"Monday and Thursday." Pastel, acrylic, watercolor pen and pencil. 8" X 11" each.
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@gsavides
"Monday and Thursday." Pastel, acrylic, watercolor pen and pencil. 8" X 11" each.
Compromise
   My skin got in his way     so I cleared it off my brow     then my sinews crossed his path     and he tore my tendons down.   I still had my blood vessels     but they didnât fit his beat     so I plucked out all my capillaries     and threw them in the street.   Then my muscles blocked his chi     and my organs were too loud     so I stuffed them underground     and he hid them with a shroud.   I asked to keep my bones     and said heâd help me out,     but they kept him up at night     so he ground them into grout.   After he stole my voice     all I had was my mind,     and he couldnât pin it down     and it grieved him all the time.   For it rang loud and clear     always roaming through my head     so he threw up both his hands,     and this is what he said,
Iâm always kind, I treat you sweet, as gentle as can be,
but no matter what I do for you you wonât disappear for me.
"Body Dysmorphia." 8" X 11". Acrylics. Charcoal.
Heartless
She shot a sparrow with a BB gun.
She got it from her stepfatherâs house, The one he abandoned after he went crazy and started storing things where the government canât see them.
Its wing twisted underneath, she watched it die. An old woman passed by as she did it.
Sour looks. Judgment. Hate.
She wasnât bothered.
Everyone sees the sparrow and the twisted wing.
Only she saw the nest of the mourning dove She was protecting.
The smallest predators Are the deadliest.
She is deadliest of all.
Event Horizon
I danced in the nebulas, I flirted with flames, I skirted through gravityâs devouring gaze.
But in the end, I was   brought down   by a   single   seed.
Bloom
Stray flecks of blood
in the toilet bowl.
I am bereft.
I am whole.
"Mind." Grace Savides. Acrylic & oil paint on canvas.
I paint too. <3
Egress
She sipped from
the trough of
yesterday's hopes.
It
never
emptied.
It Didnât Look Like Abuse
Trigger Warning: Emotional Abuse.
It didn't look like abuse when he told me he didn't really love me. He didn't hit me. Or scream. Or cheat. He calmly, coldly informed me he'd lied when he said he loved me because he didn't know what love was.
I wasn't afraid of him. Or, I didn't think I was.
It didn't look like abuse when he kicked me out of his apartment on the one night a week I was allowed to spend the night. He left to play guitar with his friends. And when I started to get upset he got upset first.
"You have no right to be mad." His favorite phrase.
I didn't think it was abuse when I was only allowed to spend two lunches and one night with him a week. It didn't seem strange when he put limits on how often we could see each other.
I didn't think it was abuse when he got to decide when and how we had sex. And how he'd sigh and roll his eyes during my turn, frustrated that I hadn't orgasmed.
I didn't think it was abuse when he told Iâd gained weight and, yes, he was less attracted to me. He was just being honest. How could I fault him for that?
I didn't think it was abuse when he told me he loved me less than I loved him. When I'd wait for him to call me for weeks at a time. But he wouldn't. He told me he didn't miss me. So why would he call me? That just makes sense.
Abuse was giving someone a black eye or getting drunk and throwing your clothes out the window. Victims were small, beaten woman who couldn't leave. I could leave, couldn't I? Anytime I wanted.
At least, I thought I could.
I didn't know it was abuse when I spent all of my winter break psyching myself up to break up with him only to chicken out at the last second. It was below freezing and I was worried he wouldn't drive me home.
I didn't know it was abuse when I tried a second or third time, but then we had a nice night and maybe I had imagined the whole thing. Or the countless fights that should have ended our relationship, but didn't. He explained it was a more effective use of our resources to be together than apart. Â And wasn't it better to be with someone than alone?
It didn't look like abuse, I didn't think it was abuse, I didn't know it was abuse,
But it was. It was abuse. It was abuse. It was abuse.
It was abuse when he refused to hold my hand or kiss me in public.
It was abuse when he was so mean to me on the phone his friends were shocked to learn he was talking to his girlfriend.
It was abuse when he made me sleep on the couch after we'd been dating for three years. Or when he said he didn't want to spend a whole day with me because he wanted to do other things with his day.
Because physical abuse is serious and scary, but by not hitting you your partner you've only established that you are less shitty than the shittiest possible.
Because everyone has baggage, and I'm sure he did, but you get to choose how to treat other people.
Because, even if I gave him the benefit of the doubt he was, at absolute best, neglectful and cruel. And that's not very good.
Because I'm still afraid when I see men with his dimensions on the street or on television or in person.
Because the person I love now will say things in jest that he would have said in earnest and it shakes me to my core.
Because I did things I regretted in that relationship, but I loved him and always tried to own up to my mistakes. Because he never saw me as a full person. Because even on my worst days, I apologized and took responsibility for my actions and he never did.
Because one of these moments could be a mistake, a blip in the radar, but put together they form a pattern of behavior that destroyed my self-esteem. It was a methodology constructed to control me and keep me where he wanted, whether or not he knew he was doing it.
It was abuse. I know that now. And I deserved better. Everyone does. And I do too. And every day I come a little closer to believing that.
Maybe tomorrow will be the day I finally do.
Photo credit: Priscilla Du Preez.
12
In the last hour of my
 eleventh year,
a scowling, harvest moon rose high and hard
and refused to set.
Crimson stained my thighs
as I donned the body of a woman
with none of the benefits.
Stubborn and judgemental and insecure,
  I longed to duck behind
  a rotting oak
  until I was grown.
Rabid preteens made mockery of my sexuality
because I was not Female Enough-
and I didnât brush my hair for two straight years
and I didnât smile, not even once
because smiling was for
blessed beings.
I have finished classes for which I will now receive a degree.
I am excited to return to work-life-love-boyfriend-dog-healthy living-balance
and-
Feeding the unquenchable creative fury that calls me to unleash strange upon the world.
You have been warned.
Forget
It was six years ago,
           almost to the day-
 And I still see you in stolen glances from, a stranger,
And I still hear you in
                       chromatic chords.
And I still feel you in
           that heaviness on my shoulders
and
           instinct to shrink,
and,
           the words I donât say
because
           I still think you might overhear
           and crush me
           one last time.
 Itâs been six years,
           and I finally
found that spark
that confidence
that flame
that love
that joy
 that you tried to stamp out, but
of course,
you never could.
 You were never strong,
I know that now.
Donât Forgive Them: Forgive Yourself
Many years ago, I dated a person who was not very nice to me.
Itâs a simple statement, but itâs taken a lot of tears and bouts of self-hatred to say it with no (okay, very little) judgement or hurt behind it.
I wonât divulge many details about the person (and please do not call them out if you know), but I will say this-
It was toxic. I made many mistakes, but they made more. It was abuse, but it didnât look like what I expected so I didnât see it. The breakup was nasty and I was angry for a long time.
Weâve all heard conventional advice about how long it takes to get over someone. A week. A year. Half the time of the relationship. Little tricks and rules about the timeline of grief. I blew past them all.
I could see my friends, my family, and others getting worried about me. I knew I had said all of it before, but I couldnât stop. Even when I met the love of my life, who has improved my existence more than I could say, it still hung around.
Forgiveness is a concept that was hammered into me from an early age. Between growing up Christian and having to incredibly kind and people-oriented parents, I learned to be humble, admit my own mistakes, and see people as the complex creatures they are, not as villains. Itâs a life lesson that I am very grateful for.
But somewhere in there, forgiveness started getting pushed as a reflexive reaction. It didnât mean granting some reprieve for their mistakes. In my mind, it became shorthand for, âdonât get angry.â
Thatâs impossible, of course, so I would mostly tamp my anger down until it exploded it wildly inappropriate ways. And, once I was angry, I was so glad to finally have my righteous vindication that it consumed me. Forgiveness was something I staved off with the hardened stubbornness of a child. I had earned the anger. It was mine.
So when I finally allowed myself to be angry at my ex, it was explosive and ugly and poisonous and it consumed me. When someone told me to let it go, I clutched harder and hated myself for letting so much time go by and not being over it.
In the past few years, something has changed. Finally, tackling my emotional problems and realizing what I can and cannot control has made me more able to control my depression and anxiety. More than that, I realized that, once again, my anger had been displaced.
I wasnât mad at my ex. I was mad at me.
I was mad for not being strong enough to walk away. I was mad for not standing up for myself. I was mad because I thought I should know better and be stronger.
But itâs not about strong or weak in abuse. By itâs very nature, abuse is about a person who made a decision to hurt you whether maliciously or through ignorance. Abusers are manipulators that make you question your own sense of reality.
Does that mean youâre powerless? Of course not. You have choices. I have tools now that I didnât have then so I can communicate better with people to get my needs met.
And, to clarify, this is not a conversation about a mutually destructive relationship or a miscommunication. Those situations exist and it can be difficult to see the part we play in them. Sometimes, itâs also important to realize that someone else hurt you and itâs not your fault.
That brings us back to forgiveness. Itâs common to tell people that they need to forgive. Part of being compassionate and empathetic is about overlooking peopleâs foibles.
But you do not HAVE to forgive them. You are not REQUIRED to let go before youâre ready. Forgiveness can be cathartic and healing and so worthwhile, but if you try to force it, you will only make yourself angrier.
You do have to forgive yourself. We make mistakes. We are wiser than we were yesterday. If you know in your heart that you do your best to be a good person and make amends to those youâve hurt, you donât have to include the unworthy in that list.
As for me, Iâm getting closer to forgiving my ex. Maybe when I stop feeling a flash of fear every time I see a stranger who bears a resemblance. Maybe when I no longer see phantoms in my current relationship with the most wonderful man in the world.
Today, I forgive myself. I tried so hard to do the right thing. Though I have regrets, I did the things I did from a place of love and honesty. They did not. I have learned lessons and tried to change what I can.
I wasnât strong enough to walk away, but Iâm strong enough to look in the mirror today and say, âIâm sorry,â and, âI love you.â
And thatâs enough for now.
How to Write a Masterpiece of Epic Proportions Without Crying in Public Too Much (But Still Crying a Little)
Step One: Have Your Heart Broken. A LOT.
Donât misunderstand me. I donât mean the casual kind of heartbreak where you listen to punk music and end up getting a regrettable hair cut. I mean the kind that cuts our your bones and makes them in dioramas. I mean the kind that makes you start or kick a nasty drug habit and then move to Portland and tell homeless people that youâre sorry you never have enough to give them, because youâre barely holding it together yourself.
Personally. Professionally. Synthetically. Fatally. Wound yourself over and over again like itâs going out of style.
Step Two: Get Depressed and Eat Too Much Cake
You can substitute your own comfort food here. You will be doing this again throughout the process.
Step Three: Invite Your Personal Demons to Have Tea and Chose the Complete Wrong Color Scheme
No oneâs happier than a writer. Just kidding, thatâs not true. Because no oneâs happy. Or maybe everyone is. Whatever. The point is, itâs time to wallow. Curse the bricks on the foundation of your apartment and yell at the ants. Give your neighbor that plays their bass too loud a dead fish and tell them you speak to angels but only on Tuesdays. Scream at your favorite TV show and make finger puppets out of your overdue bills.
Then, get your shit together.
I mean, thatâs a big step. Far bigger than any other. But it starts small. Throw away that moldy thing in the fridge. What even was that? Where did you get it?
Next, completely change the direction of your life. Get a new career. A new job. Or maybe just start going to a different tailor or coffee shop. Kiss every third person you meet on the hand, but only if they say its okay first. Start carving out huge sections of time to listen to obscure poetry in a dead language.
Or do none of those things. Because maybe you donât have time to or maybe your life is together or maybe you just have to make rent right now damnit and itâs not fun but Iâm just so goddamn happy to be making enough to pay the bills for once.
Follow your dreams. Then dump them over text messages. Follow some different dreams. Balance the practical and the fantastical. Donât ignore your wailing inner child or your massive credit card debt.
Find that perfect balance between work, life, and calling upon supernatural forces to heal your psychic wounds. Got it? Good. Itâs about to get a lot harder.
Step Four: Go to Therapy
âBut I donât need therapy!â Yes. Yes, you do. Everyone does. Humans werenât meant to have all the existential angst we now have to deal with. Our minds are too big.
If you donât have enough money, Iâm sorry. Find something else to examine yourself. Maybe a church or a spin class or some kindergartners who paint brown splotches on the lawn and tell you your hair looks dumb.
Figure your internal shit out. You have to. Itâs the hardest thing but also the best thing. Love yourself unconditionally. If youâre a shitty person, change. If youâre not, celebrate.
Kiss each and every one of your fingers and toes every night until you love yourself as deeply as the universe does.
Step Five: Try
Do something bold, daring, and uniquely you. Pour all your hopes into it. Donât hold back.
Step Six: Fail
Have no one get your jokes, art, poetry, or simply not understand why you painted an old school bus blue and tried to convert it into a monastery for squirrels. Cry a lot.
Step Seven: Eat Too Much Cake
Like, really, waaaaaay too much.
Step Eight: Repeat Steps Five Through Seven
Do this until you give up. Then, throw yourself back into the cycle. Go on long after everyone else has lost interest in your projects. Write the U.S. Congress about small grievances. Smear yourself with honey and roll around in autumn leaves. Then, try again.
Of course, do not continue to do so if it impacts your physically or mental health or hurts people or destroys relationships beyond repair that are important to you. That is no good.
But do take your dreams out once a night, let them wonder around your apartment, and feed them fairy tears and champagne flecks. Tell them you love them. Tell them they are coming true. Soon, my loves, soon.
Step Ten: Fail Again
Cats donât even need eye insurance. What were you thinking?
Step Eleven:Â Try the Same Idea
Or maybe THEY DO?
Step Twelve: Fail, Fail, Fail
No. No they donât.
Step Thirteen: Succeed
And you will succeed. It may be a small project or a big one. It may be the culmination of a year or work or simply eating some vegetables this week.Â
Celebrate every success, large or small. Donât brush them away or undermine them by saying, âWell, it was okay, but I didnât X,â or, âIâm not as good as Y.âÂ
You matter. You are important. You did a thing and that thing is good. X and Y may be unattainable or are flawed in some way you cannot see. Like maybe they pick their nose in private. You donât know.
You will succeed. It may not feel like it. It may not always be in the ways you expect it. But you will. And it will feel good if you let it.
Because no matter how good or bad you are at any given craft, no matter what you wear and what you look like or how white your teeth are, always remember this-
You are divine and precious and have something to contribute that no one else can. And you are loved.
I hate. #tgim #caseofmondays #lovewasnevereal #xoxo
Diet
You made me ill. It was my fault, for eating the whole box. I knew you were sugar rot, lard, bacon, fat, booze, corn syrup, and some molecule they cooked up in a lab. But if I took small bitesâ
No. I never sip or savor. I consumed. I tore your psyche in my jaws. Pressed my face into your chest and slurped up your tragic childhood and mental illness.
You werenât my snack. And I knew it, but I wanted to be yours. Garnish and glaze to happiness. But it doesnât work that way.
I got food poisoning. I deserved it.
Image via Flickr: Jane Gross.
Style inspired by the legendary Jaime Sabines. If you donât know him, check him out!
Strength
âHarden yourself!â
That's what they said.
âTake steel and coal and platinum, Railroad tracks behind your old school, Scabbed knees, razer-nicked skin, Utterances of scowling distemper, Slick, sharp criticism from parents, Dirt-ugly, smudged face of self-loathing, And ember butterfly moments too, Â Â Â ones with sweet sighs and intimacy-brushed cheeks.
âTake them, pound them downâ Â Â Â with hammers. Melt the rage bonesâ Â Â Â molten lead works best. Scour out the institutional skeletonâ Â Â Â bitten cuticles will do for now.
âCrush it down to armor. Wear your loss, but never speak it.â
And I hugged my knees, And I cried, And I failed, Â Â Â And I thrived.