Sunday, February 23, 2014

gun on stun, fun on...

he does not know. i wonder if he will. i've got mad skillz of the oral and vaginal kind, i do, and the choicest get them. the rest, pfaaaah. not a glance, but

he is very kind, i was immediately drawn to that, but

not in that way, since he is so

but i seem to have been goaded into asking out

someone approaching his 22nd birthday. i worry



i am all over that, and he shouldn't be subjected to

but i am not denying myself this pleasure, the poor thing. and he had better be prepared.

what the pixy stix?!? it's clear:

i rock old.

Thursday, February 20, 2014

dipping among the stars

it's swear

how strange


the making love i can't replicate

the pH balance

like the gooseberry bush

just right

too big, i cried out, but somehow

just right

blushing for cards

the funny kind, you know


i sent a card

to joe

yesterday. some artist in san francisco

painted a pair of lips

a handlebar moustache

and the card inside quips: "i can't disguise my love for you"

and i miss

but the last thing i wrote was on a piece of paper folded

"i could write a book

but you're a wavelength away"

and all i said all i said was how scared scared i am and how my love won't disappear

he can reject it, he can walk away from it, he can marinate

and use it if he ever goes back to rehab even if he's already married to someone else

it matters to me that he matters to him and

that he ("it's not about taking the babies away from you, it's about making sure they're safe")

where to slit my wrists?

two people i would do it in front of

and thank god for marci

i told her about how marisol ambushed me with her best friend in our apartment

he was masturbating to porn on the flatscreen in the living room and marisol showed me her packing dildo, not even the one she would use for sex, not any of the ones she fucked her girlfriend with

and they spent six hours

trying to rape me and strangling me, and putting me in headlocks, threatening me not to go to the police

and marisol threatened to kill me a few times

she'd been saying all the things a lot of guys say

"i don't get it--but the more we hang out, the cooler and more fun you are, and the more i gotta have you"

and they were cutting off my airways, yep, my mouth, my nose, closing them off

so that when i was about to pass out from not breathing

they could blow some crack-cocaine breath into me--but--how does crack make you hornier?

how does crack make you go OH MY GOD PLEASE RAPE ME NOW YES YES YES

and the high

it is crystal

Tuesday, February 18, 2014

delineating my desensitization

i couldn't write for a long time

or i'd have been betraying floyd, i thought. now i know

better, graceful, that i wouldn't have been crushed so crushed so crushed so much so fast so many

that i'd have soared and landed on solid feet. all my feats, not the defeat--

--but so much, so many bad, so many horrible, nasty guys--

and then, wouldn't you know it, with 80 pounds shed, and the makeup i was shyly trying on, floyd laughing at me some days, mascara--my first times applying it at the sephora a block north--

--floyd gone, me having dated someone who very nearly killed me, whose jiujitsu blows blew me away, who was raping me so that i was going to need an ambulance, his little dick unlike his four broad feet of shoulders and strong unlike his wispy tonsure, about to rupture me somewhere and i knew it was going to bleed fast and bad, gush my sphincter--

when i screamed, it was just past valentine's day, and it was only still us dating because when i was at perlis' looking at his facebook and saw just how deep his lies were cutting, that despite never checking facebook until that day, he had me blocked--and that's when i knew he wasn't just dangerous, he was probably deadly, all the violence adding up, all the sick--

--bianca came over and lay into me. i said i was breaking things off with darryl, that i knew he was bad, i didn't explain all the other things, how he was violent and had admitted to jail sentences, how he had almost beaten the shit out of me on our second date for calling him a republican--just sat there with his fists clenching and his eyes wide and cruel, blue as the sky but glittering knives--he was brilliant, painfully intelligent, and had said that no way was my IQ 140, it was more like 160, i just wasn't using it--like all the hearing guys i've dated, he was a genius and sure that i was just as sharp, if not sharper--

unlike what i read the other week

--he was trembling, trembling, his teeth clenching his lip in place, all pink, so pink, like the delirium tremens-stamped glasses our delirium was trembling in, all the tiny pink elephants delicately tramping around and around and around the belgian glass bulge--looking just like dad when he wanted to hit us, had to hit us, for laughing, for talking, for not sitting still--ready to reach over the table and punch me in the face, but having to calm down--

"did you republican!?"

and he was. he was a birther, anti-obama, and i was sure we wouldn't last, i just wanted to figure out dating...

i didn't tell perlis or bianca that, or about his trip to my apartment for our third date. he said that my bedroom, into which he was not allowed, must have dead men hanging from the ceiling--that i must kill all the men i say want to rape me the way my father killed himself, noosed...and the way he forced himself onto me in my living room, forced me into a blowjob, the way i tried to say it was wonderful, that it had healed me...

...i could not handle blowjobs, i was sick at the thought, the way clint forced them onto me, the hot searing globs of semen shooting into my mouth, acrid, sour, gooey

--and i was just sobbing, shaking, pleading: "stop!" and bianca was just screaming, laying into me: "you're so stupid! so stupid! you're so stupid! 'ohhhhh, i'm a viiiiiiirgin!' quit it already! stop it! stop! stop with the 'oh, i'm a viiiiiiirgin,' you've been raped, oh, fucking well! deal with it! deal with it! you've fucked enough guys since then, 'oh, i'm 15, i'm 15, i'm a virgin, i'm still 15,' stop it! if you don't stop it, i'm not going to be your friend anymore! you're going to lose your best friends, me and jenny, we're not going to be your friends anymore!"

going on and on like that for 15 solid minutes, me screaming and shaking and begging her to stop. instead of doing what was in my heart: walking out of there and not looking back.

i thought i needed friends. we all think we can't live without someone we suddenly do.

my therapist, after darryl almost killed me, raped me so badly i almost died, had to scream and scream on the toilet during every shit for two weeks, could not walk right for another week...after grandma said, "well, no, you can't come visit the family. you thought you loved mosi but he raped you, so why should we believe anything you say?"...she said:

"well, just because he says he's dated a lot, that doesn't mean he's good at it. that doesn't mean he's a nice guy. that doesn't mean he's had any real relationships. that doesn't mean that any of the women he's been with haven't been raped."

she said:

"you should have walked away from bianca. she's not a friend. she's not good to you."

and then

for a long time

i made noises all the time walking down every avenue and across each street



for months...just to keep my head from flying off and all the bits flying away

into the wind

but after what i read the other week

who really needs those bits, who needs me to keep my head?

and then


and then ben, and then the other ben, and then ben again, and then...the other ben again...

and david, oh, david i loved

but david was just

the pastel grit or a pasted grimace (my lasting death)

the second (third; he cried twice the night he strangled and slapped me around during sex, the night he punched the wall) time he cried
broke my heart
“you’re breaking up with me because you think i’m ugly”
broke my heart, i always knew he thought so, i always knew he was scared i thought so
all i gave, every last penny, every last paintbrush, every pot of acrylic ground
all he stole, my t-shirt from david that got me through so much, my deftones tee, because “you love him more than you love me”
nothing could make him feel beautiful or loved. every fight he picked while he was still inside me scars
and the worst is when someone says, “wow! he was cute! you gotta give yourself that”
love is funny and love doesn’t stop--he would rave, “i didn’t rape you! you can't love me if i raped you! you can’t love somebody who rapes you!” but “yes, i can…and i do. i love you, and you raped me. the two aren't mutually exclusive”--just because somebody hurts you.
but he fucked me up. and fucked me up. i hate it when
“he’s cute! why’d you break up with him?”

“joe…you keep raping me. i’m not happy. you keep dragging me around the apartment, hurting me, and raping me. just about every day. you did it twice yesterday…i keep telling you, you gotta change what you do or you gotta move out.”

i’m not telling them

and i miss him. he really knew how to make me laugh and consistently surprise me with his ability

to make me laugh

his paintings, his drawings

but watching him hate himself as he painted in front of me, worrying that i was judging, muddying
his work, the beautiful layers of paint turning monochromatic and the scene going flat

hurt me as much as what he did physically
worried me sick

but did i set him free? to create and paint and love? no. he’s just not going to grow if he doesn’t find a way to love himself. all he did was!

he was fourteen, not fifteen? and he was a chubby kid with big blue eyes and trying to fit in. he was just a kid, and a mistake just got away from him

my mistake

he smoked his first cigarette in the school bathroom to be cool with his glossy near-black hair and didn’t put it out so the school, the whole school…ashen, gone, and he (i suspect) never.
the same. always running, tunnel-vision, from the shame. and he gets hit and it all comes back to. burns back down to:

i was twelve. it was my dad’s bathroom. (when i was seven it was my mom’s station wagon and the door. i’ll never forget her smack on my knee, the wild realization that the door had almost whipped away from me with the wind, that i was barely able to grip the handle and nail it back shut instead of sending it flying from the median. but i’ll never forget the desperate need to open it. had to know, had to know, oh, days, weeks, months of dying to know culminating.) he always had candles burning everywhere, scented candles, to try to drown out the cigarette stench. this one was, oh, plumeria-ish. a mauve-rose color in a horrible votive, blue checkered borders and ducks. i just had to know, i just had to know.

i guess it was a puff? is that the brand? the lotion-heavy ones. i grabbed a square, i just had to know, and smothered the candle with it. only it burst instead, burst, and i tried to put it out but it was burning too quickly, so i dropped it. into the trash can? not the sink? how silly, not even into the toilet, how silly of me.
dad broke down the door, basically, but i think i let him in after the danger overpowered the pounding. the wastebasket in the tub, the showerhead on, the trash taken outside. then the lie:

"the kleenex was stuck to my elbow cuz of the toothpaste, and i tried to wave it off, but it landed on the candle.” dad was crazy abusive, crazy, and he would’ve screamed, grounded me for the first and only time, but he knew how terrified i was, that the lie didn’t mean i’d do it again, be stupid again.
so he softened.
i tried, i really tried, with joe. but three murder attempts are three too many. he stopped himself each time, but going crazy over sexual matters like that is troubling in and of itself. it really is, and i loved him, i still love him, but jeff was like…look, i’ve lost a friend to an abusive boyfriend, he killed her; my father was horribly abusive while i was growing up and my mother, she's lucky, it took forty years but he’s fine now; i’ve had to rescue bloodied friends from their boyfriends; too many go back to their abusers and say “i don’t know why, but i did,” and you’re not going to.
i finally told him. i was all, oh, my god…i was going to make a clean break, but then his truck broke down at 10:30 the night before my 6:30a flight to hawaii and i had to pay for the fucking tow truck again, always paying joe’s tow-truck bills, for clothes, for food, even threatened into paying for gas--and that day he’d threatened to kill me if i didn't hand over my iPhone 3…so i just let things happen differently, let him store my stuff at his mom’s…and i got back, and he physically assaulted his way into moving back in with me…at his mom’s advice…and he’s been strangling me, he’s tried to kill me one more time, he’s been grabbing me by the neck, the throat, raping me every day…because i’m in too much pain from him tearing up my vagina to be able to have consensual sex, since he rapes me before i’m healed enough to be okay again…fucking getting old, fucking not dripping natural lubricant just knowing i’m gonna get fucked, fucking a…and if he would just wait long enough, if he would just let me give him loving blowjobs instead of the ones he screams at me for after listening to me scream and cry because i’m just not able to handle that lovely, gorgeous, huge, favorite, wonderful, painful cock…all the while screaming “you don’t love me! no, blowjobs aren’t about love! sex is love! if you loved me you’d let me fuck you! if you loved me we could have sex! giving me a blowjob doesn’t prove that you love me!” but…somehow…this week, last week…i’m starting to forget i’m supposed to be kicking him out. i’m starting to forget…that this is bad. i’m starting to forget…that i had a different kind of life planned.
and jeff was like, you are going home and getting that restraining order against him. you’re going home and breaking up with this asshole. today.
i got home and joe was shuddering in his sleep. his cheeks rattle and he snores like an ox. tiny little thing, skinny, gorgeous, funny little thing. i always suspected that he sleeps hard to escape. he sleeps through--i have a video of myself laughing so hard i’m screaming, the phone is shaking, you can see when i double over, playing with his bellybutton, sticking things in it, keys, paper clips, what have you. two keys, simultaneously, and then jiggling them around. he sleeps, i think, to run away. he’s miserable, he hates himself, and he just drops into nothingness. with ease. his father beats, kicks him awake. but he must sleep so hard to run away
from beatings
from kicking
words that gut

from the collapse he feels. i sat beside him and i thought, “no. i’m staying. i can’t leave; i can’t stop trying. i can’t leave him to them, i can’t stand the pain, i can’t stand him having no one who just loves, loves, loves him.” his friends use him for drug money. his friends are shit. all of them are shit. not one of them tells him when he’s gone too far, when his red screaming face scares them beyond the pale.

and i thought, “i know…this is the only time i’m happy: when he’s asleep. but…i don’t want to leave.” and i woke him up. and he started screaming and hitting me: “someone i went to jail with has been spying on you! tailing you! …the person i went to jail with, haha, you're so stupid, i know who you’ve been meeting! don’t you know he’s a plant? i made him agree to meet you so he could tell me if you’re a cheater! and you’ve been fucking him! you’re cheating with--haha, you’re so stupid! you’ve been cheating with my friend! and my other friend, he's been spying on you! what’s his name? tell me his name so i can tell you who he is! i can tell you where he lives! who is he? i went to jail with him and we’ve been in on this together all this time! you’re so fucking stupid. you slut! you whore!”
jail? that’s how i find out? and i know he never cheated, and that he probably wouldn’t, and the sex was worth autographs when it wasn’t me screaming or even just plainly groaning, “this is rape, you know that…what, do you think doing that is going to make me enjoy it? okay, this tactic feels nice, but the sex still really hurts, and i’m not having any fun”
what will it take for him to stop?
killing his next girlfriend? his mom won’t even give him that talk. she should. nancy is just setting up his next girlfriend. she’s setting him up to go too far. she knows it, and nothing could make her happier than being in cahoots with someone she’s willing to betray, someone she’s goading into a dangerous future. someone she’s willing to help be a murderer.
someone she’s trying to find a partner for so she can dispense of the babies.
but if that someone ends up dead…where do they go?
i love him, and i forgot
(that dying is the end, amongst other stars)

Monday, February 17, 2014

rotting on eggshells

from the inside

nothing grows but furry resentment

and i just wear the spite

Sunday, February 16, 2014

forgetting me

kicking the bucket.


going not me, going bad

going down and maybe never back to me.

i read something so horrible i can't stop thinking about dying. breaking down. doing things in public i never thought i could or would do


of what i read. i can't.

i'm just not there anymore, not here, not me. i'm not me.

but i just remembered. i think i can find the proof. unless i deleted

but first...

you know...

the ex-fiance was wonderful at first. i miss him more than--

--his mom owns a thrift store, talk of the town...and upstairs she BEATS him.

and the babies, his babies, i reported her to children's services for everything i hated. i can't stomach her cuddling the babies and having them knead her nipples. (she doesn't have breasts, really, so nipples.) i can't stand remembering.

it reminds me too much

and it scares me of more

they're my sweetlings, and they'll always be

and forgotten me

which is darker than the black of all the rape memories, because this--

their father, i couldn't stay. i couldn't stick it out. it was too much

back of my neck, grabbed

my entire self dragged

into the bedroom and raped.

my throat strangled and the rest of me dragged to the bed and raped.

every single day

and i know it's partly my mom's fault. she's the one whose texts he found and couldn't handle. but he shouldn't have started the murder attempts and all. he shouldn't have started reading my e-mails and texts about being afraid of him and used them not to calm down and become more rational, talk to me, apologize...but to start strangling and grabbing me, threatening to kill me, raping me brutally.

but...the worst?

the worst.

he didn't start strangling me as a scare tactic and rape tactic or grabbing me by the back of the neck as a haul-you-off-to-rape tactic...until his mother told him to. he told me the night he started tossing me around like that that she wanted him he would have a place to live, so that i'd be too scared to kick him out.

what kind of woman is that, what kind of mother? what kind of grandmother, what kind of mother-in-law?

i never liked her. as soon as i walked in and saw the babies for the first time, those poor babies in a truly freezing room--left to their own devices for how long, one truly stuck in a cardboard box and crying his heart out, the other stumping around the room--

--i could not love someone who would hurt babies like that, leave them in a room of dangerous things that could topple under curious 18-month-old hands and crush, kill, obliterate an 18-month-old life. shut the door and admit that they'd been in there alone for two hours.

i could never love her. i'll never get over seeing her hit her son. it's just a smack, no fist, but she swings so hard, so hard, the blow must really--sound


and i have no music.

i miss him but they've used each other to unite against me...but the way he--he gets crazy. so red. so screamingly red he's in a different universe and his raging lurid eyes--

--he can't be brought back. he'd snort a bunch of whatever he was crushing after that, after his rages, if he was at dustin and christy's up in middletown, and start freaking out: "you can't stand me! you hate me! you don't love me! you can't stand me because i'm doing drugs!"

but "that's not true. i love you, i don't have a problem with you doing drugs, i have a problem with you spazzing like this, i have a problem with you not being able to handle the drugs, i have a problem with you risking your life, risking leaving two baby boys behind, risking leaving me behind, risking leaving us together without you--or them without anyone to raise them. you've already done the drugs, so just calm down and just have fun."

and then on the couch in the middle of the night he'd be kicking and punching me awake.

accusing me of having sex with dustin and christy while he was asleep on the couch. but i'm all tangled up in him, i can't ease myself away from him on a tiny couch that's not big enough for us unless we scrunch up all togetherness and tenderness.

and dustin is a creep for whom i would throw a grand old party if he died. he abuses joe, too. i can't stand how much abuse joe endures.

but me, the one who never abused him, who never raised her voice except to say it was useless to scream and fight, is the only way.

the only way out.

me, i'm the one they ganged up against and lied about to protect each other.

not only do i fear

the babies, oh, every day i worry

he told me two dozen times, thirty, that he was molested by his father for six years.once i started pressing him to tell children's services, he clammed up:

"i don't want to lose the babies. ...if they don't let my parents take care of them, i could lose the babies forever."

his father isn't actually allowed to have custody, but he comes over and babysits all the time. he seems kind, but--once he giggled, a man in his sixties, giggled at me lecherously: "going to see your boyfriend?" like joe's nothing, like joe should be run over and left as roadkill, like he was imagining me naked, like he was thinking of us having sex, panting, a little licking, a little groin-shaking.

n started crying all the time while i was in hawaii, and i'm too scared to think of what happened to make him that way. n never cried, never, not once, before i left. then i got back--and every time i saw e and n, e wasn't the only one crying. my heart can't stop crying. it just drags itself around stunned during the day and cries every morning and every night.

i wish i could, i just don't see a way yet. i haven't found the right people to talk to, the right lawyer. i just want them safe, always, and i taught n his first big word. not just yes, no, yummy...mommy...he called me mommy once, just mommymommymommymommymommymommymommymommy...the little duck!

...i bought them a book and when i got to "d is for daredevil," n tottered excitedly and burst, his entire being puckered with effort: "dare! debil!" and i know, i know...he really felt like i was his mommy.

joe told me that nancy--talk of the town is up in reading, ohio, and nancy abused him, he says, using him as a child laborer for years, before she finally opened her brick&mortar shop--raped him when he was 18. he told me forty, fifty, sixty, seventy times. he cried twice, but...he also cried a few more times...telling me about this. he wouldn't always cry, but sometimes he couldn't help crumpling.

he told me the same story every time--that he was high, on acid or LSD, i think LSD, and that he came home. sat on the couch.

that she came over to him and undid his pants, that he was so far gone he didn't know it was her, that he was at home, that it wasn't a young woman, a girl. he says she got him hard and sat on his erection, just pounded away, until she came.

then, he says, she told his father that he raped her.

so why is she saying he didn't ever rape me? if he raped her, if he has a domestic-violence arrest from when the mother of his babies called the police on him (you can't google it; bing will bring it up...joseph george marshall...he's so ugly in that mugshot he looks like the clown from stephen king's it!), if she warned me after the third time he raped me, the first time he tried to kill me, because of the hole in his father's wall...that joe's dangerous and that i need to be honest if he hurts me (i wasn't...i couldn't...i didn't know what to do, the poor thing is constantly barraged with abuse and i wanted to protect him even as i wanted to flee)...and call the police, twice she told me this, once a week after he told me she said he had to be physically violent to ensure his place in my apartment...and she saw him start being violent with me, in front of the precious babies, how can you ever be violent or scream at or around babies? i don't get it, i don't get it, i hated having to hold them as they sobbed while joe and nancy screamed their fucking heads off at each other!...

...if he raped her, then why not me? why am i lying?

but joe admitted it to the magistrate at the domestic-violence civil protection order hearing. that's a whole other post...but he admitted it, and she wrote it on the restraining order, wrote that i had been raped and physically abused.

i miss him, i miss him, i really miss him, but not that him. i miss the other him, and i don't understand any of it. or life. i don't understand anything

bottomed out

babies maybe being abused

and i tried so hard for them, i did, i tried so hard so that they would have a good home and a protective mom and so that i could adopt them--and


as their legal guardian, as their other mom

if i had to...

...but you know why i never told her about the hole in the wall, "i'm severely mentally ill" and the subsequent strangulation and beating during sex that morning? by then, it was 3 in the morning, the hole in the wall happened around 2.


his dad


us awake.

kicked, kicked, KICKED.

how can anyone ever stand a chance, how can sanity prevail, how can the drugs not keep taking hold?

nothing...he has nothing, he had nothing, and they needed him to have nothing. so they could keep kicking and hitting

and i am just


what i read makes me