Glamorous Punk, Teenage Poet

  • Posted on: April 10, 2013
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Chey is a Punk Queen

Hi Pulp babes!

My name is Chey and I’m the brand fuckin’ new “Writing” editor. So, keeping in line with this month’s theme of “firsts,” I’m going to reveal my deepest, darkest secrets to you and give you a FIRST HAND ACCOUNT OF MY SUPER GLAMOROUS LIFE as a failing fat punk rock teenage girl writer-type person. It’s all very Ghost World without the adorable father figure I bang, and much more underage drinking.

I am 17 and I cry a goddamn shit ton. When I cry, I sometimes write things. These things usually stem from a place of over dramatic angst based on past abuse, mental illness (I am bipolar and cycle pretty rapidly), and how terrible I am at being in love. So here’s a rundown of my most autobiographical work over the past few months so you can get to know me a little better.

Lust

1. You were the most beautiful

thing i’ve ever hated. You held me down

and recited your spells into my mouth until

my tongue could form them by itself.

You gave me a ghost and I made it my own.

2. 19 was not old enough to be a 

father, but it was old enough for me to

realize you wore his cologne. I didn’t

mean to cry, I swear. Loving lost things is

a part of me, just like it was a part of you.

3. You kissed me in your bathroom

floor in the dark and I watched my eyeliner smear

onto your cheeks like some sort of funeral blush.

I decided then that I had to have the boy whose

heart was almost as blind as mine.

4. The way your tongue touched my

sunburn felt like razors more than

the actual razors did. Congratulations,

you made my insides match my thighs.

5. I could’ve let you stay in me forever,

but no one is that interested in a ceiling,

 when a girl is writing Tennyson on his

chest with her tongue.

You’d already rode into too many valleys.

You had no idea how to conquer a mountain.

6. I was not a burning building for you 

to play fireman in. You could not save

the little girl on the top floor, no matter

how angry you got. You didn’t even have a

ladder. Did you ever think maybe she enjoyed

the burning?

7. You reminded me of Neverland and

you gave me bruises, but you were missing

something inside of you. You could not

take the only thing I had left. A sun and

a blackhole can not fall in love.

8. I know there was something that broke

you long ago. I loved retracing the fault lines

with my fingertips while you slept. i should’ve

reminded myself that tectonics is still just a theory.

9. You figured me like a muse. You stood

in wonder of a girl so like a pillar and sand all at once.

How did cement learn to scatter like that? You are

something I will never have enough words, or anything, for.

10. You picked me from a gutter and wiped others’ cuts

from my face. I didn’t even know I had any skin left. I would

like to press it to yours to see if we can rub our

callouses into heaven.

 

I swear to God, I’m self-aware.

The girl with the

parking lot thighs 

and the interstate

cheeks and someone

once said my freckles

looked like splattered

mud and they were 

right because i’ve always

been a highway and i will

never be clean enough

for someone else but you

could be my overpass.

 

Breakdown at 2 AM

There is this boy and

I love him and

I can’t be with him but I love him so much and

I’ve been hurt before and

I’ve been ripped open by stained hands and

sliced with sharp egos and

no one has ever cradled me before.

I was born standing up and

I was born screaming and

I don’t think I ever learned how to stop screaming or

how to let anyone cradle me.

I can not be your lockbox anymore.

I am just a mess of throat knots and

bruises and I just want to mean something to

someone because he hurt me so bad, baby.

He ripped me open and

they’ve all just reopened the wounds and

I can’t fix me anymore than this.

I’m fresh out of handmade coupons.

I can’t do it and I can’t pretend to do it.

Everyone knows I’m a liar and

they know I’ve never had a spine and

they know that i am empty.

I am so empty and I’m afraid to admit it but

my heart is so big that I am choking on it and

I don’t want to choke you too. 

no, I don’t know why everything I do is like death and

I leave a little piece of me in every broken person I meet and

now I’m out of pieces for myself, darling.

I can’t remember the last time anyone

looked at me because I am a beaten animal.

I have been caught in bear traps and

I never learned how to get out and

I am so used up and

there is no light in me anymore but

maybe I could grow a light for you in the place where

my lungs used to be and

maybe we can use my bones as a mobile for our baby.

What fucking baby?

I’ll never have any babies.

Good things can not come from rotten bodies

and my body is decomposing at a rate that the dead could not match.

I am toxic waste in a valentine’s card and

there is nothing left here so please just

wilt and let me search for everything I’ve

buried deep in this dirt and lost track of.

I am not starving anymore.

I am full with others’ misery and

I’ve called it milk and honey.

 

From The Girl Who Was Her Own Father

I am not his eyes. I am

not what he left in me. I am

not some sort of locket that can

be opened when he forgets his

own face. I am not hardened and 

I am not broken. I am not an excuse for 

abandoning anything and I am not an

apology for his own grave digging. I am 

not where I come from as the rose was

not a consequence of the dirt it grew

from. I am not the face

we share when we scowl. I am not my mother’s

midnight sobs or kitchen bruises. I am not the way she

flinches when I get angry. I am not the sour cherry pit that

grows in the place my heart should be. I am not

something that will ever be thrown away again.

I will leave marks on everything i love.

I will write my story in marker on bedroom doors.

I will carve initials into wood and bone.

I will spit acid into open mouthes.

I will learn how to wipe tears with one hand

while holding a pistol in the other.

 

Untitled

I am not a secret.

You can not love me like gossip.

I am a full declaration.

I am screaming from rooftops.

I am throwing rocks at windows

of everyone you hate

just to tell them “hey

this girl is fuckin magic.”

There is no room for lies in

my ballad full

of broken men and

bloody guitar strings.

I will be a muse if I have to

blow every grimy man who can

keep a beat

from here

to London.

Each breath a plea;

every thrust a prayer:

Dear lord, don’t forget about me.

Dear lord, I’m sorry.

Dear lord, I am right here.

Dear lord, please make me a song

they would remember.

That would remind them of

the strong one who could

weave words into blankets and

cradle them with every mangled

hand she had.

Make one of them-

just one-

stay.

14 Comments

  1. Emily · April 10, 2013

    You are such a beautiful lady inside and out. You’re writing is absolutely incredible and I am so glad you shared these! My favorite was “Breakdown at 2 AM” beautiful!

  2. Essine · April 11, 2013

    Chey IS MY FAVORITE POET SDKDSFKJLJLGJL and I just sit on Forgoteen and cry and basically fall over and die and then arise so I can read more and wish I could be like half the poet she is?? BASICALLY I’M SO EXCITED SHE’S THE WRITING EDITOR SKAFKSDLKJKJK <3 <3

  3. Sarah · April 11, 2013

    holy shit chey im in love with you

  4. Lucy · April 14, 2013

    This is incredible, powerful, beautiful, amazing. I want to get to know you!! I feel what you say about your heart being so big it chokes you–your writing is beautiful and so moving. I would buy your book!

  5. Sky · April 16, 2013

    Hay yer shit is good and we should hang out sometime when I am back in little rock, you know cause I never have hung out with you before.
    -Cop_Killer

  6. payday loans · April 17, 2013

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  7. Zara · June 12, 2013

    This is all really, really good. Like, really good.
    Jus’ sayin’.

  8. Tori · August 3, 2013

    Gawd so good.