I have a Word document in which I have copy and pasted everything I have written since high school. Well, not “everything” but only those things which could be referred to as poetry. I prefer to refer to them as my “writings.” I’m sure many of us have done the same and have volumes of bad teenage poetry stored away in our closets or our parents’ basements.
I think I will start occasionally sharing some of the “writings” I find interesting. After all, growth and personal development is the theme behind this blog o’ mine. (What? You thought it was all about self-indulgence and vanity?!)
This one, I believe, was from approximately 2003 or early 2004. This would put me at twenty-one tender years of age. At this point in my life, I was going through some things I was keeping to myself. The result? Hostile, violent written images.
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well, she says she’ll stay maybe one more time at the most. she says this is getting to be too much and she needs not to need this. but it’s difficult for her to know any better. it’s hard to walk away when your fingers are nailed to his skin and his teeth are digging into you. it’s hard to think clearly when things feel so good, even when it hurts so much worse during the lulls when she is not there. every fucking touch is a burn through three layers of skin and it takes weeks for the healing process to begin. it doesn’t matter. she’ll get burned again. and she’ll like it while she tries to pull away. she’ll like it when she blacks out and when he pulls her wrists to her sides. she’ll like it when she doesn’t even know it is happening. he doesn’t know any better, so why should she?