of rhyming poetry…

back when i was obsessed

with the idea of perfection.

now that i’ve realized that

i am simply not perfection material,

my poems cease to rhyme,

and are scattered and unrelated,

quite whimsical and ridiculous.

like this one.

consisted of my mother wanting me to want help.

then i became interested in the idea of help,

and now i can’t find one i like or trust.

and after seven or eight different shrinks,

i’ve come to the realization

that maybe it isn’t them that i don’t trust,

it’s me.

quiet enough to hear my own thoughts.

which i would rather ignore.

the thoughts of who i was,

who i am, and why i’ve changed.

i would prefer to stick to the

maybes, the shoulds, and the woulds-

the past and the present

and much too defined.

much too permanent.

and permanency has never

been my thing.

i would much prefer

the library to be loud.

its silence allows my to hear myself.

and i’d rather be deaf

to my own thoughts.

In fifth grade, I found bulimia.
Two years later,
Anorexia and I were best friends.

In eighth grade, I lost myself.
And took 200 Advil,
To find myself, of course.

Then they told some lies,
that I didn’t tell them.
Which took my father
Away from me.
Then he came back.

But the next year, I recovered
From my battles with food. Against it.
It was the hardest thing
That I had ever done.

A few months after that,
Some guy named Dan
Knew how weak I was,
When even I didn’t know.
That was the end of my childhood.
I had transformed into a victim.

Two months later,
I relapsed with food.
And was admitted to a psych ward.
Oh, the psych ward.

There, they told me I was Bipolar.
But medication would fix everything.
So I took their fucking medication,
And eighty pounds later,
I threw them under my bed.

Now I’m stuck.
With the issues with food,
The thoughts that I don’t act on,
The nightmares about Dan,
His hands all over my body.
And the eighty pounds.
Which I think are killing me the most.

It’s been a rough series of events,
Over the past few years.
And I’m only sixteen.
Sixteen ain’t so sweet.
Neither were fifteen, fourteen, or thirteen.

I’ve been told that silence is the essence of pain.
And that sometimes it’s simply impossible to be sane.

I never believed them, the clichés that had been used.
But then again, I had never been so invisibly bruised.

Silence is the essence of pain and keeping my truths inside
is destroying my life and drowning me in lies.

I know it’s unconventional, for me to want to tell you.
And I’m fully aware that it’s possible you already knew.

But I needed to hear me say the words in my own tone,
and for someone to hear them besides me alone.

This isn’t something that I want many to know,
And I understand that this is quite a secret to bestow.

Please understand that I’m trusting you not to expose,
But also that it’s supposed to help when someone else knows.

I chose you because you’ve always listened to what I’ve said,
and because you never judged the chaos in my head.

After you know, I’m praying that I won’t change in your eyes,
and I’m confident that you’d be there if I needed you to advise.

I’m not divulging because I want pity or you would want to hear,
rather that I need support and understanding that’s sincere.

So I’ll straighten my posture, force my shoulders back,
and take the deepest breath I’ve had since before the attack.

I’ll open my mouth, and will my vocal cords will vibrate,
Even though I’m ready, don’t be surprised if I hesitate.

Maybe you won’t understand, it’s just three little words to utter,
but those nine letters will be the hardest I’ve ever had to stutter.

My lips will part, and I’ll forget to exhale
long before my battle with words will prevail.

But with the exhalation comes a reminder of your trust,
and I start to cry, and you won’t understand, it’s just…

I
was
raped.