Poems

Butter Knife

I never realized all the silly things people needed to be taught until I began babysitting.
I found myself saying things like,
You're sister doesn't like to be hit,
Neither does the cat.
Don't touch that hot burner,
It will burn your skin.
Butter knives aren't meant to be played with,
You're going to get yourself hurt.
The cat's tail, also not the best place to be jabbing the butter knife into,
Neither was my wrist,
My thighs,
My hips.
But no one ever told me that so I just kept right on doing it.
In the first grade I kissed a boy,
Later that night I asked my grandmother how to get rid of "cooties" he had given me.
In the seventh grade, behind the pages of Lemony Snicket, I kissed a boy.
Then told him he needed a breath mint,
Needless to say there was never a second kiss shared between us.
In the ninth grade I kissed a boy...
Well I did a little more than just kiss a boy.
When he saw my hips his fingers traced each scar.
Like ticks on a time line, I remembered the reason for each one.
I remembered them all, mod podged together at once.
But then I felt his lips on each individual scar telling them one by one that I had won
That I was stronger, more beautiful than they.
He took off his shirt and I saw that he'd had them too.
That he knew what I was going through.
But not more than a week later he'd been the reason for an additional nine tally marks,
Marking yet another restless night to add to my timeline.
There are too many restless nights on this body and not enough smile lines engraved in my Cheeks.
Not enough bruises on the tops of my feet from the intense beat drop of the night before.
Not enough rounded bellies pregnant with food babies made up of that delicious dessert eaten on A couch in front of silly romance movies with my best friend.
I'm not sure when life got this way.
When I look around I see people,
I know you see them too,
Those people who are just like us.
People who have been hurt,
Who have been abandoned and left for dead.
People who need help but don't have the voice to ask for it.
People who go through the motions,
People hiding their butter knives and bringing them out late at night just to feel something,
Anything.
People who don't believe that they are beautiful,
That they are worth something,
Because life failed to mention that to them,
Forgot to tell them that they are fucking spectacular.
So I want them to know that all of this is just shit.
I want to gather hand in hand with them so that others will hear,
Hear the cries of the hopeless.
And see,
See the tears of the lost and forgotten
And acknowledge it.
I want to be seen
So that if any of those watching happen to be one of us then they'll be able to see that they Are not alone.
They are one of many, and if we stand together we can conquer anything.
We need only speak up, raise our voices, and shout it out that we are here.
Tell them to put down your butter knives.
Spit out those pills.
Turn off your burners.
Because you are part of something bigger,
Something beautiful.
In the eleventh grade I kissed myself.
I kissed all the wounded parts of myself and started to heal.
I put the butter knife back in the drawer to the left of the kitchen sink.
I gazed into the mirror.
This timeline on my body has been pretty dark so far but it's getting clearer.
I gazed into the mirror and said to myself,
You have won,
You are stronger,
You are beautiful.