In honor of ED Awareness Week, let’s make some folks who are supposedly already aware open their goddamn eyes.
THIS IS NOT ABOUT YOU.
Let’s say that loud and clear.
THIS IS NOT ABOUT YOU and your reaction to it is simply your reaction and you need to own that. YOUR REACTION IS NOT MY FAULT.
You people are fucking insane and for once I want to tell you exactly why and I want you to listen completely and don’t interrupt me. I want you to listen and then I don’t want you to respond. I want you to sit with the discomfort that years of failing me brings.
I do not want to see your pouting faces, the faces whose lines and contours express the years of “burden” you’ve been put through having an anorexic daughter.
I do not want to see concern, because you’re not.
I do not want your help with anything, because if I have to tell you how to help then it’s not really helping.
This is hard to say, but sometimes I hate you because
And you never fucking will and it is so goddamn fucked that you don’t even try.
And even more hurtful is that you think I’m okay.
I’m not going to explain what I do that’s so destructive, lest it become precedent for the future. But you know. How can you not, after the majority of my life has been this way?
Yet, oh! You can’t make dinner because you’re at work.
Fuck you. When will I matter more than work? When will you fucking step up? When will you realize it’s not all about you. FUCK YOU.
I don’t want to say hi to you when you come back from work.
But I do, otherwise I’m “unfriendly.”
YOU NEVER ASK ME HOW I AM.
I don’t want to hear you gush about a baby. I don’t want to hear you complain about a client. I don’t want to hear you because I have been hearing you long enough, loud and clear, saying, “You are too difficult for us.”
It is insane that you expect - and completely take for granted - that your anorexic daughter makes you dinner every goddamn day. It is insane that you suggest we have leftovers. It is insane that you have to ASK what to do. It is insane that after being TOLD what to do, you couldn’t even do that. It is insane that you let me run on empty and still demand more of me.
Do not ask me questions. Do not hug me; do not love me. Do not tell me what to do or how I make you feel. Do not do anything.
I am so mad at you that I want to starve some more and I want to do it faster.
Yet I am the bitch for this.
I am so, deeply sorry for all the pain I’ve caused you while I’ve been starving. It must be so hard.
just a bag of bones and everybody’s blind
cast away the purpose, singularly defined
starving, saturated, strung out but surprised?
an archetype of culture and everybody dies.
but maybe you and i can numb each other’s pain
maybe you and i can break each other’s chains
maybe you and i are each other’s missing part
maybe you and i can mend each other’s broken hearts.
and maybe not today, no maybe not for long
well, maybe not ever, maybe it’s just wrong.
maybe we just are and forever will be
itinerant souls, unattached and free.
just palpitating muscles, intermittent thought
captured, trapped and fleeing, is everybody caught?
we have infinite love and infinite grief
where is the liberation? where is the relief?
just a bag of bones and everybody’s wrong
truth and inspiration, we follow along
raging curiosity that quenches our dissent
we don’t give an answer and that is our consent.
rising up to conquer, to dominate, suppress
religion of submission, the dominators blessed
trademarked slaughter juxtaposing domestic suicide
success of rags to riches, a dainty princess bride
to singular power, a panopticon’s guard
accept our shoddy value, released into the yard
reactive vile swine, a calculated scheme
merciless chatter, melodious, obscene
gaseous poison above, injected below
we learn through observation
there’s nothing left to know.
rising up in desperation, to aggress, to defend
untamed lawless beasts, space and time transcend
forgotten how to love, we fabricate some care
it’s a wireless connection, nothing’s really there
paradoxically, the liberators caged
the singular power, satisfied, assuaged
as underground uproots, the trampled on reclaim
autonomy, esteem, barricades aflame
a severed body bleeding, a culture is condemned
we learn through observation
what are you teaching them?
"Earth Below, Sky Above, Fire Within."
I sit outside in the perfect fresh early fall air. It smells so wonderful. Soft hair, flowy scarf, and chirps of crickets and birds. I sit outside in my favorite light. Magic light. Everything is glowing. Maybe I am just a little bit too?
But I am empty. I am physically empty and that’s not a good thing anymore. As much as it feels like that’s the reason for my glow, it’s not.
It’s the air.
The trees and barefeet and crickets and fluttering birds and the promise of rest and love and care from people and from myself. The ground below and the sky above and the vibrancy in between. I missed out on the in between.
For nine years I missed out.
I am going to say, oh so soon, that these days of emptiness were the old days.
This will all be over and I will be victorious.
I can do this and I will.
With the earth below and sky above; there’s fire within.
8 Simple Ways to Control a Populous
1. Create unattractive and uniform identities for those you intend to exploit. Examples include prisoners being “inmates” or “bad people.” Bad people deserve to be punished, so we punish them. Employees who stand up for themselves are “whiners” or “complainers.” Whiners don’t deserve to be listened to, so we don’t. By creating these negative alternate group identities, it is easier to exploit individuals as they lose inherent worth and value.
2. Homogenize standards for measuring success in order to make exceptional performance impossible. By setting (often numeric) blanket standards that focus most often exclusively on output, diversity of individual and community can be overlooked. With homogeneity, a single system is depended upon for accountability, one that is simply incompatible with most environments and communities. In this way, no individual can become exceedingly valuable, securing class hierarchy.
3. Make people believe they have choices. Offer people choices. Whether or not they believe the choices really provide any useful autonomy, they cannot complain as long as the choices would be evident to an outsider. Having choices also removes responsibility from those in charge, as blame for any negative externality related to the choice can be assigned to the chooser.
4. Maintain popular paranoia and desperation just enough so group unity becomes impossible. If individuals fear for their own well-being or ontological security, they will betray and backstab others to protect themselves. Thus, it is important that no individual feels safe or empowered enough to take risks that would jeopardize class structure.
5. Show people the door. If someone is upset enough about a situation, tell them that the only obstacle preventing them from leaving is them. By giving the person this option, the blame then rests on the individual if they choose to leave or if they choose to stay. Also, present them with alternatives to their current situation, making sure any alternative is less desirable.
6. Keep people distracted. By keeping people’s attention off of real problems and real solutions, the status quo can be maintained.
7. Never accept blame. Always find a scapegoat, whether it be specific or ephemeral. This way, there is no place to assign dissatisfaction and it simply festers with the unsatisfied individual, disempowering and tiring them.
8. Complicate process by creating opportunities for bureaucratic inefficiency. By keeping people busy jumping through bureaucratic loopholes, you can either exhaust them or confuse them enough to prevent them from feeling personally empowered.
How dare you
You better be grateful for all your goddamn blessings because there is a cost to your fortune.
It looks like death.
We are not dying; we’re being killed. We sweat and starve and stay awake to slow the gunshots, clot the wounds, tend the fire.
It’s the party for the end of the world. Tell me some lies so we can keep dancing.
There’s nothing wrong. I’m fine.
A calm tranquility
A quiet discontent
We live, we breathe, we die
All are divine
For when we are born, we are
When we die, we are
And in the twists, tangles, and turns
We stumble and we are.
We are who we are
And we do what we do
All to see another dawn
When we are.
Things I’ve Learned About Life
1. Being introverted means you are internally charged. Being extroverted means you are externally charged. Both are great.
2. Old habits resurface, or perhaps they never disappear. Quitting a habit is like falling out of love.
3. Most people are actually quite selfish, but this doesn’t mean they aren’t nice or helpful.
4. There is a difference between understanding and internalizing.
5. You’ll never reach the same high, but you will reach new highs.
6. All animals that aren’t mammals are underrated.
7. Most people prefer to drink water at a very specific temperature. This ranges from steaming hot to ice cold.
8. Love is not weddings, roses, or rings. Those things are expressions of love if done right and products of capitalism if done wrong.
9. Loneliness does not mean absence of company.
10. You will never be able to be with all the people you love at once.
11. Your hair is your hair and it’s going to do what it wants and that’s just the way it is.
12. Rich people have it easier but they hate admitting it.
We have always been reaching.
Arms and hands, they’re reaching, but never far enough
The wanting and the absence form desire
Starving beings dying, unitary mind
Any semblance of nourishment admired.
The arms, they reach, they touch, they hold
Then cling and hurt and lose.
Creating worlds that don’t exist
They learn to love abuse.
Can a void feel better than the hope of being filled?
Hope is just a figment of the mind
For we have always been reaching
Arms and hands and bodies intertwined.
Consent is a strange thing these days. There is little to which it applies and even less that respects it.
The question “how far will I go?” used to play out in dimly lit bedrooms. With each time the question was asked, the answer was further.
I will go further.
We will go further.
The response was intuitive. It was natural. In most cases, it was wanted.
These days, this question has penetrated through the walls of bedrooms into every physical room and thoughtspace I occupy. It is asked but not answered.
May bedroom intuition seep through the walls of our resting places so the answer can always be further.
everything, goddamn it.
I want a slap of the keyboard to produce something other than letters. Not numbers or punctuation. Not space.
I can’t do this anymore.
The pretty “hey-here-I-am-with-pink-lipstick-and-I’m-going-to-tell-you-about-the-terrors-of-this-world” dichotomy.
Hey hey, I promise I’m radical!
And then hey hey, I promise I’m nice!
And finally hey hey, I promise I’d be a great (insert capitalist career choice here)!
When does it get to be hey hey, here I am?
I hate how accustomed I am to the comforts of capitalism. I hate how in absence of these comforts, I am scared. I hate how my mind has been colonized. I’ve always hated my body and I hate the way it craves products of oppression. I hate the disease that has defined my life. I hate what is romantic to me. I hate what I love. I hate making connections. I hate that I look “better” with makeup. I hate that there is a better and a worse. I hate knowledge. I hate ignorance. I hate patriarchy and corporatism and racism and imperialism.
I want to be able to talk about what you talk about. Tomorrow night, that party, that guy, surface everyday problems, romance, dreams, and job searches. This is so fucking unfair.
Fuck you. Fuck your spaghetti dinners, soup kitchens, petition drives, formals, and philanthropy. Fuck your shoe collection. Fuck your perfect hair and your purses. Fuck your institutions. Fuck your churches and the “I am eternally saved" rhetoric that renders you useless in the present. Fuck your vacations, beaches, tanning, manicures, perfume, allergies, period cramps, and Tylenol. Fuck hybrids. Fuck plastic. Fuck diamond rings. Fuck alcohol. Fuck the TV. Oh yeah, fuck the TV. Fuck fucking and how you’ve distorted something I still hold as pure. Fuck your machines and exams and grades and performance evaluations. Fuck recycling. Fuck dinner parties and disposable napkins and electric blankets. Fuck birth control. Fuck hair dryers. Fuck accessories and 9-5 jobs and waitressing and pizza boxes. Fuck trash bags. Fuck your conversations and coffee and cat calendars. Fuck camping gear. Fuck laziness. Fuck your relaxation. Your “oh-my-god-I’m-so-tired-I-need-a-nap.” Fuck you. You don’t know what it’s like to be tired. Fuck the judgmental statements you make about about my friends. Fuck your military. Fuck your designer mug. Fuck your “good life.” I want to go to Greece on a honeymoon too.
I can’t talk about any of this. More things I hate. Well, I hate everything, goddamn it. I hate long distance relationships. I hate rustic cabins and I hate luxurious mansions. I hate texting and talking and conversations and loneliness. I hate deeper understandings. I hate entitlement. I hate that there is not one single place on this earth that I can be.
I hate this world and I hate living in it. I hate the way it’s made me. I hate all of the secrets I keep out of fear. I hate that no matter what role I play, it is not good enough.
This wasn’t eloquent or articulate or charmingly unclear and I hate it too.
6:30am, The sun slowly rises. Waves of warmth contrast the chilled breeze; the light mixes with the cool air. The flowers and the grasses awaken; the leaves start to dance as the sun’s rays hit their sleepy faces. Creaks and cricks are heard as the trees wake up and stretch, releasing any tension that has built up through the night. The dew sparkles and the birds begin to sing, a soft melody alerting life that it is alive. The world is stirring.
3:00pm, The sun is high up in the sky, beaming down on all the life. The animals are moving, feeding, playing, prancing. The birds are flying, building nests, providing for their chicks, taking dips in the water. The flowers and grasses and trees are slurping up the sunlight for themselves and for the animals who will take a few of them to feed their own. The plants don’t mind, they are happy to provide. There is movement and vibrance. There is giving and taking and receiving. There is curiosity. There is purposeful and reasonless motion. The world is active.
8:00pm, The sun slowly moves down toward the horizon. Birds return to their nests and converse with each other, speaking of the day’s joys and hardships. The animals find spots amongst the plants to lie down; they nuzzle and burrow and nestle in. The flower petals hang their heads and the grasses sink their roots into the soil, retreating for the coming night. The trees shake their leaves, acknowledging the present and honoring the space in which they reside. The world is thankful.
12:00am, The sky is dark and the stars are twinkling. All the animals have long since retreated and the air is chilly. Sounds of deep, cleansing breaths echo throughout the surroundings, a melody of regeneration. The air is crisp and cool and calm, blowing and breathing softly along with the animals. The flowers and grasses and branches have retired and contracted their reach. All are resting; all are peaceful. The world is still.
The sun rises; the sun sets. Each part enriches another.
Our bodies are our ecosystems so we must do more than take care of them, we must inhabit them. They are our worlds. They rely on the wax and wane of energy, productivity and rest. They need balance. They do not operate linearly. We must do more than treat them with compassion, we must embody compassion, because what we feel is what they feel. We must absorb and reflect the kind of energy that nourishes. What we do is what our ecosystem does. We must act in accordance with this simple truth, because our ecosystems are meant to thrive.
Not live. Not survive.
So many words, the ists and the isms
But we are none of these
We exist as a cultural reaction to compartmentalization
Stripped of categorization, what is left to define us?
The wild and the unknown, the transient and ephemeral
The molecules colliding, firing, composing
The flesh and skin and reaction
That makes a being a being.
We are afraid of the collision
Afraid that we’d react.
We exist as a reaction to a reaction
We don’t remember how to act.
So many feelings, the tragic and triumphant
But we are none of these
We feel so deeply, if at all
Stripped of indications, what is left to feel?
The true and the intrinsic, the products of our past
The curious, the silly, sad
The body and soul and spirit
That makes a being a being.
We are afraid of the exposure
Afraid of who we are
We exist on a falsely aroused plane
We don’t remember how to feel.
you said write a fucking poem so here you fucking go
i can’t make a fucking rhyme or even think, you know
they said you weren’t good for me but you, you understood me
when i was crying, dying, lying you said baby, you can turn to me
paralyzed, heavy eyes didn’t know what to do
you said come over here hun, let me cradle you.
so my feet pounded pavement my lungs were on fire
my heart was beating fast, you were my desire
baby, we can do this any time of the night
sweetie, you’re okay it’s gonna be alright.
prison, love, and rape, you see, the things i love i hate
but this is how we do it baby, we regulate.
like clockwork, escape closed, you were there, i was scared mind was running, running fast, running body, you prepared
them? they didn’t look, they just told me what to do
i thought we settled this, but fuck, they don’t know you.
you know, it’s so peculiar how you aren’t even real
but i am just like you, you make sure i feel
not too much not too little, just enough so i’m alive
this is how it goes, we don’t live, we just survive.
you want this in a rhyme, but this doesn’t express
that’s probably why you like it, that way you can write the rest
and now here i am again, efficient, astute me
without you i don’t know who i would even be.
You Don’t Know How Sick You Make Me
I’m drinking wine, lying on white sheets. Black lace and candles. Get the goddamn rose petals and fuck me. I’m asking for it. Fuck me.
I dare you. Put your hand over my mouth, tell me to shut the fuck up. Pin down my arms and overtake me. Have your way with my body, there is no curve or surface that hasn’t been hated or hurt before. You can’t hurt me but I dare you to try. I dare you to try.
This kind of sex is raw and carnal, forcing acceptance. When someone is coming into you, coming into you, you are there. You have to be. You have to be. I be; I am. You control me and I am removed from my body, my mind, from any sense of autonomy I force upon myself out of haste and obligation.
She is hurt, but she is a survivor. Her integrity remains, there is no scratch or bruise on her body that cannot be healed.
The scars are intangible. The implicit informs the explicit. You fuck me in the dark. Rip my clothes off my body and force yourself into me. Once, twice, over and over and over and
eventually it ends and
you leave and I stay and I clean up the mess and
no one knows what happened and
I cry and I take control and
I do the things I do and
I am genuine.
The implicit informs the explicit. Inside, in that small little box, in that deep dark hole that no one ever ventures the despair wrestles with the evanescent.
And in this vanishing moment, you don’t know how sick you make me.