My Official Thread
- Locked by Br0wnieBunny on Jan 28, '17 12:21pmReason: locked at the creator's request
Thread Topic: My Official Thread
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I'm performing Phases with Parys and am excited.
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Honest confessions on falling in and out of love with a confused, 20-something, semi-closeted gay man
or
I can usually tell in the first fifteen minutes if something is gonna work out for the long haul, so why did I ever bother
or
A Beginner's Guide to crying publicly at parties over a completely self-fabricated history of something that only ever sort-of was
or
How to Let Go
One:
Last Halloween Britney Melendez dressed up as Dora the Explorer
and got so drunk that she stood on a chair and shouted
''How many shots has Dora had? OCHO! Dora tiene ocho shots!''
Five minutes later, you were making out with drunk Dora in the middle of the living room
and in that moment, for some reason I knew you had to be mine.
Two:
I totally watched Django Unchained without you over winter break, even though I promised you I wouldn't,
and then pretended to be watching it for the first time on our date.
That was the only time that I ever lied to you.
Which for me is a personal best.
Three:
I have never found you sexier than when you talk about German filmmakers,
struggle to ice-skate,
or tell me that I am wrong.
Four:
I have reoccuring dreams about deep-cleaning your apartment.
Five:
The first time that you told me I cannot stay the night because your roommate might come home and see me,
I should have left you.
Not out of selfishness or anger, but because when you begin to rearrange your vocabulary for someone else,
replacing words like 'unhealthy' with 'compromise',
you will begin to forget your own name.
Six:
You called me 'baby' like flicking on a light switch.
Something quick and easy that you knew you could do to brighten up the room.
But I am sick of sleeping with the lights on,
because you were afraid of the monster in your closet
and I was afraid that it had already climbed into the bed with us.
Or that I had been the monster all along.
Seven:
I told everyone how bad the sex was.
Because it was.
Eight:
I have thought about you during sex with other people.
Nine:
I've never wanted someone to hurt and be happy so badly.
Ten:
I told you I loved you.
Last resort.
I told you I loved you, like a bomb shelter. Something to hide in after the fallout.
But we would always be hungrier than our rations would allow.
Eleven:
How do you tell someone that they taught you how to look at a seed and see a flower?
You are blooming in another man's garden and I feel like I'm the only one who got his hands dirty.
When he bites into your roots, he will taste my rainwater.
When he strips you naked, he will pause between each article of clothing, stop and say 'How beautiful.'
Twelve:
I'm sorry I've not yet forgotten how to find you beautiful.
Thirteen:
I'm trying.
Fourteen:
For Valentine's Day you got me an eggplant.
I don't really remember the significance, only that you covered the entire thing with silver sharpie, so that you could write little messages in black which wouldn't show on the purple, when you could've just written the messages in silver.
When you gifted it to me, I didn't even realise what it was, because, well, eggplants are purple.
You covered up everything to try to be with me.
And I no longer knew what I was. -
"When my rapist showed up under the People You may know tab on Facebook it felt like the closest to the crime scene Ive ever been.
That is if I dont count the clockwork murder that I make of my own memory every time that I drive down Colfax avenue.
Still, I sit in my living room, I sift for clues.
Click ; I see myself caught in his teeth.
Hes dancing with his shirt off in a city that Ive never been to.
Click ; he is eating sushi over a few beers with friends and I am under his fingernails.
Click ; I know that alley.
Click ; I killed the memory of that t-shirt.
Click ; this is an old photograph. Its a baby picture. Theres also an older man, presumably his father, they are both round and right and still smiling.
Click ; he is shirtless again and I catch my reflection in the weight room mirror. #beastmode selfie
I call him the wolf when I write about him. The wolf, so as to make him as storybook as possible.
The wolf when I write about him which is to say, when my memory escapes the murder, or when the internet suggests it.
Facebook informs me that we have three mutual friends.
Which is to say, that he is People You May Know.
Which is to say that I am people you may know,
and there are people that know, and people that dont know.
And people that dont know, I want to know, Im afraid to let know.
And probably people that know him, know of me, that know.
The word know, know know
Know is a flock of sleeping sheep sitting in my mouth and now,
now I know the wolfs middle name and what he listens to on Spotify.
And the all too familiar company that he keeps,
and he can no longer be a wolf. Or the nameless grave that I dig for myself on bad days.
We have three mutual friends on Facebook, and now it feels like they are holding the shovel.
64 people liked the shirtless gym pic.
and four people have told me theyd rather I had said nothing.
Two police officers told me, that I must give his act a name or it didnt happen.
That obviously I could have fought back.
Which is to say, no one comes running for young boys who cry rape.
When I told my brother, he also asked me why I didnt fight back.
Adam, I am. Right now. I promise.
Everyday I write a poem titled Tomorrow
it is a handwritten list of the people I know that love me
and I make sure to put my own name at the top." -
"Knock, knock.
Who's there?
Rape joke.
Rape joke? Rape joke who?
Rape joke who's not f---ing funny.
Don't worry, we're good victims!
We won't cry too loud, or demand your attention, or ask for trigger warnings.
Men like to use the excuse "boys get raped, too" when they hear women talking about their personal experiences.
First, "boys get raped" should be it's own sentence. If you're only acknowledging their trauma to silence female survivors, then you're a scumbag.
Second, all the male survivors we know would kick your teeth in for saying that.
And your friends who aren't survivors can't sympathize with you until they know all the gory details-
Please. Get your p--- somewhere else.
And once you do get their sympathy, it sounds like:
"Someone catcalled me once, so I totally get it!"
"Someone stepped on my foot last week -- it was a man. I just felt so invaded!"
And to the boys who write poems:
"To raped girls: Don't worry! There's good men out there. The light at the end of such a dark tunnel!"
They'll hold your hand in court and everything. Thank God I'll get some thoughtful dick someday.
You know, those poets will tell you,
"Violets are growing in the shadows under your eyes."
They're not violets. It's skin. I know it's skin. It's good skin. It's gonna be skin regardless of what metaphors you attach to it.
You'll be there when I cry (until my eyes get puffy and red).
You won't be tearing off my lace panties (because they were expensive, and they make me feel like I'm worth something).
Once you figure out that the only time I deep throat is with the feeding tube at the psych ward, you'll be gone.
And if you do want a healing relationship, how do you talk about it when the language is rooting against you?
"Hey, wanna bang?"
"Screw."
"Nail me!"
Everything is so violent!
How to flirt with a rape survivor:
Approach slowly and cautiously.
Do not make any sudden movements or loud noises.
"Hey, baby, I've got anxiety, depression, PTSD, and crushing sexual insecurity!"
"You wanna come back to my place and hold my hair while I vomit?"
And then there's feminists who feel entitled to our poetry and narratives because, as they say:
"Under the Patriarchy, like, ALL women are constantly threatened by rape."
What does that make us?
Hold on, Belissa -- I'm turning into a statistic!
Holy pepper spray, Batman!
I can only see in binary! The ones look like penises!
Quick! You've got to pull it together for --
Slut walk!
Truly, nothing helps rape survivors of all gender, ethnicity and economic level than rich white girls walking around half naked while collaborating with the police.
Because the cops, historically, are so good at supporting victims and catching rapists.
Getting real tired of slut walk slogans, too.
"Don't slut shame me"?
How about, "Do not refer to me as a slut. Ever."
"Real men don't rape"? Oh, s---! Must have been a ghost, then!
"Consent is sexy"? Lingerie is sexy. Consent is a basic human right.
You guys are supposed to be the adults we look up to, but we went through our moon goddess phase in 7th grade.
Humor helps trauma. We just want to know that you are laughing with us.
We can joke about it because it is ours to joke about, similar to how our bruises are ours to poke at, and yours to keep away from." -
It must be odd for our mutual friends who like me more but think you were right. To say I hate you would imply a world in which I kissed more than your stomach. Look, we've established that I'm a jerk, so let me say this: I am a flat tire and you a pothole full of lug nuts. I am a pile of bricks and you are holding a sledgehammer, which is to say I would not exist without you.
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Many things happen in your life that shouldnt:
the black spot that grew into cancer, the sub compact
that just could not wait to meet you; maybe things do
happen for a reason but that reason is stupid. Maybe
your brother fell out of a window only because
hes an a--hole. I love you, but I cant keep
letting you show up where I am and remind me
of what I said to you all those times
I was drunk that one time. Most of them were just
hurtful nonsense, but I am proud of You are like
a comet: every so often you come around
to f--- up my s---. In a perfect world, all the towns
in Illinois would be named Blood so I could
no longer pick out yours on a map. When youre dumb
enough for long enough, youre gonna meet someone
too smart to love you, and theyre gonna love you
anyway, and its gonna go so poorly. It must be
odd for our mutual friends who like me more
but think you were right. To say I hate you would imply
a world in which I kissed more than your stomach. Look,
weve established that Im a jerk, so let me say this:
I am a flat tire and you are a pothole full of lug nuts.
I am a pile of bricks and you are holding a sledgehammer,
which is to say I would not exist without you. -
A list of reasons why I hate you:
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(I don't)
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I was cheezits.
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Also Subway...
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It's not eight yet.
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Midnight..
I need money. >> -
I wish relapses didn't exist.
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s---.
This thread is locked, therefore no new posts can be made.
