I have a blog now
CONTENT WARNING: SEXUAL ASSAULT
I’m actually at a loss for what to do here, if I’m honest.
like what do I write here that I don’t already write on my twitter? or my AD twitter? anything I might write as a blog post I already write as tweetstorms… and hoo boy do I tweetstorm.
I guess it’s probably mostly going to be art.
so like I said in that first post that I might do commentary for my poetry. I guess I’ll do that. and I’ve been talking to my therapist about trauma, and thinking about it a lot. so… let’s start with that.
circa 2009 is the story of my trauma. stop reading.
I started with that old love poem - touch me taste me breathe me - which was incidentally the first poem I read at Silver Words. anyway, I start with that then move into where it gets dark. I scattered lines from old poems throughout both of the open letters. I guess I felt the meditative and abstract stuff from years ago was informed by this.
lose herself and she didn't think she wanted to be found something strange in there something wrong that was always there and still is
it never really left me, but the next line is just…
burning them away with her memories.
see I only started using “them” relatively recently. it was in a sense an escape from my past, but also not. cause you can never really escape something like this. but yeah, “her” memeories haunt me, in a sense that I feel - still - that it happened to someone else. dissociation does that.
he was… so… careful… not to leave any marks. so now… I want the marks whenever I do anything with anyone. proof for myself. so when I wake up I know… that definitely happened. I have the bruises to prove it to myself.
and then there’s the scars. I did those. as recently as last week, actually. I’m not proud of that.
I really kept going with the butchering old poetry to write these here. like I even reference it in this one.
as an aside: fuck you.
this one really ran with the using old poetry. it’s almost a rewrite of touch me taste me breathe me.
it was only you. I wasn't there. there but not there. here but not here. is but not is. how much is this. how much is what is else.
I wasn’t there. I couldn’t be. I mean, there was ketamine. that made it very easy to not be there. I didn’t want to be there and I had an out - dissociation - which I took. gladly. it still fucked me up though. like… well:
I am trapped in a memory I can't get out I can't get out I can't get out I can't get out
even with the dissociation, it’s still there. it was.. unformed… but there. it’s more crystalline now. it is a memory that I’ll never be rid of.
I see it happening the terrifying truth
I thought I knew no I thought I
well I did start these by lifting lines from other works. this isn’t though:
I think I knew this all the time.
and I did, I didn’t want to admit it - even to myself - but… I did.
I don’t really have much to say about this. this is about the actual thing that happened and it’s lasting effect. neither are good.
I’m back onto my current pronoun here, in a fairly dark way:
leave them in their grave in the garden behind the orchard leave them for the daisies and the daisies for the bees.
I’ve wanted to die so much in the aftermath of this. living with the pain of it is… almost unbearable. but I do. I go on. I’ve only tried to kill myself 8 times since that day in 2009. I’m apparently… really bad at it.
they almost did again. and again. and again. they aren't exactly counting since becoming someone else.
that is of course not counting the times I’ve gotten so. fucked. up. just to cope and not been sure if I was going to wake up. there have been a lot more of those. though I got used to my poisons - touch me taste me breathe me is kind of about dissociatives and love. and how fucked up is that. the worst thing that has ever happened to me happened on dissociatives, and to this day I take them “recreationally”. I guess thoy gave me a place of safety in the escape, and I long for that disconnect from the world and everything that’s wrong with mine.
leave them in their grave, that they dug for someone else.
so let the past die. kill it, if you have to. that’s the only way to become what you were meant to be.
I will be informed by my past. not defined by it.