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[lunarenee1512]

balancing act

I think the kindest people are those with the largest capacity to me unkind. I think choosing to be kind is like walking along a cliffs edge, because falling would be so easy. so easy to fall to snark, and insults and hatred but harder to stay balanced on that edge. 

I think the kindest people have that capacity because they have felt the depths and the impact of that fall, they have felt the effect of others cruelty, been dragged down with others as they jump off the edge and so recognise the need for compassion. 

the kindest people often find themselves on that edge, locked in a constant balancing act, yet choosing to be there anyway. 

[lunarenee1512]

Without you

I don’t think I would be who I am without you. Not because you've made me more, not because you’ve taught me lessons or because you’ve made me stronger. I wouldn't be this person if you hadn't happened, and I wouldn't want to be, because I find immense comfort in my suffering, this hurt has simultaneously made me feel dead and alive, I love the pain you have brought into my life. 

How fucked up is that? is that a childhood thing? Is that a me thing? Maybe Im just too far fucked up to even know. I don’t think I know how to exist without being in pain, in active suffering. I don’t even want to try. 

[lunarenee1512]

Mothers tears

I have made my mother cry more times than I can count. So much so that her tears have no affect on me, they are wet, tiny balls of water sliding down her crumpled face, from red rimmed and glassy eyes, yet their connotation, their meaning, their emotion? Gone.

 I have made my mother cry more times than I can count. Her tears are regular and routine based. Her tears fall after words of hurt, they fall after moments of love, they fall after actions of defiance. They fall after. 

My mother has made me cry more times than I can count. My tears, they fall during. 

Hers fall to distract, disown or direct away from her actions, they fall to manipulate, to divert, to redirect. Her tears fall after. After she has said the thing she will later regret. After she has ripped and pulled at the spots she knows are tender, soft, delicate. After she has been called out for her selfish tears. They are wet tiny balls of water, she uses like knives, honed and polished underneath a crafted crumpled face and stored for efficient use behind red rimmed eyes made glassy by the reflection of polished silver. 

I have made my mother cry more times than I can count. She uses her tears as weapons whose cut no longer seems to make me bleed. But the sight of them, the lack of emotion behind them, makes me yearn for the reality, for the time when I did not know the cut, the shape, the routine of her tears.

[lunarenee1512]

Hair

There is something so disgustingly feminine about shaving your armpits. Not simply removing the hair that grows where its supposed to, but the actual act of checking the mirror before leaving the house, in an outfit designed to show the arms, the shoulders, and inevitably, the place between the two. The embarrassment of raising your arms above your head only to find coarse hair growing there, razor bumps framing the patch of over mowed hair, and à graying shadow acting as the backdrop of your own personal garden. The femininity of it all, is striking, its disgustingly normal, its done, its encouraged. Yet as I stand here in à black slip dress, makeup done, hair mused artfully, and nails stained red, I find sensuality in it all. For this action, raising my arms above my head as i fill the sink with lukewarm water and hastily reach for the shaving cream, razor in hand, face hair and dress on, I do not find myself embarrassed for letting the hair grow, or annoyed with its inconvenient presence, but struck with normalcy and seduction. Despite the revelation that, guess what? body hair is normal, I raise the razor and once again shear the hairs that will simply grow back, i look into the mirror again, and find the rough, seductive perspective gone, now simply seeing me, dress hair face on. NOW desirable. À woman again. I leave the bathroom. 

[lunarenee1512]

Maroon

If you force us to bite our tongues until we bleed, then we will stain our lips with it. Because blood has always belonged to women, we have bled for men since the day each and everyone of us were born, it has а permanent home between our teeth as our tongues scar from held in words and silenced truths. We will reclaim the colour used to shut us up. 

[lunarenee1512]

how?

I am in disbelief that you do not know what you did. 

You have made me question everything about that night. I told my friends before the night even happened that I did not want to get with you, to not let me get with you. I told you that I was confused and that it would make things hard 

“I dunno” “I dunno” “this is going to change things” 

I said this to you with my head in my hands shaking my head looking away from you.

You were kneeled in front of me sat on the floor 

You told me that I wanted it 

“come one I know you want it” “i can see that you want it” 

I honestly can't remember if I gave you any indication to continue but even if i nodded slightly I was extremely uncomfortable and felt forced into the entire thing 

You pulled my underwear down my legs 

We ended up on the floor 

Lying down 

My head was against the door you reached up to close 

I was bannging against it 

You shoved two fingers in 

You kept going 

In and out in and out in and out over and over 

You were going too fast 

Too hard 

It hurt 

I struggled underneath 

I was mumbling for it to end 

“ok “ “ok” 

I tried to sit up, i tried to raise my hands 

“Come on” “ok” “please” 

I had to sit up and push you away HARD for it to end 

It wasn't violent like in the movies 

I wasn't screaming no or stop 

I think i just accepted what was going on 

I didn't even know what it was after. I knew I didn't like it. I knew it felt bad. I told people that it felt bad. I explained exactly what had happened a few weeks later and was told that it wasn't just a bad experience. It was rape. 

I told myself no 

That I had lead you to it 

That i HAD wanted it 

I told myself that it was fine 

That day you came to school I knew what it was but I had no clue how to go about understanding it 

I was so shocked i was so hurt i was so lost 

You made me feel so incredibly lost in my own head 

I still replay the moments asking myself if it really happened 

I called people every night for weeks, I called people outside of the house because I refuse to let my parents know. I don't want their pity or sympathy 

I called people shaking and sobbing replying the moment over and over 

I called people telling them i thought i was crazy because I was hearing you voice seeing your face feeling you everywhere 

I stopped eating properly for months I started to hurt myself to feel something 

Because you left me numb 

I wasn't afraid of the thoughts that were rushing in my head telling me to end it to hurt myself, I wasn't even aware it wasn't normal 

I couldn't see your face for months 

I couldn't listen to people talk about you for months 

I had fights with people over the fact I couldn't look at you without breaking down 

I had my friend not believe me, someone i trusted with the information and they used it against me 

I felt small 

I felt weak 

I feel so so so so lost in my own body 

And now this

Now you refuse to understand 

To listen 

To apologize for something that was so clearly wrong 

You tell me that it was nothing 

You tell me that it didn't even happen 

You paint the night in a completely different way that it happened

You make me feel crazy, lost, stupid about how I remember it 

You've made me question myself 

You've made me question everything about that night 

You've made me question how the fuck i am supposed to keep going from here 

And now now you've done this 

You've blamed me 

Made it my fault that you have lost friends, reputation

You've shut me up 

In the worst way imaginable 

You've ruined me 

again

You will keep running me and i can do nothing to stop it 

You control my life

And you control MY narrative 

[lunarenee1512]

When did people stop wanting to climb trees? what's the socially acceptable age to climb your last tree?

Me, a question

[lunarenee1512]

roll with the punches

I hate my life. 

I hate that I keep getting hit whilst im down 

beating after beating before i even get a chance to suck in a breath 

sharp nails are dragging and scratching at the scabs of wounds that are just barely healing, hot, fresh blood running over the scars you left on skin untouched

do I want to get up anymore? Do I even what to try? why would I, when I know what awaits me? When I know where I will end up again

maybe it’s better just to be beaten, to roll with the punches, to stop fighting, to stop trying to get up when I know the reff wont call the round, when that’s just round 2 of 3 and I have no fight left

no strength left 

no breath left to enter the ring again

So let's just stay down this time, endure the hits to the gut that leave me breathless, the hits to the limbs that paralyze me, the hits to the throat, which render me silent. 

let's just wait, for that one hit, that one punch while im down that will make everything go quiet, blank, peaceful, wait for that one sweet hit that will finally let me leave the ring. 

away from the biased refs, the pounding of your foot, your fist, and away from the seemingly endless rounds. 

because i'm tired, so tired, and beaten, and bloody, and ruined beyond repair in areas you will never see, that i will wait for that hit to the head, to make the game finally stop. 

roll with the punches they say. Yeah. I think I will.