dark

If I tell him, he’ll never see anything but the scars…

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So, hey pups. Happy Sunday fun day! My mum and I went to see my granny this afternoon. She had a good day. She had a good day yesterday as well. My little sister was home for a few days as well, so she and I went to see our granny yesterday…we sat outside on the patio. My sister had her first day of her new job at a National Park today! Apparently it was great, and stressful? I don’t know…anyways..I have a poem to share with you today, I wrote it this morning…I….I wanted to write it for someone whom, I feel I owe an explanation to…and I hope they understand why the untouchable places that I have…exist.

Soft hands, aren’t as easily accessible as I wish they were; sometimes trusting people, can almost get you killed.

I remember the night those hands touched me for the first time, your fingers wrapped around the back of my neck, your arm pressing harshly into my chest. I couldn’t breath, I was unable to move, you forced your way into my world. I wasn’t even scared of you, we were friends. I trusted you, I thought you cared about me.

The air was warm that night, despite it being mid December. When you were done, and you released my throat, I took such a panicked gasp of air, you slapped me. Your knuckles collided with my cheekbone so hard, I heard a small crack. My legs couldn’t hold me upright any longer, they collapsed underneath me. You hauled me up by my forearm and threw me back into the passenger’s seat.

For years, I tried to cut your image out of my nightmares. Your poison still runs in my veins, I fear I’ll never be rid of it. There is not one person who knows the whole truth about all the unadulterated evil you placed inside of me, and I hope one day, I will be able to cleanse these wounds of your name.

Sometimes, late at night, I hear a scratching underneath my bed. I know monsters exist, but you made me one of them, and I am not afraid of you any longer. Now, what terrifies me, is one day, a good man will unzip my soul, and find these pieces; this mess I still carry around inside of me, and he will think me unclean. I have never let a good man love me, because good men, should not have to clean up after monsters.

There was never any new sounds.

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You know what I remember most?

The silence.

I spent years wrapped up in you, after we met on a calm summer night.

Summer breezes now remind me of your hugs, and I hate that. The late summer night we spent tucked into each other in your jeep was the first time I’ve ever let a lover see me cry. You held me soft, for the first and last time that night. It’s strange to think that it’s been almost four years now, since we met.

Sometimes I think about our last fight. We screamed so loudly at one another, you threw the weight of your passions at me, but it didn’t matter in the long run. We never listened to each other. We were like refracting magnets, always at odds. Eventually, we fell apart. Like an ancient sculpture in a flooded courtyard, the only thing we could do was leave.

We weren’t meant to stand together, I know that now. You always slept on my side of the bed, I could never get used to that. I had only ever dreamed alone, now I lie awake and wonder how I ever did.

The first time someone asked me if I missed you, I didn’t say yes. I hadn’t been lying, I didn’t miss you. I only longed for parts of you, not the whole thing.

Like, your arm. Not both, just one. The one that fit so perfectly under my neck at night. The one that coiled around my shoulder like a snake, holding me in place.

Your love was less like a hug, and more of a vice. When you held me, it felt soft. Your grip was strong, but it felt as if I could shatter if I tried to break loose.

In the end though, I didn’t shatter. I burst into an urgent flame, the heat from my chest sears off parts of you I had wanted to keep.

We loved like a heat wave; warm, but suffocating.

I hadn’t meant for our love to look like this. We turned in on ourselves like crumpled bits of paper.

There hasn’t been one part of me since, that has reallly wanted to turn around. I knew that last day, I had to leave you behind me. The last time I saw you, I knew I had made the right choice. You had turned yourself into a match head, waiting to strike yourself on a rock, just to burst out in flames like you had done when you ignited me the first time.

But I’ve long since snuffed that fire out of my veins. I am not made of fire anymore, just ashes and charred flesh.

I’ve always enjoyed the smell of gasoline in the air, like a scent to remind me to come back home.

Slowly, I had been cleaning my burned soul, cleansing the tarnished walls that still stood.

It’s been years now, since we held one another. Last night though, I thought about you. About how you had been the first person to light the match in my head, and the last one to notice I was on fire.

I used to sleep with a radio on, or a fan. But you always said that sound kept you awake. I had learned to be familiar with the quiet, now whenever I hear music in the dark, I think about you.

How you would have traced your fingers down the bend of my spine, pushing each vertebra back into my body. I had almost forgotten the sound of your voice, until I heard that crackling static from a song we had listened to for a whole summer. I’m unable to hear anything at night now. I committed your silent slumbers to memory, like a page in a memoir.

It’s not fair; we used to love loudly, like a concussion rattling our brains, everything always echoed. We spent days on end without the quiet hum of comfort.

But now, whenever I think about you, all I can remember is the silence.

Things that go unnoticed..

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Alright, it’s almost 2am over here…which means my mind is starting to think strange thoughts.

I wanted to talk about something that’s been on my mind a lot. Senseless censorship. Of literature.

Specifically darker literature and “banned books” that are kept from young, expanding, growing, curious and unbiased minds.

You know the ones…
Steinbeck.
Orwell.
King.
Rice.
Angelou.
Even some Shakespeare, Twain and Poe are kept out of the classroom and even from children in libraries.

It’s all part of this “sensitivity movement” that seems to have become part of everyone’s life. Adults fearing that the next generation, their children, who will inevitably inherit this world, will form opinions of their own that are *GASP* different from theirs!

Afraid they will not think the same way they do! Find things that aren’t exactly “proper” to be more interesting than the “safe” literature that is getting forced down their throats.

The generation that raised my generation crippled us. Severely. And all out of fear. They ripped classic books, great authors and controversial topics from the syllabus. All because they don’t want us talking about it, seeing it, hearing about it or worse…loving it.

But now, we are starting to take our inquisitive, diverse,  horror loving, debate inducing individuality back!

They tried to stuff us into these pre-made, sheltered, and sadly, heavily gendered boxes.

I saw something just now on tumblr, and it got me thinking of a lesson I learned early in life.

  That we must encourage our future generations to love art. music. literature. theatre. to sing. to play an instrument. To question things. Everything. All the time. Stray from the norm, you will be glad you did!

We must encourage them not just to read, but to read banned books. To cherish classic works of literature. To appreciate the beauty of dark literature works. See the necessity of the strangeness of it.

As a child, my mother read to my sister and I, darker books. Some, which we read in a classroom setting nearly ten years later. Others, that had been banned.

Yet, at the time, I didn’t know how big of an impact that would have, not just on me but my younger sister. And both of our world views.

But now, I’m grateful my mom shared her love of dark, classic and controversial
literature with us at such young ages. Because as we grew, and formed ourselves to who we are today, the both of us were given a gift.

We both kindled a spark of rebellion for different things. A passion for separate arts. But art nonetheless.

We have our own voices, and generally go against the grain. We see the “whitewashing” that is going on in the world and especially the media. We know there are people who want to mute our metaphorical megaphones, and water down our bright colors. We can see the issues of our generation getting swept under the rug. We know they’re trying to subdue us.

Yet, here we are. Still standing. Always fighting to change things.

We are mere specks of dust, but one day we will gather up other specks of dust and create dust storms.

My little sister, she hungers to right the wrongs she sees in the world, and thrives on the light she draws from the pieces of humanity she fits back together, until there comes a day she no longer sees these things. She’s compassionate in a very soft way, but she lives to stand up, fight and shout until someone listens; and she has righted all the injustices she encounters. Her weapon of choice is a camera lens. She will travel to the ends of the earth and changing how we see things.

I, however, thirst to tell the stories I have heard from invisible and broken souls, until they no longer fear the shadows they see at night. And I will do this quietly, with a pen upon paper. I shall write for all of those who got swept under rugs and pushed to the back of the line. And I won’t stop until we are all recognized for being who we are.

This unconventional world view we both share today, instilled in us both deep roots for change. A harrowing force of ferocity, a streak of adventure, a drop of wanderlust and the relentless need for extraordinary things. I accredit my natural talent for writing, my sister’s natural talent for drawing, to our father. But our unyielding love for dark literature and the need to stand up and shake things up? That came from our mother.

They never censored our musical choices, or sugar coated story endings. They let us read any and all books we wanted, they never restricted our library cards. And for those things, I can never thank them enough. They ensured that our thirst for knowledge was quenched, and our hunger for adventure, was fed.

Which is why it bothers me as much as it does that there are so many people out there raising children in a sheltered world where everything is bubblegum and rainbows.
They’re taking away things which may be slightly “uncomfortable” to read because they’re scared.

They are waging a war against our future and it’s time we fought back.