Continuing with my new poetry project, I would like to publish two poem submissions. I want to thank you all so much for sharing your stories + ask for your continued support.
*TRIGGER WARNING: Sexual Assault + Domestic Violence.*
" I am still fond of the smell of whiskey,
Even though the smell of your breath is what I remember most.
It was better to focus on the smell of Jim or Jack than anything, I guess
I could have chosen to lock my mind on your sister;
She was sleeping merely feet away.
My best friend of seven years…
Or the friction of the mismatched sheets underneath me-
Knotted up uncomfortably where you had tossed them off,
Or how the stubble on your face was cutting into my skin,
Those animal like sounds escaping your mouth,
The rolls on my stomach smooshed all together,
The names you had given me earlier in the night could have resounded:
Slut, n***** lover, fat bitch, beautiful, race traitor, baby…
I could have been reciting them, so as not to forget what I am.
But I did forget what I am.
It was hard to remember.
I did not fight like hell like I thought I would have.
I did not push you off of me like I thought I would have.
I did nothing at all that I thought I would have.
I was busy being quiet.
I was busy being still.
I did not try to estimate the number of drinks you had likely had.
I did not try to remember the way I had always pictured my first time.
I did not count how many times you had promised me we would wait.
I was busy being quiet.
I was busy being still.
I just focused on the smell of that whiskey….Jack or Jim.
I had completely forgotten that you had loved me so much.
I had completely forgotten all that you had given me,
All of those names…
I was busy being quiet.
Because I loved the smell of whiskey, and I was busy being still.
I had forgotten what I am and who you were to me completely.
It was only easy to remember how much I love the smell of whiskey.
Only it wasn’t easy to be raped…
But it was easy to forget what I am."
-Carlynn Greene
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"He was the kind of boy who collected knives and wandered around coffee shops
Searching for afros buried in novels. He found me there.
This is for the next girl he cuts into.
The gash won't seem like much at first, but before you know it.
You'll have looked into his eyes and blamed yourself for all the blood.
He was the kind of boy who'd charm body bags under your eyes and compliment their beauty.
He was the kind of boy who made "damaged" swim off his tongue like water,
Made you swear there was beauty in being broken.
He was the kind of boy you'll never forget.
The kind you don't mention to future lovers, the elephant in the room.
The kind no one talks about even though everyone sees his aftermath.
He was the kind of boy who morphed you into statistics,
Made you pray for better days to come, They did.
He was the kind of boy who made you hate yourself.
He is the kind of boy who made you love yourself.
He was the kind of boy you fell for.
Never intentionally, usually the result of another stumble.
He was the kind of boy to teach you how familiar fists become with flesh.
How the ground seems to soften the longer you stay there.
So you do.
And convince yourself that you are sidewalk rubble.
He never stopped to pick you up."
-Anonymous
