I Lost the Right

*Just a prenote: This is a poem about my last boyfriend. It is a true story; it is not pleasant nor does it have a happy ending; it is somewhat profane (not really my style), but it is what I feel I needed to say.*

I think about him nearly everyday.
Him, the reason I hate myself;
him, the reason that nothing about me is worth shit anymore.

I’m afraid to get into another relationship
because “I am not a virgin” is not a talk that you have before nineteen,
and worse:
what if this one’s the same way?

I can’t stand to look at myself,
can’t stand to let myself breathe.
Saying no was not enough and I knew it.
I should have stopped him,
done everything in my power to mean no,
to get away.

But he’s not to blame.
I lost my right to say no to him the minute I started taking of my clothes to impress him.
And even though I can’t blame him,
I can’t help but hate him as my mind wanders back to that tool shed that smelled of chicken shit and desperation
and I can almost feel him inside of me all over again
and my body responds with shivers and tremors and tears.

It’s worse at night,
when he’s my last thought and my first dream
and I can literally feel his hands on me,
all over me,
exploring me because it became his right when I allowed him to undress me for his entertainment.
I feel his hands on me and I wake up sweating and kicking and screaming
“stop! You’re gone now! Can’t you leave me alone?”
But I know: I lost my right to being left alone.

I was so close to being pregnant that I can’t even laugh.
I literally cried right there on the bathroom floor when my period started
because it was going to be me.
Sometimes I even do feel pregnant.

I dream about babies a lot–
too much.
Beautiful babies who look everything like me and came out of my ovaries.
Babies who stare me in the face with blank eyes that say
“what the hell mommy?”

I was a slut,
his slut,
there for his viewing pleasure.
If he wanted to fuck me let him fuck me,
it didn’t matter how many times I said no.
It became his right to have me however he wanted, whenever he wanted.
I lost my right to no.

I hated him on my lips, my neck, my breasts, my ass
and I hated that these were no longer mine,
they were his,
parts of me that belonged to him.
I hated him inside of me,
without permission that he didn’t need anyway because I was his right,
because his hands soon became more a part of me than my own breasts,
the breasts on my body that he owned.

Let him slap my ass,
let him grab it an squeeze it.
My ass is what he’s entitled to.
as much his as any of his body
and his right through and through.
Let him put his hands where he wants,
let him take off my clothes as quickly or as slowly as he wants,
let him squeeze my breasts and kiss them if he wants,
my body was his right.

But I deserved it.
It was payback for all of bull shit I put anyone who loved me through.

And if it hurts just shut my mouth and do as he says.
He is only enjoying his right,
what should it matter whether I hurt?
I was made to be felt by him,
to listen to his moans and his
“oh god, do it again bitch, god your ass is so fucking fine,”
there to let him do it all and to clench my teeth, not say a word.

And when I left it was nothing.
He didn’t care.
It was just, “well that bitch is done,”
and “Guess I don’t get her ass anymore”
Not like he had lost anything,
but like I was already burnt out.
A piece of ass that belonged to him so he might as well use it,
but he wasn’t enjoying me anymore, he was just tolerating.
He was tolerating me.
And then it was finally gone,
Thank god.
What did I expect.
I had no right to be missed.
I had no right.

Second Period (Read: A Waste of Time)

There is a class where I literally don’t do anything. This class is good for writing on my blog with a computer rather than a phone, charging said phone, and eating an early snack-meal. I absolutely hate it. Well what did I expect with a class called “Plant Soil”. I’m surprised that it even counts as a science credit. I’m getting credit for sitting in front of a computer and doing nothing. I’m not entirely sure whether or not I mind that. What I do mind is being here at all when the teacher isn’t even here half the time. When I come to this class I think about how I should have taken physics. It would have actually been intellectually stimulating and there would actually be some sort of structure or point to all of this.

I can’t complain too much though. At least I have friends in this class, at least there are computers (though half of them run on internet explorer and most of the have the buttons switched around), at least I’m getting an “A”, at least I’m getting the science credit that I need to graduate.

I get a lot of writing done in this class too. I just log into docs, and tune out from everybody else, and then I’m good to go. Maybe I’ll post some more of my Plant Soil musings. I’m more of a rant blogger a lot of the time though. Still, maybe.

I hate being here. I want to just leave most days, but the one day I did that he took double role.

So I’m stuck here. I guess I’ll work on my oratory for Debate. Whatever.

Much love and Adieu,

Miss Lizzy Vine

Mr. Cardoza and that Black Turtle-Necked Sweater

Mr. Cardoza
when you wear that black turtle-necked sweater you look like a poet
with something profound and transcendent ripping at your soul
smooth jazz at your fingertips
and an emergency stash of coffee at the bottom of your desk.

Mr. Cardoza
when school is over,
and sometimes even when it’s not,
you sneak to coffee shops to get your fix of that bongo beat
and to those you meet your name is Tom.
Like an alley cat, you say,
running for his life from the butcher and his meat grinder.
Tom, you are an alley cat running for your life.

Tom you run,
and you run,
and you always run to the coffee shop
to tell stories about your chase
or listen to stories about other chases
or smell the coffee beans ground fresh every hour.
You appreciate that smell most of all Tom;
that smell means you’re free.

Is it nice Tom?
Is it nice to be free?
Is it?
Do you enjoy being free?
Or do you enjoy more the thrill of the chase?

You see Tom, you’re always running.
Always.
Even after you’re safe,
You go back to the butcher to run.
Doesn’t the butcher get tired?
Don’t you get tired?
Isn’t it tiring?
All that running?

But you know Tom, and I know too:
You are never safe,
and the butcher is no butcher,
and you are no alley cat.
Most of all Tom
You and I both know:
you do not run with legs;
you run with words.
So no Tom you don’t get tired.
You never get tired.

You would be tired without poetry.
Tom poetry is the fix that keeps you awake, not the coffee,
although the fresh ground coffee is irresistibly delicious.
Or so I’ve heard.
Poetry is the only thing that makes you feel alive.

But then Mr. Cardoza-
Tom-
Mr. Cardoza
when you take off that sweater you are no longer Tom,
no longer a poet,
no longer running.
You know what you are Mr. Cardoza?
You are tired.