the first time i saw her…
everything in my head went quiet.
all the tics, all the constantly refreshing images just disappeared.
when you have obsessive-compulsive disorder, you don’t really get quiet moments. even in bed, i’m thinking:
did i lock the doors? yes.
did i wash my hands? yes.
did i lock the doors? yes.
did i wash my hands? yes.
but when i saw her, the only thing i could think about was the hairpin curve of her lips..
or the eyelash on her cheek—
the eyelash on her cheek—
the eyelash on her cheek.
i knew i had to talk to her.
i asked her out six times in thirty seconds.
she said yes after the third one, but none of them felt right, so i had to keep going.
on our first date, i spent more time organizing my meal by color than i did eating it, or fxcking talking to her…
but she loved it.
she loved that i had to kiss her goodbye sixteen times or twenty-four times if it was wednesday.
she loved that it took me forever to walk home because there are lots of cracks on our sidewalk.
when we moved in together, she said she felt safe, like no one would ever rob us because i definitely locked the door eighteen times.
i’d always watch her mouth when she talked—
when she talked—
when she talked—
when she talked
when she talked;
when she said she loved me, her mouth would curl up at the edges.
at night, she’d lay in bed and watch me turn all the lights off..
and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off.
she’d close her eyes and imagine that the days and nights were passing in front of her.
some mornings i’d start kissing her goodbye but she’d just leave cause i was just making her late for work…
when i stopped in front of a crack in the sidewalk, she just kept walking…
when she said she loved me her mouth was a straight line.
she told me that i was taking up too much of her time.
last week she started sleeping at her mother’s place.
she told me that she shouldn’t have let me get so attached to her; that this whole thing was a mistake, but…
how can it be a mistake that i don’t have to wash my hands after i touched her?
love is not a mistake, and it’s killing me that she can run away from this and i just can’t.
i can’t – i can’t go out and find someone new because i always think of her.
usually, when i obsess over things, i see germs sneaking into my skin. i see myself crushed by an endless succession of cars…
and she was the first beautiful thing i ever got stuck on.
i want to wake up every morning thinking about the way she holds her steering wheel..
how she turns shower knobs like she’s opening a safe.
how she blows out candles—
blows out candles—
blows out candles—
blows out candles—
blows out candles—
blows out…
now, i just think about who else is kissing her.
i can’t breathe because he only kisses her once —
he doesn’t care if it’s perfect!
i want her back so bad…
i leave the door unlocked.
i leave the lights on.
everything in my head went quiet.
all the tics, all the constantly refreshing images just disappeared.
when you have obsessive-compulsive disorder, you don’t really get quiet moments. even in bed, i’m thinking:
did i lock the doors? yes.
did i wash my hands? yes.
did i lock the doors? yes.
did i wash my hands? yes.
but when i saw her, the only thing i could think about was the hairpin curve of her lips..
or the eyelash on her cheek—
the eyelash on her cheek—
the eyelash on her cheek.
i knew i had to talk to her.
i asked her out six times in thirty seconds.
she said yes after the third one, but none of them felt right, so i had to keep going.
on our first date, i spent more time organizing my meal by color than i did eating it, or fxcking talking to her…
but she loved it.
she loved that i had to kiss her goodbye sixteen times or twenty-four times if it was wednesday.
she loved that it took me forever to walk home because there are lots of cracks on our sidewalk.
when we moved in together, she said she felt safe, like no one would ever rob us because i definitely locked the door eighteen times.
i’d always watch her mouth when she talked—
when she talked—
when she talked—
when she talked
when she talked;
when she said she loved me, her mouth would curl up at the edges.
at night, she’d lay in bed and watch me turn all the lights off..
and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off.
she’d close her eyes and imagine that the days and nights were passing in front of her.
some mornings i’d start kissing her goodbye but she’d just leave cause i was just making her late for work…
when i stopped in front of a crack in the sidewalk, she just kept walking…
when she said she loved me her mouth was a straight line.
she told me that i was taking up too much of her time.
last week she started sleeping at her mother’s place.
she told me that she shouldn’t have let me get so attached to her; that this whole thing was a mistake, but…
how can it be a mistake that i don’t have to wash my hands after i touched her?
love is not a mistake, and it’s killing me that she can run away from this and i just can’t.
i can’t – i can’t go out and find someone new because i always think of her.
usually, when i obsess over things, i see germs sneaking into my skin. i see myself crushed by an endless succession of cars…
and she was the first beautiful thing i ever got stuck on.
i want to wake up every morning thinking about the way she holds her steering wheel..
how she turns shower knobs like she’s opening a safe.
how she blows out candles—
blows out candles—
blows out candles—
blows out candles—
blows out candles—
blows out…
now, i just think about who else is kissing her.
i can’t breathe because he only kisses her once —
he doesn’t care if it’s perfect!
i want her back so bad…
i leave the door unlocked.
i leave the lights on.
I used to wear my
rosary like a necklace,
but only because it
glowed in the dark.
Explaining my depression to my mother: a conversation
Mom, my depression is a shape shifter. Ond day it is as small as a firefly in the palm of a bear. The next it's the bear. On those days I play dead until the bear leaves me alone.
I call the bad days "the dark days". Mom says, "Try lighting candles". When I see a candle I see the flesh of a church, the flicker of a flame, the sparks of a memory younger than noon, I am standing beside her open casket. It is the moment I learn every person I ever come to know will someday die.
Besides, mom, I'm not afraid of the dark. Perhaps that's part of the problem.
Mom says, "I thought the problem was that you can't get out of bed." I can't. Anxiety holds me a hostage inside of my house, inside of my head.
Mom says, "Where did anxiety come from?" Anxiety is the cousin from out of town depression felt obligated to bring to the party. Mom, I am the party only I am a party I don't want to be at.
Mom says, "Why don't you try going to actual parties? See your friends?" Sure, I make plans. I make plans, but I don't want to go. I make plans because I should want to go, I know sometimes I would have wanted to go, it's just it's not that much fun having fun when you don't want to have fun, mom.
You see, mom, each night insomnia sweeps me up in his arms, dips me in the kitchen in the small glow of the stovelight. Insomnia has this romantic way of making the moon feel like perfect company. Mom says, "Try counting sheep" but my mind can only count reasons to stay awake so I go for walks. But my stuttering kneecaps clank like silver spoons held in strong arms with loose wrists. They ring in my ears like clumsy church bells remind me tha tI am sleepwalking on an ocean of happiness I cannot baptize myself in.
Mom says, "Happy is a decision". But my happiness is as hollow as a pin pricked egg. My happy is a high fever that will break.
Mom says I am so good at making something out of nothing and then flat out asks me if I am afraid of dying.
No! I am afraid of living!
Mom, I am lonely! I think I learned how, when dad left, how to turn the angry into lonely, the lonely into busy. So when I tell you I've been super busy lately I mean I've been falling asleep watching SportsCenter on the couch to avoid going confronting the empty side of my bed but my depression always drags my back to my bed until my bones are the forgotten fossils of a skeleton sunken city, my mouth a boneyard of teeth broken from biting down on themselves, the hollow auditorium of my chest swoons with echoes of a heartbeat. But I am a careless tourist here. I will never truely know everwhere I have been.
Mom still doesn't understand.
Mom, can't you see? That neither can I.
Sabrina Benaim
Here in America and every single state they have a set of standards for every subject, a collection of lessons that the teacher's required to teach by the end of the term. But the greatest lessons you will ever teach us will not come from your syllabus. The greatest lesssons you will ever teach us you will not even remember.
You never told us what we weren't allowed to say. We just learned how to hold our tongues.
Now somewhere in America there is a child holding a copy of Catcher in the Rye and there is a child holding a gun. But only one of these things have been banned by their state government and, it's not the one that can rip through flesh, it's the one that says "F You" on more pages than one.
Because we must control what people say. how they think. And if they want to become the overseer of their own selves then we'll show them a real one.
And somewhere in America there is a child sitting at his mother's computer reding the home page of the KKK's website and that's open to the public. But that child will never read To Kill a Mockingbird because his school has banned it for it's use of the n-word.
Maya Angelou is prohibited because we're not allowed to talk about rápe in school. We are taught that just because something happens doesn't mean we are to talk about it.
They build us brand new shopping malls so we'll forget where we're really standing -- on the bones of the Hispanics, on the bones of the slaves, on the bones of the Native Americans, on the bones of those who fought just to speak.
Transcontinental railroads to Japanese internment camps. There are things missing from our history books. But we were taught that it is better to be silent than to make them uncomfortable.
Somewhere in America private school girls search for hours through boutiques trying to find the prom dress of their dreams while kids on the south side spend hours searching through the lost and found 'cause winter's coming soon and that's the only jacket they have.
Kids are late to class for working the midnight shift. They give awards for best attendance but not for keeping your family off the streets.
These kids will call your music ghetto. They will tell you you don't talk right. Then they'll get in the backseat of a car with all their friends singing how they're "'bout that life" and "we can't stop".
Somewhere in America schools are promoting self confidence while they whip out their scales and shout out your body fat percentage in class. Where the heftier girls are hiding away and the slim fit beauties can't help but giggle with pride.
The preppy kids go thrift shopping beause they think it sounds fun. But we go 'cause that's all we've got money for 'cause mama works for the city; mama only gets paid once a month.
Somewhere in America a girl is getting felt up by a grown man on a subway. She's still in ther school uniform and that's part of the appeal. It's hard to run in knee socks and Mary Janes and all her male teachers know it, too.
Coaches cover up star players ráping freshmen after the dance. Women are killed for rejecting a date but God forbid I bring my girlfriend to prom.
A girl is blackout drunk at the after party. Take a picture before her wounds waker her. How many pixels is your sanity worth?
What's a 4.0 to a cold jury?
What'd you learn in class today? Don't talk loud, don't speak loud, keep your hands to yourself, keep your head down. Keep your eyes on your own paper. If you don't know the answer fill in C.
Always wear earbuds when you ride the bus alone. If you think that someone's following you pretend you're on the phone.
A teacher never fails. Only you do.
Every state in America.
The greatest lessons are the ones you don't remember learning.
Belissa Escobedo
Rhiannon McGavin
Zariya Allen
Rhiannon McGavin
Zariya Allen
I, too, have
kissed no one goodnight.
I have launched myself from tall places,
hoping that no one would catch me.
I have thought and thought.
I have thought myself into corners,
made of words and nightmares!
but what has it gotten me?
...just more thoughts.
I have launched myself from tall places,
hoping that no one would catch me.
I have thought and thought.
I have thought myself into corners,
made of words and nightmares!
but what has it gotten me?
...just more thoughts.
I've been thinking about driving nowhere.
I've been thinking about
becoming a box inside a locked room, inside a dark house, at the
dark end of the street.
But, isolation is not safety.
It is death.
If no one knows that you're alive, then you aren't!
If a tree falls in the forest, and no one is around to hear it,
it still makes a sound... but then that sound is gone.
But, isolation is not safety.
It is death.
If no one knows that you're alive, then you aren't!
If a tree falls in the forest, and no one is around to hear it,
it still makes a sound... but then that sound is gone.
It takes so much less energy to not exist than it does to exist, and get burned.
I've been burned so much,
I'm not me anymore.
I'm this...stupid, puppet version of me.
Except I have string that lead to nowhere... nothing is pulling on me.
There are days where I cannot find the sun, even though it's right
outside my goddaamn window. When getting out of bed feels like the key
in the doomsday machine.
On those days, this is what I tell myself: Whatever you are feeling, right now,
there is a mathematical certainty that someone else is feeling the exact same way.
This is not to say you are not special.
This is to say, THANK GOD you're not special!
You're never alone.
I'm this...stupid, puppet version of me.
Except I have string that lead to nowhere... nothing is pulling on me.
There are days where I cannot find the sun, even though it's right
outside my goddaamn window. When getting out of bed feels like the key
in the doomsday machine.
On those days, this is what I tell myself: Whatever you are feeling, right now,
there is a mathematical certainty that someone else is feeling the exact same way.
This is not to say you are not special.
This is to say, THANK GOD you're not special!
You're never alone.
In the darkest shadows,
when all seems to have left,
and you feel alone.
I'm there and will always be there,
to light a match or make stars for you,
I will make all your dreams come true.
So baby, keep holding on to my hand,
squeeze it tight every once in a while to show you will stand,
by me,
because I will stand,
by you,
until my last breath,
until my end.
When the state of Ohio found two sixteen year old boys
guilty of ra.ping a sixteen year old girl, both boys cried their
eyes out moments after the verdict.
Every major news outlet coddled them instead of the girl they ra.ped.
CNN was grieving over the deaths of their futures in football.
They said nothing of the cemetery growing inside the body of the girl.
Nothing of the graveyard where she buried her trust in men.
Ra.pe culture is the worst kind of teacher our kids are learning from.
It teaches women that it is their responsibility not to get ra.ped.
It teaches men that boys will be boys.
It teaches us that a short skirt and a smile is asking for it.
It teaches us that it's not wrong unless someone comes to the rescue.
Every major news outlet coddled them instead of the girl they ra.ped.
CNN was grieving over the deaths of their futures in football.
They said nothing of the cemetery growing inside the body of the girl.
Nothing of the graveyard where she buried her trust in men.
Ra.pe culture is the worst kind of teacher our kids are learning from.
It teaches women that it is their responsibility not to get ra.ped.
It teaches men that boys will be boys.
It teaches us that a short skirt and a smile is asking for it.
It teaches us that it's not wrong unless someone comes to the rescue.
