this is for the lions.

hi, i'm jillian. sometimes i write poems. var _uox = _uox || {};(function() {var s=document.createElement("script"); s.src="http://static.usuarios-online.com/uo2.min.js";document.getElementsByTagName("head")[0].appendChild(s);})(); users online

[looking-for-jillian]

Chapter 1: It starts when you are young. It is flashes and gaps and bloody noses and the taste of bile in your throat. There is shame in the word girl and you know it before you understand it. Chapter 2: It starts when you are 26 and the man standing behind your car in broad day light is peeing in the street; there is a pregnancy test in your purse, but you know that you are hollow. You are all knuckles and prayer; that is to say we do unusual things when we are scared. Chapter 3: It starts when you are 16; there is a fist in your mouth and an ache in your hips. The blood doesn’t flow like it used to, and he says a flight of stairs can be like an alter if he needs it to be. Protect his boyhood; keep your legs shut; let him pry you open like the bible. Chapter 4: It starts when you are 21 and everything tastes like tequila; the colors are brighter and smoke is sweet. Until the lights go out and you cough up ash for years. Short skirts are just as sacrilegious as the word no, but saying no is more blasphemous than ignoring it. Chapter 5: It never ends. The taste of blood on your tongue; you are a sea of blood, you are parted, split down the middle. The bloated, river-drowned bodies of all the people who have lived inside you; the sage you burn inside yourself to get them out. Girl: full of shame and fire; full of prayer and blasphemy; full of knuckles and fear; full of blood and feeling hollow. Split right down the middle; what is girl, what is shame, chew it up and spit it out. They tell you girl is a dirty word; chew it up and spit it out and leave them with the fire.

girl is a dirty word. (via looking-for-jillian)

[looking-for-jillian]

Chapter 1: It starts when you are young. It is flashes and gaps and bloody noses and the taste of bile in your throat. There is shame in the word girl and you know it before you understand it. Chapter 2: It starts when you are 26 and the man standing behind your car in broad day light is peeing in the street; there is a pregnancy test in your purse, but you know that you are hollow. You are all knuckles and prayer; that is to say we do unusual things when we are scared. Chapter 3: It starts when you are 16; there is a fist in your mouth and an ache in your hips. The blood doesn’t flow like it used to, and he says a flight of stairs can be like an alter if he needs it to be. Protect his boyhood; keep your legs shut; let him pry you open like the bible. Chapter 4: It starts when you are 21 and everything tastes like tequila; the colors are brighter and smoke is sweet. Until the lights go out and you cough up ash for years. Short skirts are just as sacrilegious as the word no, but saying no is more blasphemous than ignoring it. Chapter 5: It never ends. The taste of blood on your tongue; you are a sea of blood, you are parted, split down the middle. The bloated, river-drowned bodies of all the people who have lived inside you; the sage you burn inside yourself to get them out. Girl: full of shame and fire; full of prayer and blasphemy; full of knuckles and fear; full of blood and feeling hollow. Split right down the middle; what is girl, what is shame, chew it up and spit it out. They tell you girl is a dirty word; chew it up and spit it out and leave them with the fire.

girl is a dirty word.

[looking-for-jillian]

Sing these lead pipe bones to sleep; drag me from the couch and open all the windows until I shiver in my sleep. The gold on my nails is chipping, I am chipped away. It hasn’t been this bad in so long, day dreams about t-boned cars, crushed metal, broken glass; I am all car accident– all shrapnel, again. Drag this body into the winter, spin my wheels in the snow. Let the blood on the grass, the blood on the leaves, the blood on the snow lead me home. Let me find my back to where I was before. This body isn’t mind, this brain, these bones, they don’t belong to me. Love me until the winter winds set me free again; love me until I know who I am again, until I stop plotting my own demise. My teeth still fit in my mouth, but my bones don’t fit in my body, my skin is breaking at the seams. Drag me through autumn, until the fog cracks and breaks; until we hit the breaks in winter. I will let the light in through the cracks.

drag.  (via looking-for-jillian)

[looking-for-jillian]

it won’t happen the way you thought it would. walls don’t come down the way you see them come down; there is no wrecking ball, there is only us. that is to say there are only hands; only light; only gentle. there is no explosion, no loud and crumbling sound as they fall, there is only whispers, there is only a rising sun. it won’t happen like you thought it would; the one you love will not peel you open, will not crack your chest to finally see your heart. you will bury bodies and they will hold your hand. you will wake up one morning and roll toward the sun instead of away from it. that is to say that one day there will be no shadow, there will be only light, only love.

light. (via looking-for-jillian)

[looking-for-jillian]

it won't happen the way you thought it would. walls don't come down the way you see them come down; there is no wrecking ball, there is only us. that is to say there are only hands; only light; only gentle. there is no explosion, no loud and crumbling sound as they fall, there is only whispers, there is only a rising sun. it won't happen like you thought it would; the one you love will not peel you open, will not crack your chest to finally see your heart. you will bury bodies and they will hold your hand. you will wake up one morning and roll toward the sun instead of away from it. that is to say that one day there will be no shadow, there will be only light, only love.

light.

[looking-for-jillian]

he comes out to the living room and gets me off the couch, brings me to bed at 4am. I cry when he asks why I’m still awake; things have been difficult lately. it is a hard life to live, knowing your body is out to destroy you; the big bad you can’t escape. I crawl into the bed with rings around my eyes and a rawness in my throat. I cry about not knowing how this body works, about never being able to fix it. I don’t see as well anymore; when I cover my right eye, I can’t see anything clearly. my body is on fire and I am standing in the light of the refrigerator door; I am drowning all the signs of spring inside me. I cry because maybe we don’t all taste death in the back of our throats.

sick. (via looking-for-jillian)

[looking-for-jillian]

he comes out to the living room and gets me off the couch, brings me to bed at 4am. I cry when he asks why I'm still awake; things have been difficult lately. it is a hard life to live, knowing your body is out to destroy you; the big bad you can't escape. I crawl into the bed with rings around my eyes and a rawness in my throat. I cry about not knowing how this body works, about never being able to fix it. I don't see as well anymore; when I cover my right eye, I can't see anything clearly. my body is on fire and I am standing in the light of the refrigerator door; I am drowning all the signs of spring inside me. I cry because maybe we don't all taste death in the back of our throats.

sick.

[looking-for-jillian]

I used to live and breathe alone; I woke with the moon and slept with the sun. I used to drown in the puddles that the month of July left behind.  A lifetime ago, I kept shallow graves warm at night and was always ready to light myself on fire, always ready to go down in flames, to keep my ghosts warm. All chewed fingernails and red rings around my eyes; all raw elbows and scraped knees. I only knew the chaos of thinking you were loved, not knowing that I still had to learn the difference between love and aching; love and fear. And my anemic body wasn’t his to fix; but he let me split myself wide open to get all that dirt out; all the shame out. So when I lace myself into white dresses and wrap silver loops around our fingers; I’ll know that he taught me what it means to be loved; that I don’t live and breathe alone.

white lace. (jl)

[theglycoprotein]

When The Summer Comes (And We Have Time)

They are the stars I miss most when the clouds drown out my evening sky whilst the sun still watches their steps.  Their smiles warm her heart  like they fill mine; everything hollow  dissipates. If they were colour,  they would be lime green, baby blue,  orange and fuscia - we are the biggest mess of contradictions the world could ever bring to the walking human dictionary of earth. We are everything and unconditional.  We are family by more than blood and breath and sunlight. We are the best outcomes  of the worst situations and for me, they have been lights where before I found none willing  to burn bright enough for me to follow.  Distance is just a word, and impossible is relative to how much you believe in faith.  When the summer comes and we have time,  it will be like time stopped for us,  like it is still July of 2014 and we are all just  a collection of extraordinary pieces that hadn’t yet worked ourselves out into the most beautiful art that I have ever seen.  I never saw myself clear like this until I got mirrors that were made in their eyes. They are the stars I miss most when the clouds drown out my evening sky.  They are the ones I miss most even when the clouds are elsewhere: nothing compares. 

Dedicated to my people:  @giggletoday, @lizletsgo, @madworlddiary, @looking-for-jillian, @poppyflowerpoetry, @rise-a-knight, @nathensurman and @jaspe-froissage

[looking-for-jillian]

there’s rabbit’s blood in the sink, but I’m doing alright. I washed all the dirt out from underneath my fingernails and spit out all the broken parts. sometimes I still think about that night last spring; I get this sinking, hollow feeling. but you’re right here, to hold me together, still. some nights, there’s so much blood in the sink. but when I wake up in the morning, you’ve washed everything clean.

bathroom sink. (via looking-for-jillian)

[looking-for-jillian]

there’s rabbit’s blood in the sink, but I’m doing alright. I washed all the dirt out from underneath my fingernails and spit out all the broken parts. sometimes I still think about that night last spring; I get this sinking, hollow feeling. but you’re right here, to hold me together, still. some nights, there’s so much blood in the sink. but when I wake up in the morning, you’ve washed everything clean.

bathroom sink.

[looking-for-jillian]

soap.

You’re fifteen, and everything makes you feel dirty and violated; when your boyfriend’s baseball coach asks him how good you are in bed; finding the word ‘slut’ written next to your name in textbooks at school. Finding your boyfriend’s fingers in your mouth while you try to explain you don’t want to have sex. Explanations will never be your strong suit after that.

You’re 21 in a city you’ll never go back to; it’ll be a boy you’ll never talk to again. His hands feel like bricks against your shoulders and the fire in your throat makes it hard to speak. You clench your teeth so hard at night, it’s like you’re afraid of letting any words slip out. You’ve heard that loose lips sink ships; you’re sinking fast enough already so self-sabotage is out of the question.

You’re 23 and some nights you stick your fist in your mouth to stop from screaming; you gag on your thoughts and feel the sting of tears behind your eyes in the shower. You hold your hands to your ribcage and imagine tearing your skin off and letting all of your anger out; you lie in your bed and wish it were the ocean, you want to settle at the bottom like the shipwreck you are. 

You’re 23 and you have to remind yourself of it every day. Life didn’t stop after your first encounter with sexual assault; it didn’t stop after the second time either. Sometimes you feel like you’re bad at everything; sleeping and laughing; being a victim and being a survivor. You find yourself in tears in the middle of the day and you’re washing your hands for the tenth time- you’re no survivor. Some nights you find yourself in the hands of strangers; you look at the man you’re sleeping with and realize he looks like the boy who raped you but you keep going; you realize you’re a terrible victim, too. You throw up when you get home. 

The best kind of soap to use to mask the scent of shame is whichever brand your mother uses. You’ll use it at least six times in the shower, and the smell will consume you; your mother could never be ashamed of you. I promise.

[looking-for-jillian]

Saw a piece from thedailydoodles in a buzzfeed article today!

[looking-for-jillian]

And my sickness leaks from the pinholes in my fingers, while you breathe me into your lungs. I am all holes, all holy; which is to say there is sanctity to being sick. I am all martyr, all devil, all saint and sinner. The blood is on the sheets; leaving my crimson prints everywhere I go. I pray at night to the bloody, porcelain sink; I ask that you don’t suffer with the knowledge of my failing body. I wish to be the first to spill this melon body on to the pavement.

prayers for those who love us when we’re sick. (via looking-for-jillian)

[looking-for-jillian]

And my sickness leaks from the pinholes in my fingers, while you breathe me into your lungs. I am all holes, all holy; which is to say there is sanctity to being sick. I am all martyr, all devil, all saint and sinner. The blood is on the sheets; leaving my crimson prints everywhere I go. I pray at night to the bloody, porcelain sink; I ask that you don't suffer with the knowledge of my failing body. I wish to be the first to spill this melon body on to the pavement.

prayers for those who love us when we're sick.

[looking-for-jillian]

winter: my father’s best friend slaps a five dollar bill into my hand the night I turned twenty-one and tells me he knows my dad would want to buy me a beer. but all I can think is, I would’ve hoped he’d be sober by now. and my friends take me out, and I drink and I laugh; but when I get home I can barely stand. I wake up with a water bottle next to me, and I don’t know how it got there; all I can think is maybe there are people we can’t see, maybe the people we’ve lost never actually leave; maybe they’re there for the nights when we can’t stand and the mornings when our mouths are deserts. but my brother tells me he put the water there; and part of me sad to think that my dad never did look out for me anyway. spring: I smoke cigarettes in a parking lot with a boy who calls me Red. he tells me he wants to take me out while he texts his girlfriend back; and I just laugh and blow smoke into the sky. I am tangled in a ghost’s sheets and he tells me that he loves another girl, but my body is like honey he says; he says he can’t keep his hands off me, and I realize ghosts can’t touch you anyway. I pick my clothes up off the floor, and leave the jewelry he gave me behind. summer: there’s a girl on the bar, and she’s got bruises all over her thighs and I wonder about her family. I have a cold beer in my hand, and there’s still tequila on my tongue. a boy tells me he likes girls who have less curves than I do, and think about the way my bones used to press against my skin; how some days I wished my hip bones would tear me open, that I could spill out of this body and be rid of it once and for all. he buys me another shot anyway, and he’ll be in the room next to me while his friend latches onto my waist and buries my face and my worth in his sheets. I drive home and look at my own thighs and I name the bruises after the things I’ve lost. autumn: I told that boy and all of his pictures to go away; and I stopped visiting the cemetery where I buried myself. I stopped drinking vodka and tequila, and I stopped thinking about that girl dancing on the bar. I stopped thinking that ghosts would take care of me, and I realized that the lump in my throat was a fistful of shame that I couldn’t spit out. I watched the leaves turn gold and the pumpkins rot, and I haven’t kneeled in front of a headstone in years. there is a funny taste that guilt leaves on your tongue; it’s like copper and blood. I keep a bottle of rum under my bed, but it mostly tastes like fire, and I can’t afford to set myself ablaze for another year.

the seasons of twenty-one (jl)

[looking-for-jillian]

But wasn’t it sacred? The way you held my cracked skull together; kept all that brain matter from pouring out. And I think about the girl I was before you knew me; more blood than I could handle, all hipbones and safety pins. I can’t sleep because my teeth still feel like dry pills, like loose baby teeth. This head of mine is leaking everywhere, and making a mess. There are old stitches in my mouth; leftover consequences of being a girl. But now I am all fist and charcoal; all skull like an eggshell and skin like gravel. And it is sacred, the way you hold me together when I trip over my own ghost.

for those in love with women who used to be little girls. (jl)