The Game Of Life
I built myself from a world where reputation meant everything.
Learning slowly that
pills are supposed to fix anything wrong with you,
only the weak cry,
cover your mouth while you scream,
you wouldn’t want to be vulnerable in front of someone
for they will spill your secrets to the laughing crowd.
I built myself from purple bruises and deep scars.
From boys who thought picking away at insecurities
one scab at a time,
was the way to assert dominance.
Learning that mothers didn’t teach their sons,
what the word
No
really means.
I learned from a theatrical failure.
Watching a mom and dad play house,
when behind closed doors,
all you could hear was clicking heels,
and slamming doors.
As an eight-year-old daughter clasped hands to ears
and a father saying: “your mother will be back tomorrow”
not seeing her for another week.
I built myself from three suicide attempts.
Watching a mother bury her daughter,
and feeling guilty
that it was her life
instead of mine.
I built myself from this
crude,
twisted,
game,
we call life.
To The Boy I Thought I Loved
You inspire me.
You really knew how to convince a girl she was special,
with that goofy grin, and the way the tiny corners of your mouth used to turn up
every time I made you laugh.
you thought having a girl fall in love with you
was done by control.
First by telling her she dressed like a slut,
second, by grabbing her wrist each time she said something,
You didn’t agree with.
To the boy I thought I loved,
your hungry hands snatched at the parts of me I had worked so hard to build.
My power,
my voice,
my confidence.
Eaten whole, by your chomping jaws.
To the boy, I thought I loved,
I always tried to make excuses for you.
Wondering if you acted the way you did
because you felt trapped,
under the weight of the things I told you.
When in reality,
you were thinking
about the girl you saw at the bar last night.
The pretty blonde,
with the tight tube top,
and the black pencil skirt.
The outfit,
I always refused to wear.
To the boy, I thought I loved,
one day
You will realize the fear you created.
The way I would slump my shoulders, and look down at my shoes,
to avoid making eye contact with you.
The way you acted when the smell of vodka and pineapple juice,
stained your breath.
Like I was a doll,
that you could undress and then throw away,
after you had your fun.
To the boy, I thought I loved,
all the times I stayed awake,
wishing for more,
knowing I deserved more,
knowing I had fallen in love with a boy,
who only saw me as a couple of rusty parts,
that you were just trying to put back together,
for amusement.
Orange Bottles
When I was twelve,
my parents used to call my little white pills,
my “picky picky” medicine,
because I used to bite my nails so much.
It took me two years to find out it wasn’t my bad habit
they were trying to cure.
They sent me to the room with the white couches,
and classical music.
With the woman who had the yellow legal pad,
and the PhD from Harvard.
Always asking me the questions I had memorized.
Are you feeling depressed?
Have you self-harmed?
Are you having thoughts of suicide?
And me always responding with the same answers,
Yes
No
Possibly.
The doctor in the lab coat handing me
the crushed pills that tingled my nerves,
creating the energy
of fake happiness.
Will there ever be a cure?
At first, I understood I had a few nuts and bolts
that couldn’t work together.
But, the orange bottles started to stack on top of each other
in our little white counter
And it seemed like a whole toolbox was needed
to fix who I had become.
It seemed like it was more than a few nuts and bolts,
It was a whole
machine.