It's Me.

Holy flashback, a piece written in the dog days of freshmen year.

It’s Me

Long waves crash on the ocean of her back

as bangs frame her face preparing for a picture perfect headshot;

with lips that dance like her hearts’ open flames she opens her mouth

like an oyster showcasing a valley of pearls and a cloudy puff of peppermint aroma.

Her eyes are rimmed with a delicate powder

the color of seashells, wet with the moon’s reflection.

She always thought maybe she deserved a little more

than a bed to sleep in, or the bigger piece of pie

because of all those faces that have entered

windows she swears to have had locked and

entered her body without invitation sitting oh so,

coyly on that windowsill, now chipped with secrets.

You could never tell by looking at her, but place a scale beneath her feet

and you will see that something is not weighing up

for soggy saturated memories flood the burden that is her soul,

mind carries barrels of pictures of a few not-so-precious moments she’d rather

forget. However, her heart is an open gate letting people in an out freely, but the people

she keeps there do not return the favor, for those she lets rest inside her do not exist, but

are just as real as you and I. The people who love her are the people she bans from napping beneath her chest because she hates them for the very fact, they love her.

I hope that you read this, behind black bars

know that it’s you in that faded blue t-shirt with the frayed hem with

sharp cruel eyes that don’t match your enticing smile, but rather your

actions, I hope that you read this knowing

it’s me. 

White Steed.

White steed is a key to a door without a keyhole.
Perhaps it's some security, the widening threat of never awakening.
One pinpoint to make you whole; a hunger for death's kiss fails to feed your soul.
Slip off into a dream, still pondering this loss of freedom - what is your role?

Harlow Blake, we'd call her, spat from the womb of a blackened spoon
and rocked asleep by bruised arms under a sorrowful moon,
only to be awoken each mourn with the alarm of a romanticized smack.
The ultimate maternal crime, a baby soothed on toxic milk's corrupt croon.

Misery courses through many a vein,
leaving you drooling in an all white facade,
'tis a sick recipe without a prescription, as a distorted euphoria lays across your brain.
Sanity and control: no longer can we feign.

Mama, papa, oh where to place blame?
Diluted into a puddle, drained into a cup, swallowed right up,
mere pawn in someone else's game.
So bright, so handsome, so the gentle words surround, "What a shame." 

You think that because she smiles that you turn off her dials.

Atop a stage so bare a song escapes from a virgin's cracked lips. Twas written for a creature in whom she loves, yet her glossed wide eyes fail to see a fragile face amidst the crowd. Raising her stentorian voice, she pleads someone to listen, but Erie devours and travelers trample the echo until all her lover receives is nonsense. Surprisingly, her already heavy veins make room for chagrin. Acceptance that you've heard nothing plants the seeds of respite and leads her offstage with naked shoulders.

Is it me or is it her in whom you wish to destroy? Am I truly this intuitive or is it just paranoia? Violence is not a fancy among the educated nor the warrior, so who is the vain one, is it I or is it you?

Bedroom floor heaps because whores aren't allowed "Good Mornings."

Still wearing her sweatshirt, I curl into you so the name serves as a split between us. The same name that you and I both know means nothing because tonight, the only thing that will be wearing it is your bedroom floor. Put your arms around me and tell me that no one will love me better than you do, because this time I’ll try to believe you. Is life nothing more than pretty song titles and the lyrics to accompany them? One things for certain, storytelling is the sweetest sex I've ever had. Meeting, ringing, ignored and unanswered, the Azure Ray whisper serves as a gentle reminder of that distant, yet tarnished beam of light.

So you'll take me to some fancy doctors and get all in my head. You'll cook some exotic dinner in attempt to get something past my lips and I'll promise that I'm just doing homework on your custom ordered computer. You'll tell me that I'm beautiful without any words and I won't be awake for school tomorrow morning, but being your little Daisy Buchanan ain't all that bad.

Eating Disorders: you don't have to be a thirteen year old rich white girl.

Similarly to many concerns in our society, African American, Latina, Asian, and Native American women have more often than not gone completely ignored when it comes to our nation's perception of eating disorders. So too have women belonging to the LGBTQ community and/or a low socioeconomic class.

If minorities were to become recognized, we would be forced to challenge our notion of eating disorders as something breed from sexism that only affects white middle/upper class heterosexuals. Newsflash, sexism is not the only system of oppression leading to eating disorders nor are financially stable Caucasian tweens & teen girls the only ones affected. How does race, socioeconomic class, and sexual identity influence a woman's appetite and concept of beauty?

In addition, the median onset of women with eating disorders is eleven and over two thirds of women who have been diagnosed with an eating disorder have had the disorder more than half of their life. Why is that information significant you ask? These two statistics discredit the popular belief that eating disorders are adolescent problems or purely transitory. Further dismantling our nation's ignorant yet mainstream ideas in regards to such diseases, nearly two thirds of women with eating disorders are survivors of sexual assault. This statistic asks us to examine how one's exposure to trauma affects one's likelihood of developing such a disease. That is, how does eating become a coping strategy or medium of control , particularly in times when one's life may appear ridiculously untamed. A little nature versus nurture, aye?

Perhaps if we cast aside our outdated hetero-normative money-in-the-bank white privilege long enough to reexamine body dismorphic disorders we, as a nation, would have a better understanding of the catalysts of such disorders, and could better treat and prevent them.

Let's not forget, incidents of eating disorders among males are increasing. Obviously, body dysmorphic disorders are not limited to females. Please, don't confuse this post's focus on women as ignoring that truth.

all I ever wanted was to be fallow.

He comes inside with no bleeding or screaming. Slaps her in the face saying, “Bitch, you ain’t a virgin.” Was it all a mirage or a simple household lie? Some things are taken, others misplaced. Others, stolen. Sans invitation, just an unquenchable sickness. Hah, like that would stop them.

The problem is that once he came inside he never came out. No, not completely. Not entirely. So, tell me, how does she go on as if nothing has happened? Coal rimmed eyes mask some inner pain as she thrusts herself back into the world with a smile on her face, and a dusting of coins. She has grown so sick of secrets, yet so accustomed to being burdensome. Of course it hasn't changed her, because that'll be easier for them to swallow. Whatever works for them. It is all about them. Whatever. Whatever. 

Convinced of an existence no greater than a black hole, he threw himself inside and planted some wicked  seed that's yet to leave her. Like a night-light, the sheen of his devilish grin keeps her eyelids from falling. He's laughing now from some far off plateau, with each cackle that seed begins to blossom.

I don’t deserve to wear white, so I’ll take it in black. When the clock strikes midnight I die inside for the second time. Twelve just isn’t my number.

If you know what's best for you, don't feel safe.

Merging my feminist banter with my love for prose...

You want to run out real quick, grab a cup of coffee or see that new window display a few blocks over. It's getting dark and you're a woman, so you better not go alone. Ask your girlfriends to keep you company. Power in numbers, aye? That's not good enough. Ask a man. A few men. Preferably someone big, muscular, or capitalize on good old American racism and bring along a sturdy black man. Before you head out though, better put on a longer skirt. Make that a pair of pants. Jeans. Take off your heels. They make your ass look too perfect and you can't run as fast as you may need to in them. Converse. Converse for the win. So jeans and converse, right? Perfect. You wouldn't want to bring attention to yourself. Blend in. Be like everyone else. Everyone wears jeans and converse. Right right?

Where are you going? Avoid that street. Don't make eye contact with anyone. It sends the wrong message. You're not interested. Walk faster. This neighborhood seems sketchy. Slow down. You're bringing attention to yourself. You see a bar on the way home. One drink won't hurt. Don't drink too much. Have you forgotten you're a woman? What in the hell are you doing? You can't leave with him. Don't you dare give out your number. Have those guys walk you and your girlfriends home. Perhaps you should hold hands, so they appear more protective. Remember, lock your door as soon as you arrive home.

Most importantly, don't ever ever ever feel safe. Be afraid. Go ahead, let them use fear to control you.