These are mine and this is me.

I am a young artist, by many definitions, and I am just trying to figure things out.

[forthesakeofmymemory-blog]

The Dance in London

His arms were stretched out like the outer limbs of a flame. He swayed and his destination was me.

Shit… 

He seemed unaffected when I turned away from him.

I blame alcohol.

He moved his body as if we were together.

Eventually, this night will end.

As he orbited around me, he only seemed slightly bothered that I wouldn’t face him.

If this space didn’t contain men, His Drunkenness would not be twirling around me.

He taps my arm to announce his presence.

There you are…

He smiles and stretches out his arms inviting me to join his dance.

If he gets in sneezing distance, I’ll tell him I’m a lesbian.

He patiently waits for me to look him in the eyes. He asks for a glance by touching my chin.

The last person who touched me looked nothing like you. She was beautiful.

He tells me to smile and that I look beautiful when I do.

I am smiling to shut you up. I don’t want your compliment.

He waits for me to smile. He waits for me to look at him. He taps me again.

  I have to go look for my friend.

[forthesakeofmymemory-blog]

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[forthesakeofmymemory-blog]

The Two Boys on the Bus

There are these two boys who always sit together on the bus. One gets on at my stop and the other one in two more stops ahead of me. The boy at my stop is always a little anxious when the bus is late. He always stands away from everyone else waiting. Once the bus arrives, he usually sits in a bench made for one person until his friend comes and then they both move to sit together. Today, there were no other seats. So his friend asked if he could sit with him on his bench made for one. He was hesitant and looked around for himself to see if there were other seats but there were not, so he nodded yes and his friend sat next to him. The boy from my stop scooted in and sat really scrunched up to the window so his friend could sit completely on the seat. At first, he had his hand up awkwardly posted on the headrest until he got tired and he wrapped it around his friend.

  Every day I see this kid, he is always clutching his phone and moving his hands not quite sure what to do with them. Everything changes when he sees his friend. He tries to conceal his smile but it shows in his eyes. He sits up straight and grabs his bag close when he sees him through the window.

  His friend is smiling as he gets in line to get on the bus. He pulls out his bus pass and puts it in the slot while looking right towards him. He is not shy and does not try to conceal his smile. I see them whispering things in each other’s ears. His friend cups his hand to hide his words but no one is listening. He inches close and says something that makes the other boy smile.

  I doubt they ever notice me there. They always sit in front of me. I guess, because we both prefer to sit in the front, those two and I. I wanted to take a picture or sketch a drawing because I wanted to capture their moment but it was their moment, not mine. I'll just have to use my memory but I wanted that image more for them to have. I wanted them to remember this and to hold on to it. I wanted them to remember what it was like to just be happy.

[forthesakeofmymemory-blog]

A Baker's Dozen

I was thirteen and liked to bake. I always made cookies but I didn’t really eat them. Sometimes, I would eat the dough but other times I just baked. I burned myself once by accident and it caught me by surprise. At first I was angry, as I should have, but then I did it again. I could feel it. I couldn’t feel much else at the time, but I could feel the cooking pan searing against my wrist. I made sure not to keep it there too long because I didn’t need a scar to remind me. But that wasn't the end. It would turn red and then a beautiful pale white. I would graze my finger over it in class—it was my comfort. I did it and I was in control. Every time I touched it I experienced just a hint of pain until it faded away and I had to bake again.

[forthesakeofmymemory-blog]

I chose to stay present, to unlearn how to unlove, to love, and to practice my worthiness of it.

Buddy Wakefield, ‘Amplified Stillness’

[forthesakeofmymemory-blog]

I could write to you all day but I can't invent the words to tell you everything you deserve to hear.

Anonymous

[forthesakeofmymemory-blog]

This matters

I have moments—several actually—where my memory just doesn’t want to work with me. I read the word “mattered” in a sentence as in, “You mattered to her,” and I got completely lost. I stopped at “mattered” because I just couldn’t figure it out. I thought of matadors and it rhymes with “splattered,” so I assumed it had to be violent. Still confused, I read the rest of the sentence and it all clicked. They meant “mattered” as in “having significance” not as a raging matadors splattering people.  I should probably remember that for later.

[forthesakeofmymemory-blog]

It’s 1:11am. Everything is going to be okay. I am not going to make a wish on the time or a shooting star. It has to be okay because there isn’t another option. It’s 1:12am.

[forthesakeofmymemory-blog]

For 110

The Top Layer

I am a survivor of many things. None of which do I wish to share. This decision, to remain silent, has been eating at me. Consuming me, am I strong enough? But in the end, it shouldn’t measure my strength. I could say it all doesn’t matter but that would be nothing but a bold lie.

One day I will write a memoir to replace this one. That memoir will tell a story and I will be comfortable with that. It will be truthful with excruciating detail. I am hopeful that I will soon be able to write it. That’s what I am working on: being able to tell my story.

I feel like I might be cheating this essay. I am not exposing my life, or more specifically, any experience, but I am sharing something. I could’ve written a meaningless story about my dog. It could’ve been a heartwarming story but it would’ve been absolute bullshit—something I am very capable of doing. Instead, I write this, I am not ignoring the things I have survived. Not at all, while I am consciously not writing them down, I am forcing myself to remember. Right now, the memory is mine. I am working on it and maybe next time when I am asked, I will tell. Maybe next time I will tell the story I am denying you.

My body is unnaturally in a state of alarm, I have to protect myself. I must. What to do? How to do it? I chose to write this. It’s honest. It bares a part of me that I’ve never shown before. Soon I will let the cover fall, and there, my story and I will be. Today a layer has fallen.

These are my thoughts: wrestled down and tied together. I am trusting that you can see how meaningful this is. I am getting better. If I had to write this a year ago, I would’ve written any collection of words that might pass for a story without hesitation.  Instead of jumbled words, I’ve attempted to express the difficulty in writing a part of me down. This past year I have received support and I have grown tremendously. I am thankful for those who have helped me to get this far but I currently do not want to tell my story.

And Another Falls

Do you remember the beginning? I practically have it all memorized. The storm still rushes through my veins as I recite the words to myself. People say they feel butterflies fluttering within them at times like these. I can’t feel such a beautiful creature; I can feel the storm.

Back to the beginning: I am a survivor of many things. I still remember not knowing if I would make it. I remember the darkness. I was trapped. I inhaled but couldn’t remember how to let go. Everything within me felt ambushed. My stomach retreated. My throat felt dry; I could feel the hollowness. How are my tears so wet? My throat was so dry. I didn’t understand; I was never taught to understand this. He held me by my neck and forced my face to his pants. I was trapped.

I got away. I was able to physically leave—my body was free. Do you understand that only my body got away? Seven years have passed and I still can’t write this story with the excruciating detail it deserves. The shame I have been taught to hold on to won’t let me. I am not supposed to tell: I am a survivor of sexual assault.

Again, I am cheating an essay. There are still more layers to fall. This, of course, is not the end. 

[ivicus]

The air I breathe in a room empty of you is unhealthy.

John Keats, from a letter to Fanny Brawne dated March 1820 (via lazyteen)

[eternallycoilingserpent-blog]

I was stranded in the city, intoxicated, with no ride home. I had just left one of the most popular bars in town and was standing outside when a group of obnoxiously drunk college students stumbled out of the door. ”Test me, you punk bitch!” one of them shouted....

[forthesakeofmymemory-blog]

Thinking back

I do remember a good time with him—one in the singular sense. A good time with Marvin.

I was mad at everyone, so I pretty much had that, “fuck-every-last-one-of-you” attitude. I went upstairs to make that physically clear. Earlier in the day, I had wanted to watch Lion King, but because of the pre-teens I was dealing with, no one wanted to join me. So in my “fuck-every-last-one-of-you” attitude, I went upstairs and put it on. I was there for a while by myself and then Marvin came in. He didn’t say anything; I don’t even remember any eye contact. But he came in, got in bed and wrapped his arms around me as I laid there. We watched Lion King. I remember earlier he was saying how much he hated animated movies, and I smiled knowing how he let that go and just stayed with me. We were both comfortable, and laid there together as if it were something we did on a regular basis. He didn’t try to make a move, as I expected, we just watched Lion King.