itsagoodlife Poetry

Hello! I run a poetry blog called @itsagoodlife , which is full of things I find that I like. This account will be for my own work as I kinda explore it and see where it goes. I hope y'all like it! Feel free to send me asks or interact with me!

[itsagoodlifepoetry]

Some days, I just want to be the victim. I just want to be cared for, to have people actively worry about me. I want people to tell me all the reasons they love me and want me to survive. Some days, I just want to be the survivor. I want to be celebrated for surviving. I want to be seen as this strong, unbreakable figure. But most days, I melt into an awful combination of both and neither at the same time. I have to take care of myself, and I have to celebrate, often alone, that I survived. I put on a strong, unbreakable mask. But behind that mask? I crumble feeling like no one cares if I survived or not.

@itsagoodlifepoetry

[itsagoodlifepoetry]

I think about you before I sleep. I know for a fact that you don't think about me. However, this isn't a love poem. I don't want you to think about me and I wish I didn't think about you. I have learned to think about horrible things before I go to sleep. Because in my dreams I am often stronger than I am when I am awake. In my dreams, I reach out. In my dreams, I tell my truth. In my dreams, I put you away and no one else gets hurt. In my dreams, I fight you off. In my dreams, you become nothing. In my dreams... I survive you.

@itsagoodlifepoetry

[itsagoodlifepoetry]

I haven't directly thought about you in awhile. In fact, when your name came up for this challenge, I looked you up on Facebook. I saw your usual memes and some holiday pictures. I won't lie and say that I thought nice thoughts. Even though I haven't directly thought about you in awhile, You are in so much of my life still. I hear you every time I say sorry for something I don't need to. I feel you when I stop myself from anxiously shaking my leg. I hear your voice when my anxious thoughts rush through my head. I see you in the way my friend accepts love after you. Even though I haven't directly thought about you in awhile, I still think about you. I wonder if you think about me? Have you recognized your faults in what happened? Do you regret the way you treated me? Treated us? Even though I wonder these things, I know the answers. You don't think about me. And if you do, you are blaming me for things that I had no control over, Like you always did. You haven't recognized your faults because you turn everything on everyone else, Like you always did. You don't regret the way you treated me, or us, because you think that you can do no wrong, Like you always did."

@itsagoodlifepoetry

[itsagoodlifepoetry]

As a teacher, I have to take annual trainings Things like bullying prevention, signs of child abuse, suicide awareness, etc. They basically teach you what red flags to look for. And I'll be honest, I barely pay attention to these trainings. And yet I still pass the little tests at the end with flying colors. I can feel myself getting mad during them. Why do I have to do these? Shouldn't it be common sense? I've always attributed my anger to thinking it was wasted time for something that is common sense. Until this year. I'm not mad because I wasted time. I'm mad that it is common sense, but for some people it isn't. I'm mad that it is common sense and the big, massive, bloody red flags were missed in my childhood. The people in my life growing up were colorblind to my red flags. When I purposefully hurt myself for the first time, I couldn't catch my breath and I was crying. The recess monitor smiled and waved at me and sent me off to class. When I accidentally expressed very violent thoughts to a teacher, my mom got called, not a guidance counselor. When I had a panic attack about a janitor from elementary school being moved to my building, I was told to stop being dramatic or tell the teacher and the other 15 people in the room what was wrong. When I stopped changing in front of you, and there were bloodstains on my socks, and the hips of my jeans and underwear, you just did the laundry. I could continue this list more, but I hope you get the picture. I know people probably ignored the red flags because I was so happy, bubbly, and well-mannered. But little me was so tired of all the trauma she went through, And waving those big red flags.

@itsagoodlifepoetry

[itsagoodlifepoetry]

There are days I like to pretend nothing happened. That I was a normal kid, Who grew up in the cutesy "omg my family is so weird" but not really weird, type of family. That's how I feel most days. But then something happens. Like today, I learned that one of my students has repeated the same mistake that my assaulter made. But this isn't what make me want to speak up per se. What makes me want to scream is that he was in my classroom today. And that girl that he is accused of hurting? She is in the classroom next door. That girl will have to walk past him every day, And she will most likely shy away and try her best to forget that whatever happened, did happen. I want to SCREAM because I wish that 13 years after my assault, society would evolve enough that history wouldn't repeat itself. I want to SCREAM because I am conflicted about my student that I have come to love and want the best future for. I want to SCREAM because I don't want my silence to hurt anyone more than it already has. I want to scream, but the screams of so many other people have fallen on deaf ears already.

@itsagoodlifepoetry

[itsagoodlifepoetry]

You told me once to consider forgiving him. The anger at the thought hit me hard and fast. I could feel hot, angry tears threatening to spill down my cheeks. How? How could I possibly begin to forgive him? I can barely halfheartedly forgive myself. Which is crazy because I was a child and a victim. He was supposed to take care of us. He was supposed to be the one we could trust. But he didn't take care of us. And he broke our trust. Many negative things that have occurred can often be traced to him. And sure, we had our own level of guilt, But we were kids. And he should have known better.

@itsagoodlifepoetry

[itsagoodlifepoetry]

Trigger Happy. Adjective. This phrase is usually used to describe cowboys, bandits, and other gun wielding foes. However I am coming to realize that maybe I am trigger happy. Which sounds ridiculous because I don't own a gun, And I am not particularly happy about these situations. Trigger. Verb. To cause an event or situation to happen or exist. I know what triggers me. What triggers my panic, anxiety, and flashbacks. And yet, I often find myself finding those triggers, And then continuously subjecting myself to them. I'd like to think that those trigger happy foes aren't happy about pulling the trigger, But they do so because they feel they need to in order to survive. Maybe that is why I am trigger happy. I feel like I need to subject myself more, In order to survive.

@itsagoodlifepoetry

[itsagoodlifepoetry]

In theory, I do know how to take care of myself. In theory, I do know what I'm doing is wrong. In theory, I do know that I need to change what I'm doing. But these theories are not my current reality. When people describe hygiene issues because of things like depression, You picture a crying girl who hasn't showered in a few days with some bedhead. Most days I don't fit that description. I regularly shower, and I manage my bedhead, and I don't cry often. But that doesn't mean my hygiene has been good. I can't tell you the last time that I consistently brushed my teeth. I think I brushed my teeth 3 months ago? Or was it 6 months? It has been less than a year since I actually started taking showers that washed more than the hair on my head. In theory, I am not depressed enough to not take care of myself. But in reality, I am dirty.

@itsagoodlifepoetry

[itsagoodlifepoetry]

I told you about how I stood up for myself and a group of people this weekend. I told you how I subtly stood up for the LGBTQ community at school. You told me that I have many important things to say, And that I need to let myself say them. And logically, I know that you're right. People tend to react positively when I share my thoughts and speak my mind. Except when they don't. When I get called a slut by my father for a label that I chose for myself. When the things I say could send people to jail. When I get manipulated into feeling horrible for having a differing opinion. When I share my experiences and they're belittled. Sure, I should say more and use my voice more. But I have been chastised, teased, bullied, and abused for the things that I have said. I don't want to go through that again.

@itsagoodlifepoetry

[itsagoodlifepoetry]

Burden Noun: A load, typically a heavy one. I consider myself to be a burden on the people I love sometimes. And when I do feel that way, I tell them that I'm sorry.  I'm sorry to bother you with my problems. I'm sorry to burden you with my mess. And like good friends they tell me that I'm not burdening them. And that they're happy to help me. But the thing is, Happy or not to help, I'm still burdening them with my issues. They are still carrying a load that they did not ask for. And sure, sharing some burden is a part of friendship, But what is the weight limit? At what point will their knees shake and buckle under the pressure? My friends are already carrying the weight of their own trauma. Why would I want to add my own to what they're carrying?

@itsagoodlifepoetry

[itsagoodlifepoetry]

"I forgot that my face makes faces." ~Me

[itsagoodlifepoetry]

Recovery is... Hard work, tiring, and love. But it is worth it.

@itsagoodlifepoetry

[itsagoodlifepoetry]

Life with my parents Is an interesting ride. I wouldn't trade it.

@itsagoodlifepoetry

[itsagoodlifepoetry]

I have a complicated relationship with sharing. Some days, I am as closed off as a conservative Christian's heaven, But other days I am the flood, destroying everything in my path with my feelings I need to find a balance with sharing, And I need to learn to share the important things.

@itsagoodlifepoetry

[itsagoodlifepoetry]

I have had such a rocky relationship with Skaneateles There are still parts that I hate, But the parts that I love have started overpowering the hated parts. I guess it is always different once you leave your hometown. I couldn't have done it sooner.

@itsagoodlifepoetry

[itsagoodlifepoetry]

Thirteen years have passed. We soon may not have a place To claim as our home.

@itsagoodlifepoetry

[itsagoodlifepoetry]

Orange looks like a sunset Setting across the Dell As I walk back to Royer During my freshman year at college. Orange tastes like sweet and sour sauce From the Wendy's that's in the Mall Food Court Eating with my parents as a little kid I nibbled all the breading off of the nuggets And then I dipped the white chicken into the tangy sauce. Orange smells like lunch my senior year of high school. My friend peeling an orange, Then instantly remembering my strong distaste for the smell, Then he would profusely apologize, And comment on my odd distaste for the smell, While doing nothing to mask the smell from me. Orange sounds like the crackle of the campfire As we all said our goodbyes for the summer, And for some of us, for forever. Orange is always a little sad to me for this reason. Orange feels like hugging a plush Charmander named Charlie He's still warm from being filled with stuffing. I'm warm from jumping to give him energy. Orange is also love, since I got Charlie With one of my best friends.

@itsagoodlifepoetry