me. It got so bad that I faked having a cold sore so he wouldn’t come into my room anymore. Jim isn’t as stupid as I make him out to be, he soon picked up on my little game.

It didn’t matter what I did or said, every night he would come into my room and strip me of my innocence. There wasn’t much I could do. As I got older, I tried to fight him off, it was never any use because he was buff, and he had his way of getting me to give in. It always involved threatening my mom.

Part of me wonders if she knew what was happening, what her lover did to her defenceless baby every night for years. I did what every troubled teen did, I turned to drugs. I was addicted to coke, I could never get enough. I was sleeping with the Boss. I was doing it behind my mom’s back, doing whatever I could to get enough money to pay bills her and Jim couldn’t cover and enough to feed to my blood.

The highs were euphoric. I teased myself, I gave myself enough and then not enough. I destroyed my mental health, the way I thought about myself was bone shaking. I never once thought of myself as beautiful. I had a boyfriend who would shower me in compliments and my skin would soak them in like sunlight, but the nourishment never got to my brain. I never believed what I heard, I never saw it. All I saw was the white powder getting shot up my nose.

There were moments when I was high that I swear I felt nothing but everything all at once. I always got my work for school done, I think I did so well in philosophy and psychology because I was so fucked up that I just related to it. I learned that being relatable is the one thing that causes people to listen to you- if you aren’t relatable, you’re not shit.

If you had a shit life, and you write about it- just like I am now, people buy your book because they want to relate or they want to act that they completely understand what it is like to have to be sixteen and give oral sex to a man three times your age because your mom cannot afford to put food on the table and her deadbeat boyfriends only job is to get into your pants any chance he gets, while he collects a disability cheque. For a disability he doesn’t even have.

Being relatable is the key to success, that is what they tell me at least. Truth is, I am twenty-five and I am already done be relatable. I am sick of people whom I have no recollection coming up to me and telling me that I am incredible, and my story is inspiring. It’s not inspiring, it’s dreadful. Being relatable is the worst thing to have, had happened to me.

But I am really that relatable? I suffered, you suffered. Everyone suffers, don’t they? In life there is some form of hardship that people go through, some are worse than others for sure. Yet, people cling to the people who suffer the most. Luck has been on my side in almost every situation I have been in. I would consider myself a pretty lucky person.

Is it luck? Or is luck just another thing humans have created in a philosophical sense to give other people hope. Is it the tool used to brainwash people into thinking the reason they got the job instead of the other two hundred people that are equally as qualified? Is that what luck is?

I have all these questions- all these relatable questions. Are my eyes damaged from all the sunlight that has been encased into my optic nerves, following through my entire body? Am I the reason for my own suffering, or did I just get picked to be the lucky one to go through all these things? Was I lucky enough to have survived it enough to write about it? Maybe that’s the problem, I always start off so poetic and end with complete and utter rawness.

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letting go

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consumer details

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untitled 1.

you took a piece of me with you when you did all those awful things

some days i can feel the pool of sweat on my lower back

i can feel your hands tugging at my pants pulling them down even though i said,

no.

i hear the violent words coming out of your mouth when i lay my head to rest

i can barely breathe

each breath seems like a struggle to get out,

i am drowing.

i feel you on me and not in the way i wanted

your hands so rough on me

i can feel the bruises swhen i touch my hip sometimes,

ouch.

i remember the first person to touch me after that event

i remember the second,

third,

fourth,

fifth.

i never quite got over it

i dont think i ever will,

but i no longer shudder when people touch me in the same places you did,

that is moving on,

that is being strong.

that is no longer letting you have that piece of me.

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I am pulling myself from the magician’s hat, night after night, and I have the scars to prove it.

Guante, from A Love Song, A Death Rattle, A Battle Cry (via buttonpoetry)

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Green

♥ Patreon | Twitter | Instagram ♥

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William Evans, “The Boys Ran Past and the Flowers Never Grew Back”. Don’t forget to grab your own copy of William’s book, STILL CAN’T DO MY DAUGHTER’S HAIR.

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raw

stopped writing for other people and started writing for myself but then i realized my writing has really always been for other people, its never quite been for me. you see, i have never been one who has been able to express themselves with words, i have always shown myself through other things. its not because i dont know how to speak but my brain runs a mile a millisecond and i can never properly form my own thoughts, so its better for me to express myself through other things. but then i learned i am not half bad at writing, so writing kind of became my outlet. i find i have muses for different things; a muse for love, heartbreak, and sadness. unfortunately i am my own muse for sadness, which is just therapeutic for me, its not really sad though other people may find that sad- i dont. but y muse for heartbreak has been different people at different times, a best friend or even a lover. im not really one to let people have control over my emotions- especially people i’ve never met-he is a different story though so don’t ask questions about him, because i hate answering them- but other than that i dont write about people i havent felt a deep connection with. if you know me you know how much i love connections and trying to figure out what things mean, but other times i can cool it and let things take their course. but i love thinking about things with deeper meaning- maybe thats my weakness. my weaknesses often involve men, tragic i know. im a hopeless romantic but i have buried that piece of myself, i created a persona to attract the worst of the worst but im not breaking my own heart by doing this. just the problem is i have forgotten so many things about how i used to be, how you are supposed to love with the proper amount of kindness and torture. ive always been in situation of tough love, never gentle. maybe thats another problem i have. gentle lovers dont break hearts or do they? because you were gentle but then you broke my heart. its the abandonment i feel that crushes my soul, its the constant absence of people of my life. its the constant need for people to bring my hopes up just to leave. im not loveable, or am i too loveable and that scares people? nothing quite makes sense anymore. this doesn’t even make sense. this is exactly what its like in my head, jumbled thoughts, trying to sort themselves out and failing miserably. i have failed miserably at balancing myself- i am doing okay though.

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“It’s not that she wanted him dead. It’s just that she wanted him gone.”

— Thadra Sheridan, “Drunk”

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Art of Saying No

I’ve learned that most things are easy to understand, but hard learn. You can understand what someone goes through but you cannot learn from it, until you are actually in that position.

So, sometimes I say I’ve learned my lesson for things, but I honestly have not. I have not learned when it is time to pull away from something. To give yourself space from what is hurting you, though I understand when you should do so. I haven’t taught myself the art of saying no.

I have yet to put myself in a class of true self-love. I say I love myself, but my actions say otherwise. I think I am beautiful and strong. Somehow, I do not know the trade of letting go of people who are keeping me from shining like the brightest star in the sky- I’m trying to avoid cliches in my writing but sometimes it’s fitting.

I have found a muse, one that has taken part of me in their rough hands. They’ve shaken my insides, stepped on my heart, but put all the pieces back together. A muse is something that is hard to let go of. My other muses have come and go in my mind. This one also does not know the art of saying no.

The art of saying no will never be in my mind, in my backpack for a rainy day, in my heart. The art of saying no, is a lesson I will not know in my lifetime, because a muse is too hard to say no to.

I have tried to explain this lesson to people, they understand me. Yet, they have not truly learned the lesson of what it is to have a muse.

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flowers in winter

flowers blossom in spring, there are very few flowers that show their beauty before then, somehow this flower has blossomed months in advance.

this flower has shown the way its roots take time to grow, how water and nourishment is needed in order for it to start its life.

love and care is all it wants- help to enable itself to be the flower it was born to be.

it runs into a problem during the call for help, not everyone enjoys gardening, not everyone likes flowers. not everyone can appreciate their beauty.

so when flowers in spring don’t blossom, it is because someone did not prepare them in the winter.

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