Letters from sixteen

Yellow

Poems written very closely together when I had a strike of passion.
TW: CSA

Dirty
I am unsure where to start because frankly I am still making sense of it myself.
I don't know why you are the way you are but I know that you are.
I have a deep understanding of our differences.
You are fundamentally unlike me, unlike most.
You were uniquely rotten.
Are you familiar with the knowledge that apples ripen with other ripe apples?
I am.
You sat next to me unfortunately we happened to share a nest.
We happen to be close in proximity but that does not mean we are intertwined.
You are sick, I am tired.
You shook me, you changed me, but I am not like you.
Because when I feel dirty I scrub my skin red.
When I feel dirty I look and wonder why.
When I feel dirty I try to change.
I do not hurt Children when I feel bad.
I don't look innocent, knowing I am about to pry a childhood from their hands.

I wish I had a body untouched
I wish I had a body that wasn't littered.
I am a beach, you are a dumpster fire.
You walked through my shores and left your horrors to display.
And no matter how many years that pass you will always have touched my skin.

Cynical
I step on my own toes time and time again.
I keep finding myself back in the woods.
I cycle through too much and too little rather than resting in the in between.
I hold myself like a tall stack of bricks about to fall towards the person in front of me.
I do the very things I know I am not above losing everything from.
I leave stories behind bars until they bang on the pillars and beg to be told.
I keep myself locked in a shed and wonder why I feel separate.
I hold my struggles like a warm blanket,
We find comfort in what we are used to.

Found in the moments in between
In my life poetry is very rarely, if ever, sitting down at the coffee shop and pouring my heart out onto a page.
I write mostly in the moments between what has and what will.
I tell stories of my life and sorrows while riding in the car from the grocery store.
I detail moments that encapsulate fear entirely while half awake on my bedroom floor.
I recount moments of true happiness while waking up over morning coffee.
I write in the moments in between.

Poetry and my history
Poetry has held a large spot in my heart for a number of years.
In eighth grade it served as a place of hope and expression of sorrow.
During my freshman year I took what I thought would be a day trip to my new home.
In my sophomore year my passion grew like a tree towards the sun.
Poetry has been an individual who helps me understand my struggles and helps me shine a light on my best moments.

Places of authenticity
There are a number of places I feel I can show myself as the messy collage of colors I am.
In my poetry book,
A place to tell endless stories through metaphors and imagery,
A house to tell the truth for what it is in strange comparisons without wondering who's looking through the window.
In my journal,
I can dump my thoughts onto the document,
I write freely knowing nobody will have room to judge, they will have no room to judge because it is mine, for my eyes and my eyes alone.
With the researcher,
I can tell him just about anything,
Because I know he will not only understand but have the same story himself.
I do not want to show the passersby my messiness in its entirety,
I simply don't see the benefit to that.
So I will treasure my places of authenticity.

The truth and the actuality
The truth is that nobody should be anything but happy at a wedding with two grooms.
The truth is that my hands being intertwined with another man's brings me so much joy that the happiness alone is enough of an explanation.
The truth is those moments of shared passion are nothing but beautiful.
The actuality is that many think my love will leave me burning in hell.
The actuality is that many of us go to bed knowing there is no acceptance in our lives for what we really are.
The actuality is there is less acceptance for love as it is then there ever should be.