A Ginger's Devotion

Our hands nuzzle
Worn ridges
Against fresh silk
Your thumb stroking symphonies
Against my cocoon flesh.

In the darkness
I burn and
Pledge.
You smolder too.

I drink your scent
As my lips skirmish the velvet
Of your neck,
When I burrow deep on
Hunt for fire against
Ice calculations
Of insomniac nights.

I blame you
For this brilliant inferno
Dancing merrily atop
Stone walls and supple flesh.

Ice Queen hearts feeble
Beside soldier prowess,
Aged in vain
For a ginger devotion
Blazed and weaved.

Francisco Morning

Today was the last morning

I woke up wearing

The leopard suit

Across my naked flesh,

An empty bottle

Nested in the spot

You should have been.



Today I woke up with my last black eye.

My skin puckered purple

Festered blue around the edges

And a patch of yellow

At the crease.



The night before I’d fallen

From the stiff new

Leather couch,

My face kissing linoleum

As your fist

Cracked my side.



The mahogany night-table cushioned my fall

Its hunkered legs staked the crevice of my ribs

As

I dropped.



You left me, there,

The shattered vase

Lay siege to the floor,

Steel shards painted

My fingers

Red.



You walked out that

Damn door.



Today was the last time I woke up crying.

The yellow satin pillowcase tear-soaked

And

Blood-stained.

The cloth faded

Every happy memory.

Sometimes I wonder why I do this to myself

Sometimes I wonder why. Why do I always choose people, situations, or things that aren't good for me. It's been that way my whole life. I try to walk away from negative situations that could really fuck me up, but they always seem to follow me. It's like an addiction. I always fall for the wrong guy, get mixed up with the wrong crowd, or choose the wrong place to be at the wrong time. It never seems to be able to fix itself and it never seems to make any sense to me.

Like right now, at this very point in time, there is a situation I should just walk away from. It's not worth my energy, it's not worth my emotions, and sometimes it sure as hell seems like it's not worth my time. I know that I should walk away, and I tell myself it's what's best. So, why can't I make my feet move?

Do You Remember

Do you remember
When you used to look at me
With a seductive smile
At your lips
And questions in your eyes?

When we used to lie awake
Until the earliest morning hours
Your hand
Curled in mine?

Do you remember
When I used to ask you
Why me?

Do you remember how I used to be?

I wondered
If I would ever
Complete the missing
Piece to my
Puzzle.

I would coil
Into the woodwork
Of my crushed velvet window-seat,
Stare off into the curves of the midnight sky,
Fingers pressed against the unruffled glass.

Do you remember the first day?

Your eyes met mine
Brimming with secrets
You dared me to
Unlock.

Do you remember
How you felt
When I walked through
The crowd
And smiled
At you,
Just you.

One Wish

I thought that this would be so much easier by now. I’m supposed to be over this by now, aren’t I? I thought things would get so much better when I didn’t have to see you, hear your voice, or remember you. Why can’t I just have that simple little wish?

This is not getting any easier. The tears still come sometimes. I thought the ache had subsided, but I was wrong. It comes back, slashing out at my fragile, healing heart that wants nothing more than to be whole again. It still fucking hurts.

Build Me Up, Strike Me Down

Sominazation Disorder. Insomnia. Chronic PTSD. Eating Disorder NOS. ADHD-like tendencies. Crazy, psycho, belong in a loony bin. Don’t talk to that girl; she’ll contaminate you. A social leper. Girl with a disability-yeah, that’s me.

Fall semester was a dark, twisted mess. It was nothing but a cycle of nightmares, tears, and silent screams. That’s all I’ve ever known-sordid, traumatic memories. It fucked up me up bad-mentally, emotionally, physically. I was a complete, absolute wreck. A concerned counselor required I go for an evaluation. Why? To prove whether or not I was crazy.

For the past five months, I have been going up to UVM once a week for Trauma Therapy. Two weeks ago, I finally had answers to what has been haunting me for so long. I finally had a diagnosis. A label. I was diagnosed with Somanization Disorder. No, don’t ask me what it is, because I barely understand it myself. But, to make some sense of it, whatever affects me emotionally or psychologically affects me physically. It started developing when I was a kid. I didn’t grow up in a stable, healthy environment, and I have no idea what one is. Hell, why would I? I was an abused kid. It’s not hard to put two and two together. I was never raised with how to accept, learn about, deal with, or interpret emotions. So it gave me a fucked up childhood and a difficult future.

I am struggling to even find any sort of evidence of what is healthy and what is stable, because for the first twenty and a half years of my life, I’ve been floundering. A diagnosis is the last thing I need to deal with. Yes, it confuses me, and yes I wish it hadn’t of happened. Some of the only positive effects that come out of it is it offered me some directions, some answers, and a lot of explanations for how I am. The way things are. If it’s one thing I hate, it’s being vulnerable, clueless, helpless, and being left wide open.

No, it doesn’t mean I’m fucked up, I’m crazy, or I’m any sort of different person. What it means is it’s just another hurdle I have to overcome, another thing that’s going to test my strength. The disorder also comes from the trauma I have experienced in my life, and in the last nine years, it’s been a lot-so it surprises me I am not a wreck most of the time. Turns out I’m actually stronger than I ever thought, and I am able to function somewhat normally.


I expected to have to carry one label, not six. Having six different diagnoses tends to make anyone wonder if they’re fucked up. I know I’m not crazy, but it’s not something I’m going to advertise to the rest of the world. I made that mistake once. The response I got was “Isn’t that a psychological disease? You’ll be okay. There’s plenty of help outside the professional. You have people who love and care about you. You’ll get better.” Never again. It doesn't change me as a person. I'm still me.

Junior year has almost ended. It’s been a hell of a ride. You want to know how it feels to be a college student coping with a disability and trying to finish everything on time? It’s hard. Sometimes I struggle to find even one iota of concentration. Some days I just don’t want to do it anymore. Having AD-HD like tendencies makes it difficult to sit still for hours on end, for class after class. My attention gets diverted in the shortest amount of time. I wish I could use my energy to focus. How would you feel if you had to fight a constant battle and grapple with your priorities on an everyday basis? Two words: It sucks.

Receiving this diagnosis wasn’t the permanent form of relief I originally perceived it to be. Instead, it just becomes another chore, and adds another to-do list to my life. Actually, it just becomes yet another secret that I have to hide. Wonderful. I already have enough of those.

Being labeled presents a whole new ballgame. The recommendations for treatment for my disorder don’t guarantee any significant solid improvements. What do they recommend for the labeled kid? Get this: cognitive behavior therapy, education on proper sleep hygiene-i.e. sleep-study, sleep log, regular habits, etc, and learn how to redirect my emotions. Piece of cake, right?

I can’t let this disorder destroy me. I’ve been through much worse than this, so I ought to be able to transition into this new idea of labels without too much difficulty, right? Perhaps. I’ve already proven that I have iron clad self-will when Life decides to bitch-slap me. So, come on labels and disorders, I’m ready to play ball. Hit me with your best shot. I dare you.

Just Like A Rose

Cultures are set within their ways, and to the outside world anything different seems foreign, “alien,” or sometimes, according to some, “wrong.” Like a lot of things in life, people tend to think that their way is the correct way of doing things, and for those who don’t follow the same guidelines, rules, or practices, many think they are “evil” or “corrupt.” The honest question is, who are we to judge anyone’s lifestyle?

While you may not agree with or believe in the practices of others, it is our common concept as human beings to live within a functioning world. In order to maintain a functioning world, we all have to practice the art of tolerance, or at least make an honest try. In order to practice tolerance (for a religion, race, culture, belief, etc.), we have to reach the concept of making an attempt to understand. Understand what? Life, love, passion, religion, birth, death, pain, sorrow, joy, laughter, power, weakness, greed, selflessness, honor, all these are felt and recognized by every single human being on this planet. And just as we each feel these things differently, we practice them differently as well. But that doesn’t mean any of us does it wrong. It just means that we stem from the same cloth, but it is our actions and our choices that make us the individuals. We all develop differently because we come from different environments, habitats, and atmospheres. But underneath all that difference is a common concept-we all have a free-will, and how we choose to shape and develop this will makes us into the “good” or “bad” people we are perceived to be. So, is it really our actions that define us? Perhaps.

In the honest, bare, naked truth, human rights will challenge the mind, the will, the spirit, even the soul. There are concepts to human rights that we can’t even pretend to understand. All we can do is make an attempt through study, discussion, even action. A lot of the questions raised about human rights are just what exactly are they? Are they a natural, guaranteed right? Do they differ for each person? Yes. Just as we each define our morals, values, and beliefs systems, human rights will have a different meaning for each of us. For some, human rights brings out the harsh, naked, bare truth of the cruelty, turmoil, trauma, torture, everything within the true ugliness of the world. No, we, as a society don’t like to think of the ugliness of the world, but of it’s beauty, wonder, and magnificence. We like to see it as one of endless possibilities and goodness. While yes, in some areas it is all those pleasant things, the reality is that there is also ugliness in this world. Much of it remains in the darkness, and only through exploration, perseverance, and countless risks is the truth brought to light.

Some people on this earth hold a passion and an understanding for human rights that others do not share. Perhaps it is because of their own pasts, possibly twist, secret, hidden, and dark, that they feel a connection with the subject and can relate to others around the world that are experiencing the same thing. No, not all circumstances are the same, but within the rubble comes the foundation of a common ground, a sort of bonding, if you will. Not all stories are the same, just like not all of us are the same. But within each story comes the concept of very similar emotions, though they are all felt, experienced, and dealt with in different ways. Some are felt in constructive ways, others are not.

Perhaps it is for the people who have their own hidden pasts that find a passion within the controversy of human rights, and feel a relief, a connection, that finally, somewhere, someone understands. Perhaps out of all the negative experiences a person goes through, they find an inspiration that could lead them to a better, brighter future. This could be there chance to use their experiences to help others, to prevent them from feeling the same sense of suffering they had to endure for much of their lives. Just as we are given free choice in this world to be what we wish, we are given the opportunity to choose a career for our own future, perhaps through the experience of a diplomat, a politician, a soldier, or a journalist who advocates for human rights.

Just as a single rose can grow on a twisted stem, yet it is the thorns that we must avoid, for they are what causes us physical pain, it is the misinterpretation and misdeeds within the controversy of human rights that causes us emotional, physical, and psychological pain, or triumph. Our very life is a balance between time, consequence, and fate. So therefore, couldn’t it be that it is the concept of how to balance both the good and the evil on this earth that gives a true meaning to human rights and just what that means to each of us? We each were born with free will to choose who we want to be, just how we want to affect this world, and how we want to live amongst ourselves and others. Just like we were given a choice at the beginning, at the end, we are also given a choice of how we want to be remembered when we leave this life.

Bittersweet Memories

I thought I was finally over this. Everything is going so well. There's so many bright stars in my near-future, and I have to pick the darkest one to see tonight. Why, why, why does this have to keep coming back. I thought that, finally, I'd be able to forget. Soft touches, soft words, burning looks, gentle kisses. Your warmth. Everything.

You have me so fucked up. So twisted, so confused, so broken.

And here, tonight, in this darkness, all I can find are bittersweet memories.

Why do I miss you?

Champions

Finally, things are taking an upturn for me. Even through all this chaos, this confusion, and the things that are determine to break me, I’m still fighting. I’ve decided that I’m not going to let the opposing forces defeat me. I’ve made it this far, so why not keep going? I’m just getting tired, tired of having to fight for every single good thing that has happened to me. For once, can’t just one good thing be given to me without any catches?

Luckily enough, Tim has granted this wish for me. At the beginning of this semester, I was so lost, so confused about which way to turn, and so I had absolutely no idea what I wanted to do for an internship. I withdrew from the world, and I barely spoke to anybody. Often, a lot of people thought I’d dropped off the planet. So, naturally, Tim became concerned about how I was doing. I figured that I better get in touch, and let him know that yes, I was still alive, even though sometimes it felt like just barely. Over the course of the semester, we met several times, and I confessed I had no idea what I wanted to do for an internship, but I had a couple of outlines for what I wanted to do with my future. So, Tim, in a series of brainstorms and excitement, actually came up with a solution, and gave me my answer. Of course, at the time, I didn’t understand everything he’d said. I probably only comprehended and maintained one of every hundred words he threw at me, but I got the general concept. To be honest, I was working through a lot of things that threatened my sanity, and well, my will to keep fighting. But, of course, I was so excited, so pleased that I was being given this opportunity.

As the weeks progressed, things just steadily worsened. It seemed like I wasn’t ever going to catch a break. I was dealing with the twisted emotions of a messy breakup, fighting a sickness that my body couldn’t get rid of, going through trauma therapy, dealing with the aftermath of the rape cases, and losing just about everything, or everyone, that I considered stable in my life. A couple of times, I just wanted to curl up in a ball and say fuck it all. But I couldn’t, it would mean giving up. No matter how tired of it all I was, how exhausted I’d become, it’s not in my nature to give up. One day, I just woke up and decided I would keep fighting, and that I was sick of being miserable. Sure, my life was spiraling out of control, but that doesn’t mean I couldn’t smile. Some days were better than others, some worse. But each day, some things seem to get easier. For once, I am completely sure that yes, I am a fighter. I am a survivor.

I haven’t slept in weeks, or when I do, despite what time I go to bed, I have been up at 4 AM every single morning. And I cannot go back to sleep. It’s annoying, it’s irritating, and frankly it pisses me off. This insomnia is getting ridiculous. But it’s just another thing on my plate that I’ll have to deal with. Hell, I’m used to it by now. Sleep is just something I wish for. Or, on the nights that I actually do get to sleep, I have nightmare after nightmare, often ones I struggle to wake up from. When I do wake up, I’m clammy, disoriented, and terrified of trying to go back to sleep. And let me tell you, these nightmares, or dreams, are fucked up. I have no explanation for them. So, while I’m up at the early morning hours, my mind is whirling a thousand miles a minute, and I am thinking about everything I have, everything I want, and everything I am willing to fight for. The biggest thing I’m willing to fight for: my future.

I will not, will not falter. I know it’s going to be another struggle, another fight, another tear, time and time again, but this is what I want. This is what I’m excited for. So, the other day, I met with Tim, and he was kind enough to buy me a coffee. We settled at a corner table in Jazzman’s and discussed everything that had happened this semester, the diagnosis, the capstone, my writing, and just what I wanted for my future. What I want is to be successful, to be happy, and to change the world. What I want is something to be excited about. And Tim gave me just that, which I’m so thankful for. So, it is official, this summer, I will be interning as an Editorial Assistant for CCPI, and working in all sort of areas that will challenge, but also enhance my writing abilities and gives me a chance to prove myself. What I’m most excited about is that I’ll be working with people from all over the world, in a variety of areas, and it will really be a learning experience, one that I am going to value so much. Unfortunately, I’ll be returning to Poultney this summer and working for Gulf, that unsatisfactory shithole, but Tim understands that I have to do what I have to do. We’re going to work around that schedule, and for the first time in almost three years, I am looking forwards to my summer after college. I am so happy, so eager for this chance to prove myself. It’s just one more step towards what I hope to be a better, brighter future.

As far as Fall of senior year goes, I’m excited for that too. For the first time, I got into ALL the classes I wanted, though it means having classes every day of the week. But I can deal with that. And surprisingly, I have an easy course load. I’m actually only taking four classes, because I have extra credits from the previous semesters. I’m actually excited about this, because an easy semester is exactly what Tim thinks I need--and I agree wholeheartedly. When I come back in the Fall, and everything settles down, Tim talked about introducing me to one of his contacts at an NGO in Shelburne, and learning about just how an NGO operates and what their projects are all over the world. There was even talk about finally, finally going to Egypt! I have wanted this for years, and before I came to Champlain and met so many wonderful people, it never seemed like a possibility. I am so excited I can barely contain myself or keep the smile from my face. I finally know what I want in my future--to be an investigative journalist who advocates for human rights, and a creative writer-and these are finally steps that are leading in that direction. For once, something is going right for me. I finally have hope that yes, perhaps I will have a happy future.

None of this would’ve been possible if it weren’t for my counselor, Jen, my understanding professors, or especially Tim, fighting for me, and along side me, every step of the way. I have never had so many people who care about me, believe in me, and are willing to do whatever they can to help me. It’s finally here, at Champlain, that I’m beginning to learn what healthy, stable relationships are, and what it’s like to actually have people care about you, and root for you to do everything you love. It’s such an incredible feeling, and each and every day, I want to prove them right, that yes, I have what it takes. No words can express how much it means to me, how much it’s changed me. I just want you all to know, I am eternally grateful. So, in these six little words that mean worlds to me, thank you so much, for everything.

Demons Evolve Answers

I want to be a writer because I want to change the world. Yes, I know that sounds clichéd and somewhat monotonous, because everybody says that-but it’s the truth. I want to do something great, I want to be widely known, and I want to make a difference. I want my voice to be heard, because honestly, given everything that’s happened, I feel like I have something important to say. And no, it’s not self-indulgent. I’d like to think I could use my experiences to help people, and make even the slightest difference.

I started writing when I was four years old. Even though I couldn’t write in anything but chicken scratch, I filled up page after page of composition books, notebooks, blank pages, napkins--anything I could get my hands on. Sometimes, even I couldn’t read what I’d scrawled, but oddly enough, I understood it, because it was always stored in the back of my mind. Writing has always been my solace, and my way of escape from what was going on around me. I grew up in an unstable environment, and never knew where I’d be sleeping each night. Some nights, it was a matter of survival for my siblings, my mother, and I. My dad would come home in drunken rages and storm about the house, shouting, at all hours of the night and early morning. Often, he was pissed off. Yeah, I’m saying it right now, I was an abused kid. I used to be ashamed of it, and it was something that I became an expert at hiding from the world, but now I don’t. I’m tired of pretending, tired of lying about it, and trying to cover up the reasons for why my own father never loved me like he should of.

For nineteen years, I was often emotionally, verbally, mentally,and sometimes physically, abused by my father. The sad thing is, it took me nineteen years to realize it. They often say that abused kids live in denial, or aren’t aware that it’s just that--abuse. So, no, I’m not going to advertise it, but if you ask me about it, I’m not going to lie. No, I don’t have any contact with my dad, or try not to anyways, and if you ask me how I’d feel if he died, I’d give you a straight answer-ask me when it happens, and I’ll let you know. As far as I’m concerned I have no father, and my mother is doing one hell of a job considering what she went through for twenty-three years.

Writing became the only way to keep my sanity, and possibly one of the only things that kept me from becoming one of those “problem children.” Every time I felt anything at all, any sort of emotion, I wrote about it. Parents are always like “come to me if you have a problem,” but I could never go to mine. So, those notebook pages and pens became some of my best friends. It’s the only thing I ever felt a connection to, because I always felt that somehow, I was…different from the other kids. I always felt like my mind processed things totally different from any one else, and nobody ever understood, or accepted, what it was like. I guess I can say that I’m used to feeling withdrawn from the rest of the world, considering I have no idea what healthy relationships, or stable environments, are supposed to be like. And no, I’m not using my abusive childhood as a crutch for anything, or an excuse, because it doesn’t change who I am as a person, it just explains a lot of the reasons why I see the world so differently. Actually, sometimes, I guess discussing my past can actually be used as a tool to help others, or maybe that’s why I’m so good at solving others’ problems, but never my own.

I ultimately knew I wanted to be a writer when I entered high school. That’s when I really had to start thinking about what I wanted to do with my future, just where I wanted to go to school, and what I wanted to go for. Before that, I had the usual childhood dreams of race-car driver, explorer, and even considered attending medical school at one point. From the time I was a child, I knew I wanted to help people and to tackle a world where so few know the harshness of it, and even the smallest things can make a difference. In sixth grade up until sophomore year, I wanted to actually be an archeologist and Egyptologist until about five years ago. Yes, Ancient Egypt holds my passion, and my love for adventure, but I’m also smart enough to know it’s not going to pay the bills. I grew up with nothing, so, no, I do not want to have nothing in my future as well. I decided to pursue my passion for writing when my favorite English teacher, Ms. Paquette, told me I should consider a career in writing, during my sophomore year of class with her. She told me I had such a fierce passion, a fearlessness, and a considerable style of voice in my writing, that I should let the rest of the world hear it. So, that’s when I decided why not be a writer, it’s the thing I’m most passionate about. And well, it’s the thing that defines me the most. So, why not follow a dream, and attempt to change the world.

I feel like I have been asked so many times about what I want to write about, but each time the answer changes. Truthfully, I want to write about everything. I want to write about love, lust, romance, death, loss, pain, sorrow, joy, exploration, discoveries, wonder, life, everything that deserves to be written about. I want to write about the unknown, the mysterious, the taboo, everything that others are too afraid to write about. Because, that’s what I do. That’s what I am. Fearless, as Jim Ellefson often told me in my writing during his classes. I write with my voice, my own thoughts, my own style, and god forbid anyone stand in my way. I don’t let others tell me what to do or how to do it, I discover on my own, and charge full force. That’s probably why I earned the nickname Trouble. Sometimes I’m a little too impulsive, a little too forceful, a little too crude, a little too careless, a little too in-your-face, a little too aggressive. But that’s how I am, and I can’t change it. Nor do I want to. It’s made me into who I am, and how I write. I write the same way in which I live--with enthusiasm, with an open, curious, colossal sense of wonder, and with passion. I live (or try to) to the fullest, so why not write to the fullest?

I’m going to be completely, absolutely honest for once in a long time. I am tired of hiding my past, tired of holding back the tears, and tired of pretending everything’s okay. The truth is, it isn’t. It never has been for me. And something tells me it never will. I have been through more, much more than a lot of people I know, than I should have in the last twenty years. I never had that fairytale. My entire life has been an unstable, rocky path and whenever it seems to get clear, some other boulder comes tumbling down. So, the only thing that has ever kept me going is my dreams, my passion, and my ability to write. It’s the only way I know how to make any sort of sense out of the chaos that is my life. No, I’m not saying I’ve been through the worst, or that others don’t have it worse than I do, but I’m not going to sit here and tell you everything is okay. It’s not, and it’s high time I use this outlet to finally let go of what’s been building up inside me.

For the last couple of months, I have been going up to UVM for a sort of trauma therapy. I was going for an evaluation of sorts, I guess. So, last Wednesday, I finally had answers to what has been haunting me for so long. I finally had a diagnosis. A label. I was diagnosed with Somanization Disorder. No, don’t ask me what it is, because I barely understand it myself. But, to make some sense of it, I guess it’s been developing since I was a kid. I didn’t know grow up in a stable, healthy environment, and I have no idea what one is. I have no idea what stable, healthy relationships are like, and even how to recognize one, or handle one. I was never raised with how to accept, learn about, deal with, or interpret emotions. So it gave me a fucked up childhood. It’s no wonder why I write with such emotion.

I am struggling to even find any sort of evidence of what is healthy and what is stable, because for the first twenty and a half years of my life, I’ve been floundering. This was the last thing I wanted dropped on my head. Yes, it confuses me, and yes I wish it hadn’t of happened. But instead of regretting this, it actually gives me some directions, some answers. If it’s one thing I hate, it’s being vulnerable, clueless, helpless, and being left wide open. No, it doesn’t mean I’m fucked up, I’m crazy, or I’m any sort of different person. What it means is it’s just another hurdle I have to overcome, another thing that’s going to test my strength. The disorder also comes from all of the trauma I have experienced in my life, and in the last nine years, it’s been a lot--so it surprises me I am not a wreck most of the time. Turns out I’m actually stronger than I ever thought, and I am able to function somewhat normally.

Along with this Somanization Disorder comes a long list of other things, among them: Chronic PTSD (which I’ve already known I’ve had since the age of twelve) and borderline ADHD like tendencies. A lot of the other things that come with it, I’d rather not discuss at this time, because it would just lead people labeling me as fucked up or crazy. But what this had made me realize is that now I have so much more to write about, so much more to explore, and so much more to know that I’ve survived. It also gives me a foundation, an outlet to reach out to others and use my experiences to help people. Not help them into experiencing the same things, of course, but help them realize they are not alone, that someone actually understands. Like I was talking to Tim about the other day, all this just gives me so much to write about, so many ways to make my voice heard. And, well, maybe in some twisted, fucked up way, it gives me a chance to change the world. It shows me that even when I’m breaking, slowly, and silently, some resistant part of me wakes up and pushes me through, determined that I keep going. It shows that I’m not ready to give up. Not yet.

So, with this long list of trauma, comes the courage to write about it. It’s a way to go into the silence and bring back what’s not being heard, what’s not being dared to talk about. The world can be an ugly, unstable place full of malice, turmoil, and heartache, and somebody has to write about it, so why not someone with a sort of experience? This, this is what I want to write about--what so many others are afraid to. People need to know, and maybe it’s me that has the right to write about it. It seems that perhaps I even have the courage, the determination, and the heart to do so. Yes, a lot of it scares the shit out of me, and tears me apart to write about, but it’s something I have to do. In a way, it seems like it’s the only way I’m ever going to heal from any of my mental or emotional scars.

How am I going to write about it, or display it as a portfolio of my work? The answer actually hit me the other day, funnily enough. I have this thick, black, leather book I write in, almost everyday. It’s filled with blank, white pages, and is probably meant to be a sketchbook, but I use it as my everything. As an account of the world and experiences through the eyes of a redhead who’s seen too much for her short life. Within the book is my collection of thoughts, my feelings, questions, answers, drawings, random sayings, poems, stories, quotes, anything I’ve ever written recently, anything that just pops into my mind. But what I think it shows the most, is the inner me, my true self that I very rarely let anyone see. The person that I’ve become so adept at hiding. I also think it shows my growth as a writer because this is it, it’s real, it’s emotional, it’s truth. A lot of writers start out with using their own personal experiences to help others, and honestly, I think I’m at a point in my life where I can begin that. I can use my own experiences, my own traumas, to inform others of how life can really be, and to do so in a collection of letters. They wouldn’t be addressed to anyone in particular, but a sort of journal--a creative nonfiction one.

I would also love to write about Egypt within these letters, because that’s the one other thing that’s held my love and passion for so many years. So, no, I don’t have a solid, concrete idea of what these letters would consist of or contain, but in truth, ideas change all the time, as often as the weather or the seasons do. All I know is I’d write in the fashion that I do, or live, everything else-with enthusiasm, interest, determination, compassion, sympathy, energy, love, creativity, and most of all, with passion. For my life would be nothing if I didn’t have passion.

Hell on Earth

Rape. It’s poison. On my tongue. On your tongue. On their tongues.
For most, it’s a taboo subject. For others-when it happens-it’s a dirty little secret that they want to shove so deep into the darkness that it can never come up again. According to some, it “doesn’t happen” or they “ask for it.” Here’s the reality. It happens. Face it.

Rapists prowl everywhere. In the darkness, the light, in shadows, abandoned parking lots, hotel rooms, bedrooms, and in secret. It could be your sister, a friend, a neighbor, or a loved one. It could be you.

Nine months ago, it was supposed to be me. Instead, it was my best friend, Leah. My other friend, Marie, was sexually assaulted. A summer night of innocence turned into a night of tears, pain, and shame. A night of Hell on Earth. For legal reasons, I can’t reveal the full story, but to make a twisted, complex story short, a playful, spirited group of friends meet a couple of boys at a gas station, exchange banter, and exchange phone numbers. Because of one stupid mistake, that night changed everything.

For months, I felt my insides dying away. Because there was nothing I could’ve done to save Leah. I felt…guilty. Guilty that I had gotten away, that I wasn’t there to save her, that I wasn’t the one who had to undergo months of extensive medical treatment and police business. All I could do was stand by and watch. That, and put my own life on hold for the time being and do whatever I could to help her through it. The night it happened, I made a vow that I would be there whenever, and however, she needed me. The guilt that ate away at me the most was that within my own mind, it always whispered it should’ve been me. I was the original one he wanted. It should have been me.

I let that night break me, slowly, silently, and secretly, on the inside. Night after night was filled with darkness, tears, and terrible nightmares. I’d wake up, panicked, clammy, and disoriented, a scream lusting to rip from my throat. Instead I screamed silently inside my own head. Sometimes, though, I cried out into the darkness, wishing it would all go away. I wished we could wake up each morning and have it all be just a horrible dream. Reality check- this was a nightmare that we wouldn’t wake up from.




For so long, I hid the pain, anger, and frustration. I kept my silent tears at bay when I could, and when I couldn’t, I hid my eyes behind over-sized sunglasses so no one could see. But they knew. Especially my mother. She watched me tear myself apart for weeks, before she finally told me it wasn’t my fault and I shouldn’t feel guilty. I had no power to stop it. She told me I needed to accept it, to deal with it, and to find an outlet. I could do one of two things: find a counselor to talk to about it, or bury it so deep inside me that it could never crawl out again.

In September I came back for junior year of college. Leaving behind Leah was one of the hardest things I’d ever had to do. I was given a chance to escape, a chance to forget about it, and a chance to start new. She wasn’t. I felt…horrible, like part of me was being ripped in two. Once here, I couldn’t escape the nightmare, no matter how desperately I tried.

I was still dying, slowly, inside. I would skip classes, or if I stayed, I would feel like the space was closing in on me. I could be sitting in class and instantly come to tears, thinking of everything. Insomnia haunted me each night. My PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder) that I developed at the age of twelve came back full force. For months, I was a wreck.

I could do nothing to save my best friend that night. I would give anything to be able to turn back time and change everything to prevent it from happening. But I can’t. Now Leah, Marie, and I must live with that.

Everyone needs to be aware of just how much you can suffer from one mistake. Every story, every victim, every nightmare is different, but what ties it all together is this: the knowledge that it will test what you, and those close to you, are made of and see if you’re strong enough to master the physical, psychological, and emotional repercussions of living through Hell on Earth.

An Ugly Truth

Rape. It’s an ugly truth that no one wants to talk about. When it happens, it becomes a dirty little secret. Many think that it can never happen to them. Burlingtonians seem to think that their city is the safest city, and nothing terrible will happen here. Reality-yes, it can. Who, when, and where, nobody can ever be certain. Rape claims its victims everyday, any time, and only one thing is certain-it changes lives forever.

Rape happens right here, on the streets of Burlington, when one least expects it. Shaken by the horrific experience, some victims report the incident to the local authorities, but most live in silence-and in fear. According to the Women’s Rape Crisis Center (WRCC), there are 522 survivors of sexual violence a year in Burlington alone. The WRCC receives 2,284 calls a year, which averages about six calls a day.

Both women and men can be victims of rape, though women’s cases are usually brought to general knowledge more so than men. Eighty-six percent of reported cases are female, while the remaining fourteen percent are male. Many of the rape victims are familiar with their attackers, ranging from acquaintances, to former partners, family members, authority figures, and the last percent are strangers.

Every minute, 1.3 adult women are raped, 78 per hour, and 1,871 per day. As few as 10% of sexual assaults are reported to the police. Victims are often raped in circumstances involving roofies, alcohol, parties, or simply walking down the street.

Survivors have one of two choices to deal with rape: bury the truth so deep inside that it never comes up again, or seek counseling, treatment, shelter, or comfort, from the dark reality, even if just for a little while.

Rape is a hard truth to accept, and an even harder truth to deal with, because the aftermath is going to be much more than anyone bargained for. Emotional, physical, and mental reactions come in waves, and can last for months, or for years, depending on the person. Two to one, they will experience feelings of shame, anger, despair, betrayal, sadness, heartache, and so much more. Physically, they could avoid eating of any sort, be extra cautious, lose trust even in those closest to them, attempt to detach themselves from the world, cease caring about many things, or vomit, sweat, and spend many, many nights crying themselves to sleep.

For some, sleep becomes a loss, as well as a terror. Nights are filled with nightmares, disorientation, tears, and terrified screams. Insomnia becomes a solace because every time they close their eyes, they relive their ordeal all over again. Some may experience a variety of mental health complications, such as anxiety, depression, or PTSD (Post-traumatic stress disorder), and it will affect them time and time again.

A woman could be at risk for rape in the same place they attend classes every day. As a female student, it is within their own best interests to be aware of the circumstances, because rape does happen right here on Champlain College campus, though it’s not widely reported. Champlain has taken steps to offer support and treatment to rape victims, or those who have had loved ones raped. The Student Life Center houses a team of counselors that are experts in a variety of areas. Though none of them specifically focus on counseling rape cases, they are still there for those who wish for help. There is no set numerical standard for cases seen a year, but even counseling just one victim makes all the difference.

Jennifer Hughes, a counselor and Drug/Alcohol Educator, is one of those sought out for treatment, advice, or just a shoulder to cry on. “This year, I have worked with five young women who have been assaulted at some point in their life and are beginning to work through what that means to them. Additionally, I have worked with several students who have a loved one who has been assaulted and they are impacted by it and they are trying to make sense of the experience as well.”

For those whose sordid experience have lead them to the shelter of a counselor’s office, or a guided word, it could be the first step towards coming to terms with the night, or multiple occasions, that has altered their life. Everyone comes to terms with it at different points in their lives, and through different ways. “It depends, some people never do, others do immediately-most people come to terms with it ay different points in time when it had different meaning to them, depending on where they are at in their lives and if a circumstance changes their perspective,” said Hughes in regards to her own experience in counseling rape victims, “some people deal with it in “waves”-they may do some treatment and take a break and then do some more-others do it all at once, other people will wait years before they are ready.”

How rape affects its victims differs as much as the colors of skin, race, ethnicity, location, reasons, and why it happens does. One thing that rape has in common with all victims, male or female, young or old, is that it “is a disempowering experience.” Sometimes, within the treatment of a rape victim, it is crucial to make sure they know they are in a safe place and it is “important to give the power back to a person by allowing them to have choice about what would support them to work through the experience.”

The knowledge of rape is a tough one to accept and understand; those who’ve suffered, and survived, must face it every single day. For many, a simple attitude of justice served would console the minds and souls of the victims, their families, loved ones, and other support systems-but it’s not that easy. Many of the rapes right here in Burlington go unreported and those guilty of the violence are free to strike again. In an ideal world, those offenders would be put behind bars and never released, but often enough, they walk away free, without so much as a slap on the wrist. “Often, people may report but choose not to press charges because there is not enough evidence to hold the perpetrator accountable, or because the court process can be lengthy and go on for years,” says Hughes. For some of those victimized by the “monsters,” “bastards,” “sick, perverted assholes,” rapists have been called, the whole court process can be a form of closure and they can make an attempt to move on with their lives. Others know themselves unable to heal if they encounter their perps face-to-face because “they will feel re-victimized if the perpetrator is not held accountable.” Whether or not a rapist is convicted and sentenced, justice is not always served for all because there are flaws in every case.

Rape breaks some, and makes others stronger. It will impact a survivor in many ways-change, shape, and help them become who they are, but “at the core everyone remains who they have always been.”

My Own Apocalypse.

So, I have discovered a new perspective. That I, Tara, the Ice Queen, actually can smile. Terrifying notion, isn't it? I forgot what it was like to hear the sound of my own laughter. It's been nice to have it fill the air the last couple of days. Apparently I do have a heart, even if it's been ripped out. It seems it can grow back. I guess I do have a soul, after all.Surprises me, even. I would have to say that Love seems to be my downfall. On the rare occasion that I do feel it, it seems to consume me completely, and tends to render my judgment blind. But isn't that the catch, they say? "Love is blind." True story. How do you even know when you love someone? What are the tell tale signs? Are there even any? Is it surprise candlelit dinners, rose-scented bubblebaths, or multiple kisses on the forehead? Is it constantly being held, even when you quick and squirm, get pissed, and frustrated because all you crave is those few precious hours of sleep? Is it your significant other clamping his arm over your writhing body, always around the waste, and removing it only when he's assured you've tired yourself out and curl up into his neck. Is it his engulfing warmth that silences and calms you? Maybe.

Maybe it was his gentle touch that soothed me throughout the dark hours of the night. Maybe it was the way his entire body encased mine, like an armored suit of flesh and blood. Maybe he was the way his lips caressed mine, fully, completely, over and over again. Lost in the nights of heated passion, claiming me as his own. Or softly, tenderly, pecks against the moist pink canvases. Maybe I was lost in abandon and lust. But when his eyes, his deep brown eyes, burned into my own blue ones, I knew. He searched me completely, soundlessly, casting his silent spell. I knew my eyes told him much. They usually masked so much, but somehow he managed to break through. I never even bothered to raise the defenses. I didn't think I wanted too.

I'd defined myself by "an us" for so long, I'd forgotten what my own separate happiness was. I was my own person, yet a different one connected to him. With him, was bliss. Without him was lost. Or was it? There was once a time when we couldn't bare to be away from each other. It was like we could never get enough. Everyday, we smiled at the thought of being able to wake up next to each other. The time apart was full of thoughts of one another, and a longing, for just a glimpse of, a word from, or a kiss for each other. It was the newlywed stage, I suppose, of the relationship. When each moment mattered more than the next. Each day waking up was full of excitement. It was like a dream, too good to be true. I never wanted to wake up.

A Fool For Love

Fuck you. Fuck you, and all we ever stood for. How could I have fallen so easily for the whole "I still love you" and "i still care about you" bullshit? It was so. fucking. easy. I still love you, even though apparently it's evident I shouldn't. I gave you everything, everything I had to give, and you gave me nothing back. Just kept taking, and then making me feel like the asshole if we ever disagreed. You were my fucking world. I'd do anything for you. I loved everything about you. Everything. The way you looked at me, the way you made me feel like I was on top of the world, the way you made me feel like I was the only one who mattered. The only one for you. You made me feel...something I'd never felt before. For the first time in three years, my heart felt...whole. I loved you so much that it hurt. Yes, as cliche as that sounds, physically hurt. It scared the shit out of me. Every time I looked at you, I fell in love with you all over again. Each and everyday, I fell harder. And I never knew if you were going to be there to see me fall. But I took a chance, an honest chance, and for awhile I believed you. I believed you loved me, was in love with me, and I made you happy. For the first time ever, I wasn't going to run from my feelings. You made me feel so sexy, so wanted, so amazing...so alive. I never worried with you. I was...safe. I once told you that being in love with you was one of the best feelings in the world. I meant those words completely. Now, I wish I could take them back and shove them down my own throat. I shouldn't have been such an idiot. I shouldn't have believed you so easily. I should never have fallen in love with you. They once asked me if I still loved you. I greeted with silence, though I know my eyes revealed the truth. I do. Absolutely, completely, entirely. And that makes me ten times more the fool.

Cruel Intentions

You’re not good enough for him.....

....

I never said I was.....

....

He’s a soldier boy now, sweetheart. He doesn’t need you anymore. Who are you?.... ....

Who am I? If only I knew. Maybe I wouldn’t keep running… I’m a country girl with big city dreams. A girl who ran away when she was eighteen. Who’s been through too much. One who can’t sleep night after night. Who, when she finally does get those few precious hours, wakes up screaming into the darkness. Shadows and cowardice haunt my nights. I’m a girl who’s been stripped and beaten, bruise upon bruise streaking my flesh. Sorrow spreading through my veins like a disease, wretched and gnarled. I’m scarred. I’m fucked up. I’m a girl who doesn’t know how to love.

Then why have you snarled your pathetic claws into him?

I love him.....

Ha, love. A pathetic foolhardy game. You said yourself you were incapable of love.....

I know I do love him. Perhaps too much.....

Ha, then you’re ten times more the fool.....

So be it.....

You silly girl, hissed in the darkness.

Do you think he loves you?....

Yes.....

....

What’s going to happen when he’s gone and traveled the world? Is he even going to want you? ....
I hope so.....
You’re pathetic. He won’t even remember you exist. ....

Yes, he will. He loves me.....
Just like he’ll “love” the next one who comes along. He’ll find someone more worthy than you. Someone who will never betray him.

I’d never do anything to hurt him.....

Bullshit. You disgust me. You’re nothing better than a common whore.

NO.....

Yes. A slut. Never anything better.

Metaphors and Similies or Pharaohs?

It’s crunch time. Within the next two weeks I have to decide my fate for the coming semester. Capstone, internships, graduation-it’s graduation-it’s an entire blur. One intimidating blur. Am I scared? Shitless. Excited? Yes. Nervous? Extremely. Confident? Maybe. Hell, I’m a bundle of emotions and probably a walking billboard for the stereotypical scatter-brained writer. Oh, well. I carry my “labels” with pride.
So, the question is, WHAT do I want to do next year? What do I want to labor over for hours, pouring my blood, sweat, and most likely, tears into? I think, THINK, I’ve narrowed it down to two choices.

1.)Poetry. It’s in my soul, and I can’t escape it. I don’t even want to try. I hope (by studying my ass off this summer to make up for crucial moments I missed due to life bitch-slapping me again) to take Jim’s Advanced Poetry next year. I know I’ll have to create a manuscript for that class, and having to create two of them may be monotonous, but I love poetry, and I’d be up for the challenge. I’ve had to create a couple of anthologies now, and well, I enjoyed doing so. I enjoyed plowing through the works of my poetry-lipped brothers and sisters and discovering inked worlds out there I never knew existed. I’m a veteran at Po-Jazz now (after Jim’s relentless recruitment), and I can tell you that when I’m up there on stage, under the lights with the music behind me, it’s the best feeling in the world. Reading my original works, feeling my body sway in sync with the rhythm and hearing my voice ring out into the night, it’s…amazing. It’s such a rush. The most incredible feeling above all that was when I narrowed in on my mother in the audience, and saw tears in her eyes. Tears of joy, awe, and pride, because her youngest daughter was finally following her passion. She knew how much poetry means to me, she knew it was my solace and savior in a shitty life, and she could almost see the magic I feel when I’m up on stage, exposing my naked self to the world (no, don’t worry, not literally). Somehow, in the root of my bones and the darkest edges of my soul, I feel like this is what I’m meant to do.

2.) Egypt. I fell in love with it thirteen years ago, and the lure of it has haunted me ever since. Maybe it’s because I was a demented little child who found things gruesome, like mummies, to actually be cool, or maybe it’s because that’s when my fire for history sparked. I don’t know the exact answer, but I do know it’s one of the greatest sources of passion I have. Hell, I must have to love it enough to have symbol of it permanently inked on my body. I guess, in a silly child’s way, it was my saving grace growing up in a shitty home life when I never knew if my father was going to come home in one of his drunken rages. At that time, I believed in what most children did, magic and fairy tales, and something about the ancient culture drew me to it. Hell, who knows maybe magic does exist, spiritually or emotionally, and it chose me. I’ve always felt an unexplained connection to it all, but as I grow older, I find myself losing grasp because I have so many other things to worry about now. It’s not as simple as escaping life and studying an ancient culture anymore. It’s about being realistic and having priorities and sometimes putting passions on the back burner. Ha, it seems like I’ve had to do that a lot lately. But this is something I’d be in heaven writing about for three months. But the question is, based on suggestions by the wonderful Jaime Berry and lovely Alli Neal, do I write a poem, a play, a course, essays, what? Honestly I don’t think I’ll have the answer until I do it, or make an attempt. I think it’ll be like a lot of the things in my life, leap head first and thing about the consequences later, as I live it-and write it- with passion.

Courting Demons

You’re pretty good at hiding things.
I look at you, scathing laughter bubbling at the edges.
It comes easily now. You’d be too, if you had no choice.
Secrets and discretion have become a game, at which I am a master. I’ve learned to shield my eyes from those who seek to stare, and I’ve hardened myself to the emotions that once threatened too much. Sometimes I believe poison runs in my veins.
From you, I’ve hidden the worst truth of all.
I love you. Gut-wrenching, nauseating, consuming love.
How? You’ve managed to burrow beneath my skin.
I must tame this creature.
I look at you, and want to shrink back.
I hold my ground.
You know. How could you?
Your eyes say, “I do.”
Shock. Surrender. Fight. Armor. I must banish this demon.
Why?
Because it’s forbidden.
Why?
It’s dangerous.
So?
It could destroy you. Destroy me. Destroy us.
Is it worth the risk?
Could be.
It’d be delicious in its own right.
It’d cause a scandal.
Who gives a damn?
I feel your brown eyes searching me thoroughly, burning straight to my soul. Or the little I have left of it. My blue eyes oppose their own.
I have too many demons.
Who doesn’t?
You wouldn’t understand.
These eyes, these blue eyes that stare at you now? For months, they’ve shed blood tears.
I could help.
And what? Attempt to save me? No. I don’t need a savior. I never have.
Never will.
I can-
No. No, you can’t.
I’ll giv-
Give me what? A false sense of security?
No. An escape.
From what?
The world.
I stare at you in disbelief. Your hand twitches, itching to touch me. I close my eyes and force myself to let everything go.
That’s the last thing I need.
You turn to me, your eyes full of fire. Thick with ice.
You don’t believe me?
No. I’ve learned not to believe in fickle fairy tales.
I love you.
Well, that’s all well and done, but it’s not going to change things.
It’s a solice. You are heartless?
No. I had one, once. I had a soul too.
What happened to them?
They were ripped out long ago.
How?
Too much.
You are an Ice Queen.
Yes, I am.
You cup my weathered face in your palm, stroking the smooth pad of your thumb across my bottom lip.
I could try.
I close my eyes. This hurts too much.
No. Someday I hope to find peace. But I must do it on my own.
I love you.
And I you. But it’s not enough.
Isn’t it?
No. It never has been.
I kiss your palm. Fighting back tears, I break your gaze.
For the last time, I walked away.
From everything I once knew.
From you.

A Ginger's Devotion

I speak nothing
For secrets in
My silence
Have said much.

Our hands nuzzle
Worn ridges
Against fresh silk
Your thumb stroking symphonies
Against my cocoon flesh.

In the darkness
I burn and
Pledge you smolder too.

I drink your scent
As my lips skirmish the velvet
Of your neck,
When I burrow deep on
Hunt for fire against
Ice calculations
Of insomniac nights.

I blame you
For this brilliant inferno
Dancing merrily atop
Stone walls and supple flesh.

Ice Queen hearts feeble
Beside soldier prowess,
Aged in vain
For a ginger devotion
Blazed and weaved,

In silence, given.

Poetic Theories, Bubble-Wrap Suits, and Walking With Pharaohs (Or How I'd Like to Spend Senior Year)

I started writing poetry in eighth grade. Years prior, I absolutely hated it. Two weeks into eighth grade, I loved it. I’ve had several notebooks filled with my chicken scratch stanzas and line breaks ever since. Since I came to Champlain, I discovered that I had a passion, love, and appreciation for poetry that ran deeper beneath my flesh than I thought it could. Sometimes, I tend to think that poetic words run through my veins. Next year, I will be taking Advanced Poetry with Jim Ellefson, even though I have to study my ass off this summer before hand. I don’t care. I told Ellefson I would do whatever it took to be able to continue my study of poetry. For the past couple of years, I have dreamt of turning my chicken scratch into something more. I think for a capstone project, I’d like to consider putting together a collection of poems that I could send off for publication.

I’m Life’s plaything. She seems to get quite a thrill out of bitch slapping me. Everyone else seems to get a laugh too. Hell, I even get a laugh out of it…now. When I look back over the past four years, I realize I’ve been through a lot of shit that would probably make an amusing short collection of personal essays, especially with my most recent endeavor…falling down a flight of stairs. Ha, you should see the reactions I get when I tell people. Initial impression? Shock. No, I wasn’t drunk. No, I wasn’t pushed. And no, my boyfriend did not hit me. I promise. It was sheer clumsiness on my part and lead to quite a nasty tumble. Luckily for me I’m a veteran on crutches, eh? I’m becoming a regular at the hospital and doctor’s office now. I swear, they’re going to get to a point where they know me by face. Well, for a couple of weeks, Tim and I bantered through a serious of emails. I liked them. I feel they like they could possibly turn out to be an interesting piece…especially when I include bubble-wrap suits and giant hamster balls.

What would I love to spend the next three months learning and writing about? Come on, Tim, I think we all know the answer to that question. I’ve known it since I was seven. I would love to spend three months writing about Egypt, especially Ancient Egypt. I’ve lost touch with my inner Egyptian over the last couple of years, but I want to rekindle the spark I once felt when looking, touching, and reading about the culture that had become so dear to me. I want to renew the intense feelings of passion I have spending hours in a darkened room, pouring over the pages portraying papyrus sheets filled with ancient spells and tales of love, loss, power, triumph, courage, murder, sorrow, joy, mysterious, and wonder. I have never been able to explain the waves of emotions that run through me when I surround myself with whispering words of the ancient pharaohs, other than it feels like…pure magic. I think perhaps if I spend three months renewing my relationship with Egypt, perhaps I can find the long-sought answers to my many questions. Someday, I WILL end up questioning the sphinx, climbing the pyramids, and walking with the pharaohs.

Child's Eyes

The silence in the house was deafening. I was snuggled deep beneath the caves of my sheets and Beauty and the Beast comforter. My door was snugly secured before I entered the fields of my dreams.

I remember being shaken awake by my mother. She was trying to hide her frantic fear behind a mask of calm. But yet she still grasped my arm and dragged me out of bed.
Mommy? What’s going on? I asked, my fists wiping the sleep from my eyes.

“Just stand there. Hush now,” she’d said.

So I stood there, shivering in my blue pajamas, with teddy bears playing baseball all over them. The shirt had the teddy’s face on my tummy, a sideways ball cap perched on its head. These were my favorite. I huddled with my sister and little brother, unsure why Mommy was so upset. So angry.

The he came home, worn leather cowboy boots crunching on the gravel of the driveway. His face was a mask of anger, of pure hatred.
“Give me the fucking keys, Vanessa.”

I heard them arguing, their rising voices echoing the darkness. Why was Mommy crying?
Smash.

I remember the window shattering as steel fist connected with glass. Blood ran down his arm, and droplets decorated the grass. It painted a picture on the blue, wooden screen door.

“Go! Get the fuck out of here, you bastard.” Mommy tossed a patchwork kitchen towel at his snarling face.Fists snatched the keys roughly from her outstretched hands. Even at that age, I knew he would have liked to break her fingers.

“Fuck you,” were the last words he spoke. I knew then, even at four years old, that I would always be left standing on the edges, watching his retreating back.

He stalked down the driveway, cursing her and cursing us, the towel masking his bloodied hand.

Like it was our fault.

He left us standing there, shivering, and scared, on the edge of our lawn. Mommy was shaken up, her fists clenched, but she tried to pretend everything was okay.
To protect us.

My sister wailed into the night.
“Shhh, Baby, it’s not your fault. You’re okay,” Mommy silenced my sister.
She knelt then, her knees on the gravel, and wrapped the three of us in a bear hug.
Like her arms were the armor, the fortress against the evil of the world. She would do anything to shield us from the pain thereafter.

I stood there, my tiny fingers rubbing her back. I hugged her with everything I had. But still I stared over her shoulder at the driveway, where the blue Caddy should’ve been. My blue eyes searched the darkness for any sign that we was still there.
I was greeted by emptiness.

My heart broke then, a gouge larger than my murmer growing rapidly. I was already born with one hole in my heart, but he, he’d created another one. He would never kneel before me, as Mommy did, and wipe away the tears from my innocent blue eyes.

Battalion

To write “Love” on my arms
Is a self-declaration against
Everything I have suffered in the past.

Mutilation
Starvation
Depression
Sexation.

Do those four letters
Written in
Ink
Shout defiance
To the skies?

Love as protection?

A shield against the swarming tides
Of evil that dare to pry
Innocent eyes?

A solid stone through the raging
Storms.

Love, they say, protects all.

Love, the forbidden, whispered
In the dark.

Love, can it save someone like me?

Who cries silent tears,
Clawing through an invisible veil
Searching for salvation,
For an escape,

From the monster
within.

The monster with gnarled,
Scaly claws.
That uncurl from the hallowed
Caves of skin and bone
Beneath my fingernails.

They grow
Four inches
Five,
Then, six.
Until their steel coats
Glisten in the light.

Light?
When they are messengers of darkness?

How they tear and dig,
Burrow their cruel blades into
The plains of my skin,
Dragging their ruthless daggers
Through
The fields of my heart.

They gnaw away to
Skin
And
Bone.
A mangled corpse
Walking on iron legs.
They wash their ands
In throws of
Blood.

In the darkness they rule
Fearless
And
Strong.
But when light dare peak through
Like ancient scouts scoring the
Forests for hidden archers
Before a great battle.
Ignoring life’s predestined heeds.

Love’s battalion charges,
Ripping the veil,
Bringing the
sun to
These frozen fingers.

Slowly, carefully,
They crawl
Inch by inch
To rescue
A tattered shield of
Calloused eyes.

Can love save
Those innocent eyes
Held prisoner by
Hell’s Battle
Inside the mental prison
Of a
Soulless Devil Woman.

Can love save someone like me?

I Can't Love You

There are so many things it could be…
Broken hearts, false promises, whispered nothings
In the dark of the early morning hours
But could it be, simply, that…

I’m a city girl and you’re a country boy.

I saw you with her
Nestled under street lamp’s grinning glow
Hands laced like new running shoes.

You, in your size 11 work boots,
Mossy Oak hat cocked sideways,
Khaki Carharts smeared with grease
From monkey-wrenching the engine
In your ’95 extended cab Chevy.

She matched you perfectly
In a Fox Racing hoodie and gray thermal
Under a camo jacket.
Distressed denim boot cut jeans
And loggers on her feet.

I hibernate in coffee shops,
A black and white speckled journal at my side,
Face peered close to the cavernous pages of chicken scratch
Hands stained with ink kisses.

I dance about the streets
In the middle of the night,
steps carried by music wings,
playing tag with sweeping trees.

I sleep on sheets of tar
Waiting for Sunset’s call
And Midnight’s shouts close to my ear.
I can’t love you.

I’m a country girl and you’re a city boy.

I call a rickety old house,
Wearing a coat of peeling paint
Numbers scrawled in Sharpie
Sunken steps leading to a flapping door-
Home.

I’m enslaved daily by Midway Oil company
My fingers cramped and soles worn from
Thankless hours for shitty pay,
Floundering for paper satchels
Harboring bread, milk, and peanut butter.
Spare cents given to Mama Dukes
To help with the month’s rent.

My chariot’s a ’95 Mercury Tracer,
A white bundle of junk.
I call him Murphy.

I wear worn jeans, two sizes too big
Wife beaters, usually in black, purple, blue, or yellow
Underneath a Pac Sun hoodie I’d picked up for 20 bucks
And black DCed skate shoes or brown work boots,
Youth size seven.

I’m a ginger she-devil
You’ll hear my language of fists and
Elvis Presley lip curl
That’s how I do,
A country girl from Southern Vermahhhh.

You swagger the city streets
In your Abercrombie Jeans and $90 dollar kicks
Silver pin-striped button down slid underneath a jacket
Of jet-black leather and chrome zipper.

Tonight, under the parking cone orange and florescent yellow
Glow of Finnigan’s Pub
Against the circles of AC DC, Buckcherry, and Lynrd Skynrd wamping
Through the gold trimmed double doors and walls of brick,
You own the world.

You’re a motor-head in a 3000 GT
Sleek black and chrome racing stripes
To match the sexy leather armor you don
When you saunter your seductive steps.

You call a three story,
Red brick and gray shingled,
Cherry stained wrap around porch-
And French balcony doors that smirk
At the crumbling, sniveling wooden elders-
Home.

You rule Epic Records
Fourth level corner office,
Silver-gray walls
Black masses of steel and titanium
And mountains of comfy chrome,
20-inch monitor sharing
Your satisfied smirk as you play rock-band
With Bic pens against the cherry surface of your desk.

We’re worlds apart, you and I
I’m trouble and you’re the golden boy.
The future’s been handed to us
Though different paths we take.

We’re a pair of aces
In this secret web woven just for two
You and I.
You’re my sexy leather legend,
And I your ginger spitfire.

You’re my country boy
Counting the stars in the back of your Chevy
Snuggled under a thick fleece blanket,
Kissing the night away.
I’m your city muse,
Wistful lines of metaphor and simile
Rock wrapped words and leather armor
Poetry lips and ink kissed hands.

Most nights, I can’t love you.
You’re a country boy and I’m a city girl.
But for just one night, maybe I could love you,
Because I’m a country girl and you’re a city boy.

Shatters

My turquoise Chevy Cavalier swerved off the road, and suddenly I found myself trying to push the rubber of the brakes against the carpet of the floor as I tried desperately to stop. The tires refused to halt as I continued to skid at 30 miles an hour along the grass and packed dirt of the cornfield along the Hubbardton road. There was nothing I could do, except stare out the cracked windshield at the expanse of trees that approached faster and faster. Terrified, I gripped the wheel, my knuckles white from trying to regain control. CRUNCH. Steel met hard, solid bark as my Chevy collided headfirst into the trees. I didn’t even have time to scream.

I can’t remember much after that, other than a handful of jumbled images. I looked out the shattered windshield to see smoke rising out of the totaled car. I do remember my feelings, however. Though terrified, I had the sense enough to unbuckle my seat belt and know I had to get out of the car. I remember my door not being able to open, and there was no way I could get out the passenger side. Thankfully I had manual windows and could climb out the driver-side one. I remember intense pain all over my body, and feeling stiff. I remember struggling to walk on my left leg because the pain was agony, but I bit it back. I needed help.

I remember a couple pulling over, and seeing my car rammed in the tree, and ran over to help. I know I had them call my mother, and I heard them call the police. The next thing I remember is waking up, looking up at the people staring down on me. I was on a backboard and in so much pain I wanted to scream. But as always, I didn’t. I remained silent and calm. I looked over in the distance, far to my left, and saw my mother, brother, sister, aunt, and my sister’s boyfriend standing along the edge of the road with the police officers. I focused on my mother. Though I couldn’t see them, I knew her eyes shed tears. This was the second time she had to see me lying on the side of the road, not knowing if I was dead or alive. I hoped it would be the very last time she’d ever have too.

What I can tell you is that April 30, 2009 I brushed with death for the third time in my life. In a period of just nine short years, I’d had three car accidents. The first time I was hit by a car two weeks after my twelfth birthday. The second time was the previous December. I had worked a twelve-hour shift and then tried to bring a friend home at three in the morning. In exhaustion, I fell asleep behind the wheel and went off the road. They told me if I had gone an inch further, I would have flipped my car, totaled it, and died. The third time was the day I came home from college, much of which I can’t remember now unless I try very hard. I do know they told me I was lucky to be alive, let alone be able to walk away. I suffered a broken left hip socket and torn left knee tendon. I spent two months of my summer on crutches and reliving the aftermath of my now-full swing PTSD. I knew I was lucky to escape death a third time, but even then, they told me my hip would never heal completely. From past experience, I knew I would never completely heal both physically and mentally.

Since that day, and in my months of recovery, I turned towards my writing as a comfort and a solace. I was laid up for most of the summer, so I couldn’t enjoy everything I should’ve been able at a young age of 19. Experiencing the near-brush of death three times in my life, I consider myself lucky. I guess I’m meant to still be here and fate has bigger plans for me, whatever they may be. I did walk away with one thing: I don’t view this as a regret, I see it as a learning experience. I take each day as it comes and now I live life to the fullest because I never know when it could be taken away from me. I write about anything and everything I’m thinking, anything I wonder about, I am angry, sad, happy, etc, about. I write about what I want to do in the world, or I write about my past, or what I’m afraid of. I have always written from the heart, but within these months of recovery I learned to be fearless in my writing and write about things I’d considered Taboo before. I learned to write with my instinct, my voice, and with courage. What I noticed I wrote about the most was hope. Hope and the ability to dream of a future I wouldn’t have if I hadn’t been so lucky.

Rock and Roll Therapy

Oh, Baby,
There’s nothing like
rock and roll in the morning.

The sun shatters
shuttered windows,
kissing me awake.

I roll out of the warmth
of the tangles of
my pink
Jungle Cave.

I fumble for the
magic switch that’ll
wreak havoc and
shred the system.

The tunes bulldoze
straight to my soul,
makes my hips shake
and
my booty sway.

Baby,
When those notes crank the air,
they’ve got the whole ground a shakin',
shivers down my spine,
smokin' loud beats,
I’ve got that rollin’ swagger.

The tunes rocket ship the walls,
I slither on the back beat,
booty shake and head-bang
My bare feet crush the
sobbing carpet.

Tousled, lions-mane hair,
baggy, red cotton tee
and
pink leopard Vicky’s panties,
my voice soars with the roar of
AC/DC serenading through
the black dotted speaker box.

For those morning moments,
I’m a self-declared
Super Nova.
I run New York. I run LA.

Baby,
When those notes crank the air,
they’ve got the whole ground
a shakin',
shivers down my spine,
smokin' loud beats,
I’ve got that rollin’ swagger.

I’m busy hips and quick fists
in denim and leather,
two tattoos and eleven piercings.
Show cased curves
and tight lines,
heeled boots and shine.
Fuck you,
I’ve got that rollin’ swagger.

Bitch Slapped

So, here I am, in this white and black spinny chair, trying to fathom the fact that in just a few short months, I will officially be a Senior. Where the HELL did all the time go? I have to start planning internships, scholarships, jobs, and plan out my life for the next two years. How the hell am I supposed to know what I want to do in the next two years, when I don't even know what I want to do in the next two weeks? The fact that Life has decided to dub me the unofficial title of her plaything is really taking it's toll. I've already fallen down the stairs, do I need to be bitch slapped too? You know, I feel like I am just going to be bounced off of walls until she sees how much I can take. Well, Life, what else do you have to throw at me?

Live Journal

So, I've also posted some things I've written on Live Journal, so check me out there too...

Realizations

So for my Portfolio 2 class, we had an assignment where we had to write about three things that have changed us as writers, and well, I really like two of the things I wrote about. I've been doing a lot of thinking lately, and I have realized how much I have matured in the last couple of months due to circumstances that were well out of my hands. Sure, sometimes I still get angry or frustrated about this one, but I don't sit there crying about it. I just realize how much it's made me change my perspective on the world, and how much I have opened up and grown because of it. It also made me think about how much I am so thankful for discovering and experiences the second one. I will post them on here, but right now I'm just too lazy to.

Virginal

So, I'm new to the whole blogging thing. I have a few "notes" on Facebook and a flew blogs on myspace, but I figured I'd create a space where I can come and spew out my thoughts, discuss current events, or use it as a place to store my work. Also, I thought it'd be a mature way to grow and develop as a writer, without having to deal with the bullshit of twentysomethings who say they're "mature" but act like little girls. This is a drama free zone, thanks.