Whores 4 Horror Poems
*Trigger warning: sexual assault, self-harm, addiction, etc.*
Starting these will always be awkward for me but I think I am only thinking that because my anxiety has been up to my neck. Do you remember in Lilo & Stitch when Lilo draws out Stitch’s “good-to-bad” chart? That is me. But, with anxiety and clarity. Maybe because I am writing this under the influence of a whole backwood to myself and I am deciding THIS is the perfect moment to be emotional! Also, it could be that lately I truly have been anxious or just overthinking things more than usual. Which is saying a lot for me.
Lately, I’ve noticed that from past experiences of trauma I have become adaptable. I know I also had this personality as a little girl by how many different types of friends I had but definitely in a different way now because of trauma. More and more this adaptability feels like a blurred line between survival and acceptance. I feel this tug and pull in so many different areas in my life. Like how should I act in my jobs? At school? At the bar? Around a person who has cornered you into making assumptions of your own self? I mean, here is how I see it. I am and have always been loud, extra and honest. Growing up, and even now as an adult, people have tried to water me down to make me more comfortable for them. I feel like in certain areas I do not get to be unapologetically myself but the more self-aware I have become, the less I start to care. Having a personality disorder made me feel like I needed to be what other people wanted me to be for them to find me tolerable. Emphasis on “tolerable” and not “likeable”. I did this in my friendships, around my family, in romantic partnerships, and at work and in school.
I am in the process of switching therapists again. It is kind of exhausting but this is the mental healthcare system when you can’t afford a private practice. I just kind of deal with it and look at it as a fresh start. Your girl is going to start processing her traumas again and become even more self-aware. I notice so much more about myself now and I even see signs in others. My therapist told me that I have reduced a lot of my BPD symptoms and I definitely see that. I am going on almost eight months of no self-harm. The road to recovery is a tricky one and even if it took me over a decade to get here, I know that no matter what, I will figure it out.
I gotta say, sometimes I feel like a free therapist for people. It usually doesn’t bother me because I just always imagine what I would want to hear, the truth, and how my therapist would deliver it. I have gone through three different types of therapy and it truly has helped me become a better person. I used to be a terrible person and I was mostly terrible to myself. Now, I am trying to grow out of that mentality and start to believe all the great things I know to be true about myself. This is a constant battle I think everyone has.
It is astounding to me how lonely depression makes you feel. I was born bipolar so my entire life has been nothing but either depression or mania but sheesh! I could be in a room full of people who have expressed that they love me and I will still feel alone. I don’t mind being alone. I like going to dinner alone. I love having the whole bed to myself. Nothing beats going grocery shopping alone. But never having a healthy relationship in my life is starting to feel really lonely. I am trying to do my part with even my friendships but most times people don’t want to hear how they can hurt your feelings with their own toxic behaviors. I’ve noticed that a lot of people lack communication skills and see disagreements as a fight. Sometimes I can be one of those people but like… people really don’t apologize anymore. Of course, no one owes anyone anything but I think that only holds true when you truly do not care for that person.
Like I have said before, my twenties feel like survival and a new beginning all at once. I have learned so much about myself in this year alone. Since I am a journalism major, my textbook talked about how blogs are for egos and I cackled so hard because that’s really how I feel. This is nothing like journalism but I wanted to take baby steps in getting myself out there and have a healthy coping mechanism. Eventually, I might have to archive the blog or go anonymous.
I wanted to talk about childhood trauma and I am sorry for the things I might type and the things that can trigger you.
I think that often a lot of kids who were getting abused at home also got abused in another way, or maybe that was just me. I didn’t know what feeling safe was until I signed my name on a lease. I cried in my car for an hour. I got off work, I was 19, and I was really scared of the email that might deny me a home. But it didn’t. I was all alone and I couldn’t describe what I was feeling right away even if I wasn’t alone. I grew up in San Diego and it was expensive as fuck and my mother was 16. Sometimes I slept in a car, sometimes in a motel, and most times on a mattress on the floor in an apartment of 7 people. I didn’t even feel safe when we finally moved into a house in Arizona. I was convinced that the house was haunted, and sleeping on a futon with my baby brother in the living room was way more comforting than a whole room to myself.
I’ve met abuse in all different kinds of ways. I saw what drug abuse looked like, having a lot of my family members as addicts and alcoholics. I could hear the chaos and drumming of my grandpa beating my yaya through the thin walls of that apartment. When I was four and my cousin decided it was his moment to take advantage of my body. Then when I was growing up and almost everyday I would get beat up by two people I really trusted to take care of me.
One of my first memories is me getting pushed down the stairs. There are gaps in that memory, but only because I hit my head against the walls on my way down. I remember having blurred vision and seeing her feet standing over me at the very top of the steps. After that, I remember looking at myself. I didn’t know what having an out-of-body experience was until recently. Now, it makes sense. I can watch myself every time I would get jumped by my family. Every time someone forced me to perform a sexual act for them. I can’t count how many times I have been traumatized and how many triggers I have. The part that sucks is that my therapist recently told me that someone found my case intimidating because of all the extensive years of trauma I've been through and would need to process. That fucked me up. But, I am still doing it and only the strongest bitches will survive.
I am paying for school out of pocket now and it is seriously making me question moving out of state and finishing school elsewhere else. If any of you have any recommendations, I would really appreciate hearing them.
Phoenix, and Arizona alone have exhausted me. I feel like I’ve outgrown it. I love the experiences it has given me. The muses I’ve met. The secrets I’ll take to the grave. The people who still hold value in my life. And the different artists I’ve met still amazes me.
I am trying to work on expanding my art and decolonizing my mentality. I don’t have to make capital out of something to enjoy it. Not every “unproductive” day is a loss. It’s okay to take a mental health day. It’s okay to set boundaries for my body.
October is always a beautiful time of month for me. I love Halloween. The weather change is always good for my body. I can feel the chaotic energy in the sky. The sky starts to look like a jack-o-lantern. I always feel so inspired this month. Most of my favorite people were born in October. You can wear shorts during the day and a hoodie at night. It feels like home and everything tastes like a pumpkin pie.
In honor of the season, I wrote a new kind of poem. I have been trying to expand my creativity and I really felt inspired when I was driving out to visit my parents. They live in rural Buckeye and something about cows and white people can be scary. I saw a mother and her son in a broken down car and I got inspired. I hope my rocky start to horror is still enjoyable.
The longest dirt road:
she rode around in an old K5 blazer,
It was the year we landed on the moon,
and somehow it always felt full in the sky.
Windows always rolled down,
bones swinging on the rearview mirror,
her smile hung crooked alongside it,
Young and innocent days by the Kinks tuned out the voices,
she coasted along the i-10,
with no real intentions,
just avoiding her own afflictions,
her heart could only mirror affection,
as she slows down,
and the music also goes silent,
she sees a mother in distress,
resting upon her walker,
a single bright sign reading:
“Will you help me get home?”
Odd,
Considering her car looked fine,
and her very large teenage son looked hungry,
She felt pity in her stomach,
and pulled over to help.
the disabled woman waddled her way to her,
hugging her with half authenticity,
and the other half sympathy,
she pleaded,
“Will you please help us get home? We just live right down the road but it’s too far for my legs to handle.”
Her son looked irritated and eager,
not saying much but waiting for her response.
the girl offered her help,
Directing them to their spots of safety,
the woman in the front,
and the hungry son in the back,
they stated their names,
not that she really cared to remember them,
the woman directed them down a long dusty road,
the cacti doubled into nothingness,
and soon she could feel the air in the vehicle shift,
the stench of anger suffocated her senses and as quickly as she realized her fate, she felt a blade penetrate her back seat,
ripping her fresh reupholstered seat,
she could hear her teeth gritting in her head,
the disabled woman grinned and sneered,
looking at her saying,
“You better keep driving, dear. My boy is a different kind of hungry.”
She could feel the pressure at her thigh calling her,
With one hand on the steering wheel,
She removed her gun from her garter and without hesitation,
pulls the trigger swiftly behind her head,
injecting a bullet into the side of the now-dead boy’s head,
his brains splatter the back of the blazer, his blood splashing back onto her fingers,
the girl sucks them dry,
still not breaking eye contact with the road,
she replied, “what did you say about hungry?”
the woman sat with her jaw on her saggy breasts,
the smell of fear excited her,
a brand new perfume.
now the girl had the gun pointed at the woman’s temple,
“Tell me again, where are we going?”
The woman stuttered but motioned her onward,
In the rearview mirror,
you could see the apples of her cheeks,
A toothy grin,
she waited for a moment like this,
but as they approached the woman’s death wish,
It’s her trailer,
It reeks of decay and failure,
It looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned in over a decade,
The rust and dust on the outside are now a permanent ornament,
when the woman tried to rush out the truck,
she realized there were no handles,
the quick panic within shows with a single sweat,
as the girl circled the truck,
she grabbed the woman by the hair,
dragging her,
you can see the strength in her biceps,
the pulsating anger,
the woman squealed as she was being thrown into her own home,
with one swift kick,
the girl sends her to sleep,
crushing her nose with the heel of her boot,
the crunch of her bones pierced her ears,
but that is always the best part.
the girl danced her fingers into her bag,
reaching for rope like a prized possession,
the arousal in her face was back,
and when the woman woke up,
she was surrounded by her regret,
and 10-year-old cobwebs,
she soiled herself as she whined for mercy,
“Did you have mercy for me when you and your son were going to use me?”
The woman begs,
And the girl jokes,
“I’m so happy you’re awake.”
The woman’s cries were like a pig being slaughtered,
and quickly she realized her legs were wrapped to a chain,
as she flops upside down,
the woman hung from the ceiling,
she screamed at the top of her lungs,
“WHO ARE YOU?”
the girl smirks,
as she reached inside her boot,
the blade the woman’s son held against her emerges,
and as she cocked her hand back,
her smirks turned into a crazed gaze,
and the slice in her throat,
overpowered the sound of the woman choking on her own blood,
draining her body,
clean,
the girl stood over her and replied,
“A different kind of hungry.”
Starting these will always be awkward for me but I think I am only thinking that because my anxiety has been up to my neck. Do you remember in Lilo & Stitch when Lilo draws out Stitch’s “good-to-bad” chart? That is me. But, with anxiety and clarity. Maybe because I am writing this under the influence of a whole backwood to myself and I am deciding THIS is the perfect moment to be emotional! Also, it could be that lately I truly have been anxious or just overthinking things more than usual. Which is saying a lot for me.
Lately, I’ve noticed that from past experiences of trauma I have become adaptable. I know I also had this personality as a little girl by how many different types of friends I had but definitely in a different way now because of trauma. More and more this adaptability feels like a blurred line between survival and acceptance. I feel this tug and pull in so many different areas in my life. Like how should I act in my jobs? At school? At the bar? Around a person who has cornered you into making assumptions of your own self? I mean, here is how I see it. I am and have always been loud, extra and honest. Growing up, and even now as an adult, people have tried to water me down to make me more comfortable for them. I feel like in certain areas I do not get to be unapologetically myself but the more self-aware I have become, the less I start to care. Having a personality disorder made me feel like I needed to be what other people wanted me to be for them to find me tolerable. Emphasis on “tolerable” and not “likeable”. I did this in my friendships, around my family, in romantic partnerships, and at work and in school.
I am in the process of switching therapists again. It is kind of exhausting but this is the mental healthcare system when you can’t afford a private practice. I just kind of deal with it and look at it as a fresh start. Your girl is going to start processing her traumas again and become even more self-aware. I notice so much more about myself now and I even see signs in others. My therapist told me that I have reduced a lot of my BPD symptoms and I definitely see that. I am going on almost eight months of no self-harm. The road to recovery is a tricky one and even if it took me over a decade to get here, I know that no matter what, I will figure it out.
I gotta say, sometimes I feel like a free therapist for people. It usually doesn’t bother me because I just always imagine what I would want to hear, the truth, and how my therapist would deliver it. I have gone through three different types of therapy and it truly has helped me become a better person. I used to be a terrible person and I was mostly terrible to myself. Now, I am trying to grow out of that mentality and start to believe all the great things I know to be true about myself. This is a constant battle I think everyone has.
It is astounding to me how lonely depression makes you feel. I was born bipolar so my entire life has been nothing but either depression or mania but sheesh! I could be in a room full of people who have expressed that they love me and I will still feel alone. I don’t mind being alone. I like going to dinner alone. I love having the whole bed to myself. Nothing beats going grocery shopping alone. But never having a healthy relationship in my life is starting to feel really lonely. I am trying to do my part with even my friendships but most times people don’t want to hear how they can hurt your feelings with their own toxic behaviors. I’ve noticed that a lot of people lack communication skills and see disagreements as a fight. Sometimes I can be one of those people but like… people really don’t apologize anymore. Of course, no one owes anyone anything but I think that only holds true when you truly do not care for that person.
Like I have said before, my twenties feel like survival and a new beginning all at once. I have learned so much about myself in this year alone. Since I am a journalism major, my textbook talked about how blogs are for egos and I cackled so hard because that’s really how I feel. This is nothing like journalism but I wanted to take baby steps in getting myself out there and have a healthy coping mechanism. Eventually, I might have to archive the blog or go anonymous.
I wanted to talk about childhood trauma and I am sorry for the things I might type and the things that can trigger you.
I think that often a lot of kids who were getting abused at home also got abused in another way, or maybe that was just me. I didn’t know what feeling safe was until I signed my name on a lease. I cried in my car for an hour. I got off work, I was 19, and I was really scared of the email that might deny me a home. But it didn’t. I was all alone and I couldn’t describe what I was feeling right away even if I wasn’t alone. I grew up in San Diego and it was expensive as fuck and my mother was 16. Sometimes I slept in a car, sometimes in a motel, and most times on a mattress on the floor in an apartment of 7 people. I didn’t even feel safe when we finally moved into a house in Arizona. I was convinced that the house was haunted, and sleeping on a futon with my baby brother in the living room was way more comforting than a whole room to myself.
I’ve met abuse in all different kinds of ways. I saw what drug abuse looked like, having a lot of my family members as addicts and alcoholics. I could hear the chaos and drumming of my grandpa beating my yaya through the thin walls of that apartment. When I was four and my cousin decided it was his moment to take advantage of my body. Then when I was growing up and almost everyday I would get beat up by two people I really trusted to take care of me.
One of my first memories is me getting pushed down the stairs. There are gaps in that memory, but only because I hit my head against the walls on my way down. I remember having blurred vision and seeing her feet standing over me at the very top of the steps. After that, I remember looking at myself. I didn’t know what having an out-of-body experience was until recently. Now, it makes sense. I can watch myself every time I would get jumped by my family. Every time someone forced me to perform a sexual act for them. I can’t count how many times I have been traumatized and how many triggers I have. The part that sucks is that my therapist recently told me that someone found my case intimidating because of all the extensive years of trauma I've been through and would need to process. That fucked me up. But, I am still doing it and only the strongest bitches will survive.
I am paying for school out of pocket now and it is seriously making me question moving out of state and finishing school elsewhere else. If any of you have any recommendations, I would really appreciate hearing them.
Phoenix, and Arizona alone have exhausted me. I feel like I’ve outgrown it. I love the experiences it has given me. The muses I’ve met. The secrets I’ll take to the grave. The people who still hold value in my life. And the different artists I’ve met still amazes me.
I am trying to work on expanding my art and decolonizing my mentality. I don’t have to make capital out of something to enjoy it. Not every “unproductive” day is a loss. It’s okay to take a mental health day. It’s okay to set boundaries for my body.
October is always a beautiful time of month for me. I love Halloween. The weather change is always good for my body. I can feel the chaotic energy in the sky. The sky starts to look like a jack-o-lantern. I always feel so inspired this month. Most of my favorite people were born in October. You can wear shorts during the day and a hoodie at night. It feels like home and everything tastes like a pumpkin pie.
In honor of the season, I wrote a new kind of poem. I have been trying to expand my creativity and I really felt inspired when I was driving out to visit my parents. They live in rural Buckeye and something about cows and white people can be scary. I saw a mother and her son in a broken down car and I got inspired. I hope my rocky start to horror is still enjoyable.
The longest dirt road:
she rode around in an old K5 blazer,
It was the year we landed on the moon,
and somehow it always felt full in the sky.
Windows always rolled down,
bones swinging on the rearview mirror,
her smile hung crooked alongside it,
Young and innocent days by the Kinks tuned out the voices,
she coasted along the i-10,
with no real intentions,
just avoiding her own afflictions,
her heart could only mirror affection,
as she slows down,
and the music also goes silent,
she sees a mother in distress,
resting upon her walker,
a single bright sign reading:
“Will you help me get home?”
Odd,
Considering her car looked fine,
and her very large teenage son looked hungry,
She felt pity in her stomach,
and pulled over to help.
the disabled woman waddled her way to her,
hugging her with half authenticity,
and the other half sympathy,
she pleaded,
“Will you please help us get home? We just live right down the road but it’s too far for my legs to handle.”
Her son looked irritated and eager,
not saying much but waiting for her response.
the girl offered her help,
Directing them to their spots of safety,
the woman in the front,
and the hungry son in the back,
they stated their names,
not that she really cared to remember them,
the woman directed them down a long dusty road,
the cacti doubled into nothingness,
and soon she could feel the air in the vehicle shift,
the stench of anger suffocated her senses and as quickly as she realized her fate, she felt a blade penetrate her back seat,
ripping her fresh reupholstered seat,
she could hear her teeth gritting in her head,
the disabled woman grinned and sneered,
looking at her saying,
“You better keep driving, dear. My boy is a different kind of hungry.”
She could feel the pressure at her thigh calling her,
With one hand on the steering wheel,
She removed her gun from her garter and without hesitation,
pulls the trigger swiftly behind her head,
injecting a bullet into the side of the now-dead boy’s head,
his brains splatter the back of the blazer, his blood splashing back onto her fingers,
the girl sucks them dry,
still not breaking eye contact with the road,
she replied, “what did you say about hungry?”
the woman sat with her jaw on her saggy breasts,
the smell of fear excited her,
a brand new perfume.
now the girl had the gun pointed at the woman’s temple,
“Tell me again, where are we going?”
The woman stuttered but motioned her onward,
In the rearview mirror,
you could see the apples of her cheeks,
A toothy grin,
she waited for a moment like this,
but as they approached the woman’s death wish,
It’s her trailer,
It reeks of decay and failure,
It looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned in over a decade,
The rust and dust on the outside are now a permanent ornament,
when the woman tried to rush out the truck,
she realized there were no handles,
the quick panic within shows with a single sweat,
as the girl circled the truck,
she grabbed the woman by the hair,
dragging her,
you can see the strength in her biceps,
the pulsating anger,
the woman squealed as she was being thrown into her own home,
with one swift kick,
the girl sends her to sleep,
crushing her nose with the heel of her boot,
the crunch of her bones pierced her ears,
but that is always the best part.
the girl danced her fingers into her bag,
reaching for rope like a prized possession,
the arousal in her face was back,
and when the woman woke up,
she was surrounded by her regret,
and 10-year-old cobwebs,
she soiled herself as she whined for mercy,
“Did you have mercy for me when you and your son were going to use me?”
The woman begs,
And the girl jokes,
“I’m so happy you’re awake.”
The woman’s cries were like a pig being slaughtered,
and quickly she realized her legs were wrapped to a chain,
as she flops upside down,
the woman hung from the ceiling,
she screamed at the top of her lungs,
“WHO ARE YOU?”
the girl smirks,
as she reached inside her boot,
the blade the woman’s son held against her emerges,
and as she cocked her hand back,
her smirks turned into a crazed gaze,
and the slice in her throat,
overpowered the sound of the woman choking on her own blood,
draining her body,
clean,
the girl stood over her and replied,
“A different kind of hungry.”
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