for the man who called my poetry “hipster, feminist diarrhea”
You make an appointment with the plastic surgeon. Show up an hour early so you can spend some time thumbing through glossy magazines, deciding what you want to look like next. You’re so tired of being you: your thick nose, and blotchy complexion, and the stomach that won’t stop howling. You decide it’s time to be someone else. Someone that your closest friend’s won’t even recognize.
You sit on the cold examination table, in a papery gown that reminds you of a moth’s wings. You spent a semester capturing them with poison jars, and dissecting their bodies for science. You can relate to the moth sometimes. When you are walking alone down the street and men roll down their windows to shout. When the bar is crowded and there are hands all over your body, so many hands that you can’t tell who they belong to, and some who belong to no one. When people read what you have written and ask you if its true. It couldn’t possibly have happened like that.
The doctor has a commercial smile and a voice like bleach. He crosses his legs and folds his arms and keeps smiling as he asks you what you want done up. You take a list out of your pocket. It unfurls and hits the floor. The doctor’s eyes widen.
-all of your hair shaved off (except for your eyelashes)
-more teeth (at least two hundred should do, placed strategically)
-lips made of gravel
-replace my fingers with knives
-remove my heart altogether
-legs embedded with bits of chainsaw
Stop it, he says, what’s wrong with you, but you keep talking.
-green lasers in my eyes
-pushpins on my toes
-replace all of my blood with wine
He runs from the room, hands over his ears, but you keep talking. The receptionist ushers you out the front door, slamming it behind you, but you keep talking. The car engine roars over you, but you keep talking. The TV set turns up the volume on its own, the news anchor is screaming, but you keep talking. You keep talking. You keep talking, until you are finished.
some dickweed trolled a powerful piece about apologists with his misogynist-ass bullshit so we told him to go fuck himself and chelsea answered with some more sweet flash. nice one.
we also blocked his ip and turned off guest commenting so pieces of shit can’t hide when they are overcome with the desire to be hateful and can’t help themselves.
ps and also fuck you to the three people that clicked up or like or whatever the hell.
Fifty shades of grey trailer comes out and all these vanilla white girls on my Facebook are going crazy, why don’t you get your boyfriend to do some fun shit in bed rather than thrusting for 30 seconds and jizzing on your tits twice a week??
It’s almost 3 a.m and I am paralyzed with the crippling fear that the world will eat me alive. I started thinking about school starting and how that’s stressing me out and then I realized “wait, that’s some bullshit lol because in a year you’ll have to start working and get a car and drive and handle a death machine responsibly before you graduate and never see these people that were once a huge part of your life, for better or worse, again and you’re going to have to go to college and pick out something to do for the rest of your life and no one will be there to hold your hand or stroke your hair when you get prissy because this is the real world” and there’s seven continents and 7 billion people, 70 years of life, and there’s dark alley ways, and traffic lights, and booze, and tall buildings that make you feel so much smaller. There’s people who say they love you and don’t mean it but what will that matter in a few years anyway? There’s wind, and it shakes me. I don’t know how to save money, I get scared when people stare at me. There are men, oh god, men either terrify or disgust me. There’s roaches in the world, who’s going to kill the fucking roaches? There’s dirty pennies, there’s empty stairways, I hate empty places. There are beautiful people with shaky hands in these ugly places. There’s piss in these stairways. People kill people. There’s dead flowers. There are rotting bodies in the ocean you swim in. There are puppies, but the people who kill people put them to “sleep” sometimes. I feel like even this vast world is still too small for us, it will eat me. Unless I grow harden skin, grab keys in fist, show teeth. I can’t laugh when I’m nervous anymore, I can’t twirl my hair in my fingers, I can’t let you in, friend. It’s dark and you have a penis and have you seen that story on the news? Sorry you two broke up, you want me to come over? I don’t like girls but I’ll give it a shot because I don’t think I’ll find another guy with palms as soft as his. What if I drink too much? and I’m remembering when I was 14 and he broke my heart and I swollowed NyQuil until the tears and sweat mixed with drowsiness and lulled me to sleep. I was stupid. And what if I get stupid again? God, I got angsty over a boy, imagine a miscarriage?! Imagine a rape, imagine my corpse. Imagine being broke. Imagine being ordinary. Imagine not being able to imagine. Imagine white fence, suburbs, finding gray hairs in the same locks all of you motherfuckers envied once. Imagine balding, beer-bellied husband, mediocre, vanilla sex. Imagine sagging tits and strollers and buying fucking better homes and gardens at Costco. Imagine taxes. I don’t even know what the fuck taxes are. PTA MEETINGS! FUCK YO PTA! IMAGINE GETTING GODDAMN DENTAL INSURENCE, OH GOD, DENTURES. Imagine life after death, am I good enough for heaven? what if after seventy years of life moving too fucking fast but not fast enough, you realize there’s nothing there? What if my last word was “fuck” and I burn forever, forever. Everything meant nothing, all the people I cried over, and loved, and my favorite food, and the time I ran in the street with sparklers in both hands meant nothing. Why the fuck am I doing this? I’m scared. And I don’t understand. All I can do is drink coffee and show cleavage, I’m not a woman. I cry and curse when I’m angry, I can’t fold laundry. I don’t want your dick in me. I don’t want a goddamn retirement plan. I don’t want the future. I want life, shit. Do we really spend all our lives planning for the future until there is none?
willam! you are one of my favourite people on this earth! i just wanted advice with coming out. im going to university next year, but i will have to stay at home. but, i know my parents will kick me out because they are extremely anti gay. what should i do?
i just answered some stuff like this the other day. Decide how much being you is worth to you. You wanna pay for it all yourself and work nights while going to school during the day and getting loans and struggling but being you and living your truth and shit? Or do you wanna be under mommy & daddy’s thumb and let them take care of your education in exchange for a little bit more of your soul every day until you can’t take it and bust out and then really cause a mess (or get depressed because you can’t be you)?
I mean it seems like an easy call to me but it might not be as b&w as my font makes it seem.
You do you, blah blah insert motivational words, work etc…blah, etc…
during the hundred years it took me to find you i stood on a broken window sill and waited patiently for your arrival. i cut my foot on glass but i did not mind because it made me feel alive. the blood was a striking red, the brightest thing i had ever seen. there is a corpse in my bedroom and everyone asks who it is. the corpse is a version of everyone i have ever met, sewn together, throat slit. the corpse is a version of me as a bitter woman covered in a layer of blue after swallowing white. the corpse is a version of me as a child who drowned in a river and is buried in an unmarked grave. the corpse is a version of me standing on glass and anticipating your arrival. the corpse is a version of me when you never came.