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.
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
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.
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
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-