A Collection of Bruises I Cannot Show Off

Bite-Size Poetry, Ramblings, and Photosby Julia Alexander

i. picking through dirty clothes, trying to find something to wear, why do i never do laundry? ii. falling asleep on the train, clutching a mostly empty backpack iii. your hands on my throat iv. as i am sinking into my own bed, my hands are still warm from running them across your skin v. i’m blooming in the middle of winter, something is rising out of the snow.

one

DenotationI am learning my own descriptionwithout using your name in the sentence.I am picking out a new set of wordsto explain the meaning behind my breath.I reshuffled the deck, and I am drawing new cards.The ridges on my palm don’t point to you anymore.I’ve seen the reading,and there are things you would never believeset out before me.Every piece of my destiny is dripping out of my open hands.You were never my fate,and you are no longer an endpoint on my map.You are not the destination.I’m navigating a new course.It’s time to seek alternate definitions.

twoi. productivity as a shelter, as a crutch, as a humane suicide ii. wrapping myself in my own arms, seeing what it feels like to be enthralled by being iii. falling down on the ice, standing back up, falling down on the ice, standing back up, falling down on the ice, staying down on the ground, learning to function at this new level. iv. the feeling in my stomach when something bad happens to someone else. i think that is called empathy. is it wrong to call that satisfaction? v. i’m writing because of the instinct, because of the emptiness when i do not, because of this headache.

I Spent More Time In the Shower At RIC Than I Did In Classi spent half a semester in college.

i studied the way a girl can turn into a rabid dog when she is trapped.i was chained to a fence and scratching at fleas.i allowed myself to destroy another person’s life just because i was cagedand she was different,and she was an easy target.i spread this infection purposefully,and i could never apologize enough,so i have not apologized at all.

i studied the way a girl can unravel when her problems are never fixed. i let old wounds fester. nothingever healed right. i let myself scratch the scars wide open. i spent more time

getting high in browne hall than i didin class. i am not proud of that.i spent more time crying in the shower than i didin class. i am not proud of that. i did not ask for help because i did not know that i was sick.

i studied the way a girl can look at the house she grew up in so much differently when she is no longer allowed to sleep there. i made myself stay away from here for long enough to know that the best way to say “home” is with tears streaming downyour cheeks, is with your whole body shaking,is with longing, is with your father’s armswrapped around your shoulders.

threei. i’m waking up in the city and for once i feel synchronicity. i dig my own grave in the town where i eventually fall asleep ii. i flushed the medication i should be taking down the toilet in the bus station. iii. scratch your elbows against the pavement and watch blood pool on the asphalt. iv. the promises that i didn’t keep no longer taste like burnt flesh. now they taste like stomach acid, now they taste like the pills i couldn’t swallow v. i run ice cubes across my skin while i’m sitting down in the shower. the water doesn’t heat up enough anymore. i need a new infliction of penalty against my tissue.

fouri. drinking cough syrup until my vomit turned pink and cleared my sinuses each time i heaved it ii. all of the nights i sat on the bathroom floor and wished i were someone else, wished i were something smaller. iii. the girls i wanted to kiss. the boys i didn’t have the words to stop, i didn’t know i could have said no iv. putting someone else’s hands over my mouth, letting someone shut me up v. i am forgiving myself for everything i have done. i am forgiving myself for the things i didn’t find the courage to tell you about.

Truth About Me (sorry for thinking you liked me)i’m just a dreamerwith the mask of a cynic because every time i’ve believed words to be about mesomeone was breathing them into the mouth of a girl with a straighter spine.you’re a dream about the snow melting,so i can’t help but wonderif you’ve been thinking about mine.

fivei. there are flowers on my kitchen table. they have been slowly rotting there for two weeks. ii. we never get exactly what we want, we mold our desires to the reality iii. i am still begging you to stay in my life. i am just quietly whispering my pleas to the ceiling as i lie in bed, you just can’t hear me anymore iv. i regret a lot of things. i regret trying to make you be more than just a person. i tried to get you to fix me when i wasn’t even broken. v. i wish you could see how i am different now. i wish you could see how i am the same.

i. i am unhappy with the way things turned out between us. is it easy to tell that i am still bitter? is it easy to tell that i am still in love with you? ii. i pull the wings off of moths and press them between the pages in notebooks full of poetry that you will never read iii. would you wrap your hands around my throat if i asked you to? would you kill me if i asked you to? iv. i am eating a plate full of moth balls maybe that will keep you away, maybe that will get you out of my brain. v. we talk about deserving people. we talk about deserving love. we talk about conquest. we talk about reaping the benefits of everything we grew together. we talk about conquest. did you get the prize you wanted? are you satisfied with this as a prize?

six

seveni. a balance of pushing and giving way, holding on and letting go, skin on skin, hands against wristsii. bite my lip until there is blood pooling in my mouth. i have always liked the taste of iron, of strength. iii. i’m collecting bruises that i cannot show off. i am still proud. this is a test of patience. this is a test of body. this is a test of who will break eye contact first.iv. your hand on my throat feel the pressure, the ironv. you and me and skin, on skin, on skin.

message i wish i had the courage to sendcan you just admit that you were wrong?can you just admit that we should end up together?can you just admit that every time you close your eyes the only thing you can imagine is the taste of my skin?

eighti. fingertips pressed against skin, it has give. it will always give. ii. i could smell the chemicals on your clothes from jumping in the swimming pool. i still wouldn’t put my head underwater. iii. i get angry at strangers who don’t try hard enough to undress me. i still let them do it anyway. iv. my clothes still smell like you even though you have been gone for two months. v. i always need more than anyone thus far has been willing to give.

ninei. two people in two bedrooms in two states, do you still think of me as much as i think of you? should i still be thinking of you? ii. dripping sweat and i’m still not finished. i’m not finished with you yet iii. i am familiar with hunger, with restriction, with longing. iv. i’m up at dawn to watch the crows eat guts off the street, to watch sunlight come in through the windows and illumi-nate the filth in this room v. there’s a fire some-where within me, but i can’t see the smoke. i know it’s here. i can feel it burning.

teni. trying on new clothes, trying on new music, trying on new lifestyles. nothing fits right anymore. nothing fits right now. ii. i have to get out of here. i can see myself rotting in this bedroom forever. iii. watching you pace back and forth across the room, neither of us know how to get out of this. iv. coming down is a lot like falling. coming down is a lot like trying to grab onto empty words as they collapse into dust. coming down is a lot like giving up. v. toughing it out never seemed to feel so rough. it never used to burn like this. i used to be able to handle it on my own.

Trench-Coating If I pretend that I am supposed to be here, maybe I will start to belong. I hope it isn’t completely obvious that I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m still growing into my skin. I haven’t found the person I am supposed to be yet. I don’t have a clue as to where I am supposed to be, or what I’m supposed to do to get there. This is all an act. I’m not successful. I’m not worth reading, but I hope I can convince you otherwise. I’m tricking you into tolarating me. I live with my parents. I dropped out of college. I’m an idiot. My sisters and I are three little kids in a trench coat, standing on each others shoulders. We’re all faking it. I’m realizing as I get older, everyone else is faking it too. Nobody deserves anything they have earned. No one belongs. But I am at least here, so I have decided that this is mine.

eleveni. there are nights that i wake up and i’m still screaming. there are nights that i wake up and think if i turn over, you’ll still be there. ii. i rub dirt on the wounds i gave myself. i do not blame anyone else for this. i cannot blame anyone else for this. iii. staring off into space, i try to clear my head, i try to not think about anything at all iv. i know that i should have gotten over this by now. i know that i should have moved on by now. v. i know i’m letting people down. i can’t stop letting everyone down. why does anyone expect anything different from me at this point? you are expecting too much from me. there’s no water in this stone.

People think it is attractive when I am help-less. Helpless as in tied up, as in snapping like a rubber band, as in begging, as in pinned down. I’m enamored with boys who want to hurt me. He calls me princess. He calls me baby. He calls me kitten. And, I can’t help but do whatever he asks. What does that say about me? I don’t seek these people out, but somehow he always ends up getting his way into my phone. Somehow he always ends up getting his way into my pants. If you say you adore my skin, I’ll let you bruise it. If you say my body is perfect, I’ll let you ruin it. I can’t take compliments. If you say that you love me, your hand better be on my throat.

l, g, j, and m

a diary of bones, blood and whispers

i hear bones crackinglike dinner plates against the wallas my skull reaches the pavement.i listen for the sirensfor an ambulance, but i don’t think anyone has called for help.i am whispering all my secretsinto the asphalt as ifthey were quarters falling out of my pockets.i have always carriedthe wrong currency.maybe someone elsewill pick them up.maybe someone else can use them.one last coin rolls out ofthe corner of my mouth,but who am i praying towhen i don’t believe ingod?

Keep It Quiet

If you hold your breath for a couple minutes I’m sure you’ll probably pass out. However, it is difficult to do this on your own. Without a hand pressing tight to your throat it’s hard fight your own body’s will to survive, your brain’s hunger for oxygen. Trust me, I’ve tried. Trust is a strange thing. Staring up at the ceiling, I counted the seconds I could hold it in before taking a new breath. I never got passed forty-seven, and he didn’t notice my face was turning red. My body was blooming, spread, an empty highway. I couldn’t lift my head off the pillow. Trust is a strange thing. We were both betrayed. I trusted that he would never take advantage of the fact that I was crumbling. I was a house burning down in front of him. He trusted that my silence meant what he wanted it to mean. He trusted himself to be able to tell the difference between consent and

assault. Trust is a sick game. He was ripping my insides out like pages of an old notebook. Trust me, I didn’t say no. His interpretation of my quiet was the hand around my throat. I did not say anything. Trust me, I was wishing someone would walk in. Trust me, the drugs I took that morning kept me asleep all day. Trust me, I’ve taken drugs every single day since to keep myself from screaming every time someone touches my skin. Ever since that night I’ve been fighting my hunger for oxygen. I’ve been holding my breath and hoping I can put myself to sleep. Trust me, I don’t sleep. Trust is a strange thing. One definition of trust is confidence placed in a person by making that person the owner of property to be held or used for the benefit of others. And, I guess that’s exactly what we did.

i wish we were still together

i am so familiar with the feeling of disembowelment that i no longer flinch at the sight of my own guts spilled across a page.

this hurt has lasted for almost three months.i learned to hold myself tighter than you ever could have when you left.i learned to love myself harder thananyone else could have when you left.i realize that i do not need you anymore.

but it never stopped hurting. i never stopped touching the places you cut yourself out of meout of my life.the incisions are not healing.

and now we are talking againand you are saying that you can’t stop hurting. you are not healing. i think we are both infected.i think we are both dying. i used to think that this feeling was the end. i think nowit is the beginning of learning to love another personsofter than anyone else ever could have.

i don’t know what i want. i just know that i have emptied myself since you’ve left. i just know i hate the feeling of evisceration.

julia alexander is a part time poet and a full time cry baby. she’s eighteen and lives in connecticut. when she isn’t too busy putting the punk in spunk, she runs an independent literary magazine, Insert Lit Mag Here. julia has a full length album of spoken word poetry called Accepting the Facts and chapbook called As My Voice Shakes.julia likes pizza. julia likes biting her nails. julia likes surf pop. julia likes meeting people on the internet. julia likes meeting people in real life. julia likes being alone. julia likes taking pictures of herself. julia never shuts up.

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