Literary Orphans

Warning Label
by Molly Kat

semidarkness_by_natalia_drepina

I. Sometimes I start saying things, manically, passionately, violent things or destructive things.  How badly I want to burn something, blow up a tree, the urge to destroy, to take out my inside on the world.  It doesn’t mean I will.  It doesn’t mean I always feel that way.  Sometimes I don’t even feel that way while I’m saying it.  Sometimes it’s for shock value, or to get a reaction.  Sometimes I don’t know why I do it, but sometimes I cannot stop myself.  Destruction can be so generative.  Six months ago I tried for destruction, shot my load early and landed a bed in the best psychiatric ward the southern tier has to offer.  Not saying much.  I couldn’t handle it.  I get the same body, while my rapist walks free.  I get followed, at least twice a week, every week, by a pickup truck or van or SUV.

 

II. I was five years old and singing at the breakfast table, picnic table painted blue.  My dad, joking, said don’t quit your day job.  I cannot name all of my wounds, they are in inflections and tones, in sleight of mouth magic.  He didn’t mean it.  I quit every day job I’ve ever had, he’s never been more proud.  I started singing in front of people a year and a half ago.  It shakes, but I will grow a nerve.  He told my brother, “go get the slut and the fuck up and tell them to come down for dinner.”  He may have only said it that one time, but my head said it every day.  Fuck up.  Fuck up.  That’s you.  You’re the Fuck up.  Sometimes I still am.  Unlovable, alone.  Fucked up.

 

III. I fell in love with the first professor who ever gave me a B on a paper.  Talked down to me, made me feel small, knew more about literary theory.  He said, “if it ever hurts, or you are thinking about bad things, you have to tell me, and we will stop immediately.”  I cried because no one had ever thought this, that I was a person, who felt things, and if their body didn’t feel right inside mine, it was okay to say so, to expect it to stop, to do more than abandon my body.  He wept over how beautiful my body was, how perfectly I loved him.  He mocked the best parts of me.  I swallowed them, grew feathers and a beak when he offhandedly mentioned flying.  Abandoned my best drag, wore my other self out.  “You are too much for me.  I hurt you so badly.  I make you cry all the time.  I cannot deal with how much you hurt.”  I am too much.  Too loud.  Too vulnerable.

 

IV. You could at least look at me while I’m doing it.  It’d make it better for me.  Can you pretend you’re enjoying this?  I can’t stay hard if you just lay there, lifeless.

 

Manic, up two days straight, long walks down rail-bridges and abandoned buildings.  My equal.  My everything.  You are not too big.  I can keep up.  You are impressive, beautiful, a sexy woman.  Your words made me want to know more, your dark poetry, your fucked up.  You’re a step mom, you have to clean this room, this is not how a step mom lives.  Come with me.  You can’t go home yet.  Proximity of four hands and a scalpel, sick body parts and a dead dog, we are all accounted for.

My

mother

told

me

to

pick

the

very

best

one

and

 

you

 

are

 

it.

 

 

V. There are ninety hens to give death to tomorrow morning.  It is not slaughter.  My head is too messy for this.  I want to run to the river and bleed into it.  Stop sign red, so everyone can see.  It is slaughter.  I wanted to save the world, help everyone.  A bridge across the amazon made of silk threads, each one an attempt to help someone.  There is no bridge any longer, snap, one by one, snap snap snap, nothing to catch me but the river, rushing water, piranhas and anacondas.  Nothing but the pain of reality to wake me.

 

VI. The sleeping dream of good intentions, woken by furious hands inside my pants, inside of me.  “I left him.  Can I stay here?  I don’t want to be alone.”  Translation, he pinned me down and fucked me until I bled because I threatened to leave him.  I dislocated my shoulder trying to get out from under him.  Felt drops of sweat fall off his body onto mine, almost heard it sizzle like water hitting an oiled cast iron.  Girlfriend does not mean yes.  The fact that we fucked before does not mean yes.  The veal you made three nights ago does not mean yes.  I wake up to your erect penis rubbing against my crotch, my zipper between your fingers.  “What did you expect me to think when you asked if you could spend the night?”  Wet eyes and ripped clothes, friends.  Our friendship does not mean yes.  My pain does not mean yes.  Damage does not mean yes.

 

VII. In the woods, adventuring on broken rocks.  Future spills down like weak booze.  My mind takes me there by accident, on purpose, it knows better.  Size him up.  How big are his arms.  What if he grabbed you and pinned you down, what object would you grab first.  Look at his face.  His eyes.  Find the human animal.  Locate it.  Do you have a better chance of getting out alive if you fight or lay still.  Wave the thoughts away like smoke, apologize in your head for thinking these things about him.  For the scenario, lingering like Gloria Cubana, forgive yourself.  I forgive you.  I forgive you self.  Stop your mouth from moving.

 

VIII. Sometimes I say things, manically, passionately.  Build myself big with discourse, disconcordia, language.  I am big.  I am beautiful.  I can destroy, but I choose not to.  Sometimes the fear translates into words I wish I could take back, am ashamed of as I say them.  I am big.  I am tough.  I am impenetrable.  My shoulder makes cracking sounds when I lift my arm.  I quit my day job.

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Molly Kat lives and works in an intentional community in the mountains of western North Carolina.  She gives wonderful hugs, is always up for adventure, and loves teaching and being around little kids.  She is a contributor for the popular blog, selfiesinink.com, and her first book, a novel in prose poems called “Lucy” is being published by Red Orchid later this year.

mollykat

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–Art by Natalia Drepina

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