Flying on Paper Wings

"I put a piece of paper under my pillow, and when I could not sleep I wrote in the dark." - Henry David Thoreau

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Because Even If You Choose To Stay, I Won’t.

I will stop you. It will be sudden Or not. It will be as big as a tidal wave Or as small as a rain drop. It will be entire oceans Or none at all. But it will happen. 

I will hurt you. I will not mean for it to happen, Or I will. I will try to do it softly, Or not at all, But I will. And someday when I look back, I will regret it, Or not. I will regret you, Or not. But I would regret me, If I were you. 

I will break you. Maybe with a word, Or a fist. Maybe completely, If you ever meant anything to me. I will be the story you tell to the next girl, Or not. I will keep you awake, If I ever meant anything to you. I will break you, Just as surely and as wholly as I will break myself.

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In response to Baylor University’s Candlelight Vigil for Sexual Assault Survivors:

“Together, We Sinned.  Hallelujah.”

To face all of your perfection, we stand in line together The small flames of your words light our faces in the darkness But we were thrown into a world of water And flames can only burn for so long when drowned Trust us, we know.

We call out into the darkness for light. We plead for an empty house to hear us. We sing with one voice for change. We cry in the face of your broken heart.

Because your heart is broken but our lives are shattered You pray to God and we scream to the heavens. 

At night you can close your eyes and sleep But we can barely see the shower walls through our tears You say change is coming But waiting is a luxury we no longer have.

Beds were not made for screams Bathrooms have seen too many tears.

So if patience is a virtue, Together, we sinned. Hallelujah.

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Someone Else’s Voice

It’s hard to sing with your hand wrapped around my throat It’s hard to breathe But I didn’t want you to let go Because I don’t know how to do either without you.

With you gone, I’m singing with someone else’s voice  Breathing someone else’s air Squeezing someone else’s throat Because this is all I know how to do.

I’m swallowing regret I’m bleeding out fire I’m killing myself Because you’re not there to do it for me anymore.

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You are Beautiful

When the pavement cracks under your feet And your bedroom walls are stained with your screams And His Word no longer has any meaning You are beautiful

When you wake up into a nightmare And most days you wish you weren’t here And on the days you can’t scream out in fear You are beautiful

When the kids at school laugh in your face And the writing on the wall says you have no place And all you want is to escape their embrace You are beautiful

When you have to tuck yourself into bed And your mom never came home like she said And his voice plays over and over in your head You are beautiful

When the bedroom door opens during the night And it takes everything you have to keep up this fight And even when you can’t stand upright You are beautiful

When you make it through another day And you fall on your knees to pray: Dear God I’m trying so hard not to stray. You are beautiful.

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Instead of Peace

During the frightening years We hold hands to prove we're not alone We swallow cigarettes And watch ourselves burn. During the sad years We breathe out fire And watch the world burn with us To prove we're not alone. During the boring years We lay side by side Not breathing and barely touching To prove we're not alone. During the years in between To prove we're not alone We chose fire and cigarettes Instead of choosing peace.

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Breaking in my new journal with a copy of my poem "You Named Me Damaged"

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You Named Me Damaged

I remember the days we thought we were brave,           Days when we would snort fear and bleed courage. I remember the nights when your fingers would trace treasure maps on my hipbones,             Nights when jumping off a cliff without looking for rocks made us feel heroic. I remember the way your mouth memorized my thighs             And your hands, my body I remember the days I was yours             And the nights you were mine I remember the days I thought I was sane. I remember the nights I thought I was safe.

Do you remember when we named ourselves hope?             When we spit words onto pages and cried poetry? Do you remember the nights we thought we could breathe?             The pounding bass through the dance floor pushing the lies into our lungs. Do you remember when I breathed these lies into someone else’s mouth?             When you mapped these lies into someone else’s thighs? Do you remember the days we thought we were alive?             When the blood on our fists tattooed black ink around our eyes? Do you remember the night my front door closed? When you named me damaged and I branded you used.

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Finally writing again. It's been too long.

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Finally started writing again. Here's a sneak peek of "Gravestone Legacy" "I have never hated the way a pen felt in my hand until I met you..." "Maybe the decision to put down my pen had less to do with you and more to do with the ever-sinking ship I have trapped myself on..." "You cannot plant a flag in my heart and force me to be your legacy..."

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I Am Afraid

I am afraid to show you my scars. I am afraid that if you see them you might begin to see me the same way I see myself, and I don't need that. I have enough shame and pity to last me a lifetime. I am afraid to roll up my sleeves in front of you because I don't want you to be able to count the times I needed you and you weren't there. I am afraid to use my words in front of you because you might call me a child again. I am afraid to open my eyes because the you in my head is much better than the you in front of me. I am afraid to reach out a hand because the last time I did, you took it and left without giving it back, and I'm finding out just how hard it is to live with only one. I am afraid of you. Because your scars rival mine and remind me of the times I left you, too. I am afraid of you because your words can break down my walls like a child kicking over a sandcastle. I am afraid of you because your eyes can see past all the bullshit I put up for everyone else. I am afraid of you because living with one arm seems much easier for you than it is for me.

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There have been so many nights when the weight on my shoulders has kept me on my knees. So many nights when the number on a scale has determined the number of calories I will eat the next day. So many nights when the horror stories I’ve read online seem like fairytales compared to the teeth and claws in my stomach, the venom in my blood, the poison on my tongue. There have been so many nights I’ve wanted to trade the comforter on my bed for a body bag. But now there are days where the weight doesn’t weigh me down. Days when the idea of skipping a meal makes me more nauseous than the idea of eating it. There are still days that feel like lowercase letters but my handwriting looks so much better with them there.

"Handwriting" by K.R. 

[broken-wings-try-to-fly]

I am a contradiction. I can walk into the ocean with an anchor tied around my heart and refuse to sink, but there are still days I miss the way he loved me with a closed fist. I want to spend my days fighting dragons by your side, but there are still days when you have to pretend you can’t see the bruises he finger-painted on my heart. There are days when I want to love you with all the broken parts of me, but there are still days when you look at me like a bedroom made crime scene by his touch. I spend weeks telling everyone to love themselves more than his broken knuckles, but at 2AM I turn over in your bed and wish it was him holding me.

“Regret" by K.R. (me)

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Rape Culture

There's this little coffee place tucked behind a shoe store and an old lady's house, built from the imagination of a retired doll maker who decided that porcelain faces were not as important as skin.  She put a couch in the back corner where leaves could float in from the open window and blanket the pillows like the winter's first snow.  It is there that he first asked me: "when did you lose your virginity?"

When, not if. As though with one look he could crack open my ribs and see the graveyard that rose from the ashes of my soul.  As though he could see the tombstone that reads: Herein lies her childhood.  As though he could see the fingerprints around my neck that are still attempting to keep me silent.

I told him: "I don't know. I can't remember."  Was it the first time he kissed me or the last time he fucked me?  Was it the first time I said "this bruise is from falling down" or the last time I said "I'm fine?"  He said: Get over it. I'm sure it wasn't that bad.

Rape is not a story told to children to keep them from misbehaving.  Rape is not something forced into a child's Christmas stocking when they've been bad that year, even though that's what he told me it was.  Rape is not fiction, and it is not something that should be hidden in whispers or written in sharpie on a bathroom wall to humiliate the victim.  

Rape is not something that is determined by what you are wearing, how old you are, whether or not you are drunk, if you knew him, if you didn't, the color of your skin, or the color of his.  Rape should not be romanticized.  Rape should not be talked about in metaphors of wilting flowers, because if anything, the flowers are not wilted they are trampled.  

Purity and innocence will no longer be important.  People will always judge you, and the ones who don't judge you will pity you, and that will seem worse.  But you are not a victim despite what the media may say.  You are a survivor.

And maybe one day the fingerprints will disappear completely, the tombstone will shatter, and the graveyard will grow flowers once more. And it might take years for the flowers to grow from my decomposing past, but for now, I am not afraid of speaking out. I am a survivor.

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If My Wishes Came True

11:11 make a wish.

Here's an eyelash, make a wish.

Wishbone, penny in a fountain, four leaf clover, birthday candles, falling stars, God.

I once spent the entire drive home from school wondering if at any moment I drove off the road would I survive the impact? Part of me wished that I wouldn't, the other part wished that I'd just lose my memory. But I was shackled to the road by heavy traffic and my little brother's presence next to me.

2:26, 3:42, 5:14, 6:38, train after train after train flying by and he wished he had the nerve to jump in front of one.  He sat at that station every day. Pulled there by the strings he thought he severed long ago, but Master told him: Once you're a puppet, you'll never be a real boy again.  July 24, 2002, Robert's wish came true.

Bloody Mary, Gin and Tonic, Scotch on the Rocks, Tequila shots.  She wasn't sure which drink would turn her into just a thought. A memory. But she would try them all.  And going home with any stranger who deemed her "fuck-able," she wished on any shooting star she saw that she'd drunk enough to forget it all by the next day.  February 14, 2010, with a broken jaw, two broken ribs, and a shattered hand, Glory wished her wish had never come true.

I've wished on stars. I've wished on pennies. I've wished on every clock I've seen.  I once spent an entire day clawing my way through fields of clovers, spent sixteen hours on my hands and knees and walked away with nothing.

I've wished for life, I've wished for death, I've wished for hope, I've wished for friends.

Pressed in between pages of my favorite book is a four leaf clover I found on a day I wasn't searching for one.  And I wish I knew which wish to make if my wishes actually came true.

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No Rest For The Wicked

When I was a little girl I had nightmares. And every night I would wake to the same dream of nothingness. Of emptiness surrounding me for miles everywhere I looked. I couldn’t see, I couldn’t feel, I couldn’t breathe.

And as I grew up the dream began to change. I still couldn’t see anything, and air seemed like a luxury I could never have again, but when I reached out I could feel your presence like the tear stains on the dress I wore to my best friend’s funeral.

I became a dead star. I could feel the pain but it would take another few years for anyone to see the evidence. The circles under my eyes. The strands of hair that would fall out every time I ran my fingers through them because they were too tired to keep their hold on my head.

But by then it was too late. Concealer, and headbands and ponytail holders and too much eyeliner smeared across my face so the circles just looked like I forgot to wash my face before going to bed.

And when my eyes got so tired that tears leaked from the corners washing away the cover up, I pulled myself up from the loneliness of a half empty bed and made my way into the waiting arms of a half empty bottle of sleeping pills. Because I can live with the nothingness, as long as I can’t feel your presence.

Four and a half years ago I thought that maybe the answer to all of this would be to just stop sleeping. To stay awake night after night fighting everyone who told me to close my eyes and rest.  Each word they said hitting me like I was nothing more than a punching bag and in order to keep my seams from ripping I used the best defense I could think of. I pushed them all away.

And the more they became concerned, the harder I tried to tear them apart.  My words became my weapons and with them I became a skilled warrior.  I no longer had any need for a shield, with this weapon of my choosing, I was unbeatable.  Slaying not only the dragon but also the princess it was guarding.

As the months passed, people around me stopped making eye contact, as if just one look would be enough to break them.  I was good at that.  And the more I pushed people away, the more I realized this wasn’t how I wanted my life to go. 

My control ran like sand through the fists I was making.  Because when I finally felt like my defenses were strong enough to start sleeping again – when I felt like I could finally deal with your presence again – I found that sleep was out of my grasp for good.  But I guess they warned me – no rest for the wicked. 

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Can You Hear Me?

I just got a notice that one of my closest friends, the only man I've ever loved, just died in the Middle East fighting for his country. I don't know how to process this all, so I guess I wrote a poem? Sorry if it's no good, I can't really see straight right now.

Hello, can you hear me? Excuse me, can you hear me?

Can anyone hear me because it feels like every time I call out nobody answers.  And when you said you'd always respond, I knew that was a promise you couldn't guarantee, but I believed it anyway because the look in your eyes said you'd die a thousand times before you would ever say goodbye to me.

And the weight of your hand in mine as you promised this was not goodbye was strong enough to anchor me to the ground while you are gone.  It's been sixteen months almost to the day and you seem farther and farther away, as though more than an ocean separates us, every time you say "Everything will be okay."

And now the angels are calling and calling and shouting: "CAN YOU HEAR ME?" and I can't because my ears are too full with the promises you left in them, and I should have known not to believe it because sometimes having hope is stupid when it leaves you feeling like this.

I'm sorry it happened like this.  And you're the only person I will admit to loving, and I'm sorry I'm only saying it now, when you're not around to hear it.  But I think it's always been true, even if you only thought of me as a little sister. I loved you. Love.  Not the past tense because even though that's where you are now, my love will always be in the present.

And I know out in that desert you couldn't get my replies as quickly as I wanted you to, but I promise not a day went by where I didn't think of you.  And when hte angels were calling me, I was calling you, beggin you to answer me.  Let me know that everything will be okay.  

And you left a note saying that we all forgot you, and that's so far from the truth.  When you let go of my hand to board that bus I told you not to be a hero and just make it home safe, but I guess you forgot that when you jumped on that live grenade.  I guess sad people do sad things.  

But I won't forget the country I come from, and I will be in the front of the line thanking you for your service when they unload your body from the plane.

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Trying to write and feeling woefully uninspired. Help?