The Model

When I made funny faces
and the boys laughed
at me naturally

I thought
they were laughing
with me for so long

When I thought
to show off my ballet skills
to help them understand

my saute they laughed
but I wasn’t making a face

I wasn’t normal
my brain still doesn’t
process what IS
in time with the world

then they told me to move
off the couch
told me I wasn’t worthy

when i bit back
they called me out
as a dog

and then they labeled
me The Model
for not knowing my place
in the backround

i tried to get smaller
but my mouth wouldn’t
listen she was so pissed
but I wasn’t ready yet

words came without confedence
so the bigger
the louder my mouth
became the smaller I felt

I’m still fighting this war
against my mouth
for talking before my body

and against my body
for thinking she should
be backround

and so
to breathe


Let’s Talk

This Creature lived
all alone
survived off its own
violence and pain
the cocoon it built had
chilled it to the bone
but their was only
the selfish self to blame.

In the age of
painful decision she had none
she was bound
by the doomed fate of
her own vision.

Begged for forgiveness
her nose to the ground
“lift your face you worthless
fucking bitch” the mind
freaked out to the shorted
out brain.

Brain whispered back ‘you hold
all the cards and I’m scarred and
I’m maimed and you’re to blame.”

Minds said “I hate you
you fucker, you’re
already dead”

“Hate, my friend, hate what
you aren’t willing to change”
brain said.

This poem is in solidarity with all of my amazingly brave friends who have posted their truth for Bell #letstalk. I wrote this while I cut and burned myself, I believed I was worthless. There is literally a mark where I “stamped” in blood and circled in blue pen a promise to myself I’d never (!) do that again. I was 19, but I can still be lost in bad thoughts…..I don’t intentionally cut or burn anymore, but I do work in a kitchen where these things happen and I don’t mind too much. A physical scar to acknowledge my mortality, blah,blah, blah…….My husband said it best when we first met in 1998 when he told me in his big french accent that I wasn’t only hurting myself, I’ve kept his words, and him, close to me.