christmas eve eve

i have waaaaay less shit done than i usually do by this time of year.
have to wrap ALL my presents tomorrow because i procrastinated like a motherfucker,
plus the usual pre-holiday clean-up... yeesh. ah well.

okay and the readmore is gonna talk about ma lady biz, so. fair warning.

broken blood vessels never looked so sexy

newly read by brighter eyes,
played like music made of sighs.
he takes my burdens, makes them light.
night after night after night after night.

perfect tandem, tangled sheets,
he kills my colds and breaks my heats.
please oh please, you set me right -
night after night after night after night.

marked up like only i can see,
my baby left his claim on me.
i press down deep and hold on tight,
night after night after night after night.

y/n

you try to tell me happiness is a choice.
but mom, you took that choice away from me
before my hands were even big enough
to hold all the things i'm supposed to be.
i'm supposed to be happy,
or so i was told.
and i'm not sure if i missed the instructions,
skipped a step, took a detour not marked down on your map,
but mom, i am trying to choose your happiness
and every day is a fucking riddle that i get wrong.
show me the way and i will go -
i will go all the way back to the beginning,
back to when you put me here because choice -
mom, your choice -
was to put me here.
i never chose to be born,
and yet you chose to have me.
you chose to take your broken pieces
and mash them in with dad's old shards
and i am just a crack in the mirror,
seven years of bad luck and i have been trapped in the sixth year
for as long as i can even count
and mom -
you talk about choice and then ignore the one you made
to walk out on the children whose lives you gave.
you try to tell me happiness is a choice,
but mom, you're the only one
who has ever had
any of those.

he makes me feel like me but better

a very belated dream journal

last night i had a nightmare that woke me up at 7am in a cold sweat,
and all it was about was my dad telling me i had to go back to work for unigroup.

"you never finished the contract,"
and all that jazz.

i think i'm ready to be working again,
but i can't do it from a cubicle. not right now.

i want to be with people.
i want to have fun.

and i keep finding little triggers here and there,
adding to the list of shit i know i don't want to do,
while the "do" list stays blank.

i need to get writing.

about what?

when the ignorant become the righteous,
shallow people dig themselves
deep, deep graves.

oopsie

got a cheque in the mail from arbonne today... i reeeeeally haven't been active with it at all so i feel kinda bad. it's nice that i have clients who are continuing to shop with me but god damn it ahaha i probably should have been more involved in that whole thang... derp.

i also got a letter from ontario disability services acknowledging that my application was received on time, which is a relief. i have sort of mixed feelings about it though, truth be told. i've definitely improved since the beginning of the application process, to the point where i'm starting to feel like i could maybe start back into working or something soon. i dunno, there's a lot of guilt kinda stewing in me right now because on the one hand i'm sure there are people out there who need it more than i do, but at the same time i keep trying to tell myself that it's not like a contest or whatever, and the fact is that i do need help. even just the medical coverage would be so awesome because right now the medication i'm on is doing its job but it's upward of like $250 every month... and i'm lucky because my dad has no problem paying it but i know he can't afford it, even though he tries to lie about it. gah.

christmas is going to be less brutal than i thought, but still pretty tight. i told my dad that what i honestly want as a gift from him is money to buy my gifts for everyone else, ahaha. i know he doesn't like not having something under the tree for me, so i told him nice warm socks would be nice too. i have a list of gift ideas for everyone that i think ought to be manageable. i just really hope nobody goes crazy getting me something - looking at YOU, steph >:( - because i know i'm going to feel awful offering what meager gifts i can afford this year. if i'm smart though, i should be alright.

i've had two really bad knots in my back since this weekend. one is sort of above my left shoulderblade and the other is kind of at the top of my left buttock, ahahaha. no idea what i did. tried a new sleeping spot one night but i didn't notice any discomfort then? so i'm almost wondering if, upon returning to my usual sleep spot, that's what did it. who knows.

i've been feeling the itch to get writing again. steph's been plugging away with "haven" and it's been super awesome seeing her make progress with an idea she's sort of been nursing for years. it makes me wonder if i shouldn't maybe start applying myself more seriously to the ideas i've had in the past for different novels. so far, despite the fact that i do like some of the characters and storylines i've come up with, nothing's really striking me as something i really want to throw myself into right now. so maybe i'll try some short story work for now, sort of reboot my blog for that, and at least get the creative juices flowing.

anyway, holy moly, another real-life blog post! two in a row! ahaha that's unusual for me i guess. this one ended up being a lot longer than i intended, but i guess if i'm itching to write then any writing is good enough. goodnight!

WIP

this is going to be like an actual blog post about my life, so if you're here for poetry or vitriol or whatever, skip this one ahahaha

tldr;

i refuse to be friends with shitty people.

side b

i knew i shouldn't have looked.

i was born with a target in between my legs,
and no matter what i wanted, it grew -
spread across flesh like the new skin stretching
to fit in more places to shoot.
i was born with a target in between my legs,
and i suppose that means i was doomed from the start -
dead woman walking.
so many dead women were walking.
i grew into the targets on my breasts,
my legs, my ass, my hips,
my dignity.
i learned to flinch away from the gunshots
of strange men calling,
learned that "baby" and "sweetheart" and "honey"
were just bullets so silver
they somehow got away with it.
i know these things shine in the light,
but so do sharpened blades
and i would rather cut myself than be shot against my will.
i was born with a target in between my legs;
something that should be my own,
but which is constantly threatened:
"it should belong to us."
and the targets kept growing while i remained small -
too small to wrestle the gun out of unwanted hands,
and who can outrun bullets anyway?
every day the chamber is loaded with voices
and aimed at women who can't fight back.
i was born with a target in between my legs,
and it has spread across my body in ways that could be beautiful
if not for the things they attract.
i didn't ask to be hunted.
and though i stare in fear at the barrels pointed my way,
there is one thing that scares me more:
sometimes dodging bullets gets you killed faster
than letting yourself be shot.
a wounded hunter's ego,
prey betrayed by what they are.
i was born with a target in between my legs,
and i have feared for my life ever since.

side a

i have ruined more safe places
than most people find in their whole lives.

the quarter life crisis

i'm clinically depressed,
but i laugh for an hour at pictures of walruses sneezing.
i'm permanently stressed,
i drink water compulsively, can only relax when i'm peeing.

my life is a mess and i'm just 22,
and i know i've got time, but i don't know what to do with it.
thinking out loud, "is this as bad as it seems?"
got my whole life ahead, but i haven't got dreams.

i don't know what i'm meant to be doing,
but i know this ain't it.

when guys try to claim that girls don't have it that bad,
i want to laugh in their face and point them to the self-defense unit of my ninth grade gym class,
where across the mats the boys were learning how to flip and throw each other while a man in a padded suit told us girls to yell "fire" instead of "rape"
because people were more likely to help that way.

we weren't taught how to punch as much as we were taught to claw at the eyes and kick at the groin and keep screaming for help,
don't stop screaming for help.

a week later we were being marked on how we did
as a grown ass man in a padded suit wrestled a bunch of teenage girls to the floor in a simulated rape scenario.

i had an asthma attack in the middle of it and realized,
"oh. if this were real, i'd be done."

i don't think guys understand that while they were being told not to talk to strangers, girls were being told not to talk to strange men.

don't stop screaming for help.

this fear is taught.

11

i wish i had a way to explain to men
what it is like to be cat-called,
but i can't.

all i have
are my words, memories, experiences, feelings -
and we all know nobody's going to take those seriously.

i am crossing the street and a man rolls down his window,
whistles, laughing, calls,
"hey baby!"
he has a moustache peppered with grey
and it reminds me of my father.
i am eleven years old.

there are plenty of men who don't cat-call.
the problem is that instead of getting mad at the men who do,
they get mad at the women who have had enough,
who are asking for help -

because the men who do cat-call will not listen to us.
our voices don't make them afraid like their voices do to us.
i flinch away from male voices not unlike gunshots,
trying to make myself small because i did not ask to be seen.

i want you to know
that i have gone home with men i feared,
slept in the devil's den because he made it quite clear:
i would give on the sheets
or he would take on the pavement.

i am nearing the end of my jog,
approaching my street, and a car pulls up alongside me.
"what's your name, sweetheart?"
and i want to say
FUCK YOU FOR DOING THIS TO ME.
FUCK YOU FOR MAKING ME AFRAID.
but i can't.

because he is in the passenger seat of another man's car,
and the back windows are tinted so i can't tell if there are more of them.
so i jog an extra mile, trying to shake off the feeling
of his eyes on me, his laughter, belittling,
and i am not eleven years old anymore,
but now it takes reminding.

i don't turn onto my street where the cars can see me.
i have been followed home before.
i am learning.

i am a fugitive in my own body,
kept in the same place as this flame burning inside of me,
this fear, this hatred, this disgust -

this feeling that
IF I WERE BIGGER, I WOULD MURDER YOU.
and fuck you for doing this to me.
fuck you for making me afraid.

but i am small, and i am weak,
and i keep this fire burning out of pure defiance,
because i know you are trying to put it out.

i am twenty-one, out with my dog
and a group of them whistle and call to me.
i lean down and take off the muzzle.

i am bluffing. please work.

and when i don't respond and they start into
"stuck up bitch, fuck you slut, ugly cunt,"
i want to scream and say,

I AM ANGRIER THAN YOU CAN EVER BE.

i am trapped inside a body that cannot defend itself
in the face of advances that i am told its existence warrants.

if i could make you see, i would.

but nobody is cat-calling other men.
and how the fuck has it fallen to the victims
to have to fix it?

what am i supposed to say to the man who leans out of his truck,
calls me "a pretty little thing,"
that will stop him without consequence?

girls are killed for saying no.

and so he licks his lips, turns to his buddy and laughs,
and there is heat behind my eyes - humiliation, helplessness -
and i hope to god nobody ever talks to his daughter this way.

he is old enough to be my father,
silver accents in his hair,
and against my will, once more:

i am eleven years old.