Judge and Jury - a poem

You once called me the center of your universe
and I dived and dripped from beneath your lies
consoled myself in the make believe fairy tales
concocted on lonely weekend nights
when midnight came faster than you could ever imagine
and the truth came out faster than you could ever imagine.
You asked me to forgive you for your sins
sew myself into your riddles time and time again
rebirth myself in your currents and oceans
Christian myself in your holy waters only
believe you when you said that I was simply enough
Yet, I am banging on wooden doors for you to let me in
puddles around my ankles on bare pavement
and you haven’t spoken to me in days.
My wrists are tied together by the twine of your perjury
sitting on spiderweb infest court pews
playing both judge and jury
to a case that puts me on trial more than you
splitting evidence apart like dead strands of hair
that have fallen out over stress
You once called me the center of your universe
and one night you took that all away
drowned yourself in alcohol,
long neck bottles becoming your greatest possession
and I am here playing judge and jury to someone untouchable.
You once called me the center of your universe.
The concept of your necessities unlimited
until you left me on bare pavements
playing judge and jury
picking apart evidence
that never had the right outcome.

Cutting Cords - a poem.

I've heard he’s been running loose for a few days now, crouching into sofa beds and wooded areas,
trying to find just any place to sleep for the night.
I wonder if he was forced against his will to swallow that first seed
Water it down with sugar and caffeine, and everything else that’s not too sweet.
Did he cry when the first buds of life began to sprout in the pits of his stomach.
Did he cringe as the weeds began to grow in his own personal garden of Saturday nights alone in the dark with no gardener to trim the overgrown hedges.
It eats me alive wondering if he silently prayed someone would open the door just when the vines were overflowing through arteries and the hippocampus’ and I wonder which flower smothered which body part first, the heart or the brain,
which pill is the one we should blame?
Did the leaves cloud his vision?
Did he mistake daffodils for little white pills?
flower pots for heroin shots?
A vivacious terrain for a bag of cocaine?
I’m told that sunlight helps flowers grow
but isn’t the darkness what got him here in the first place?
Studies show that spring is the saddest season of the year, leaving a laundry list of memories on winter’s doorstep, never to return again.
Did his garden begin one spring evening, bursting green through his dark grey walls, tearing him away from us all?
Green is the color of jealousy and balance
was he jealous of those who learned to survive without fertilizer swelling up in their tiny crevices?
Or did he learn to balance out the good and the bad in one sitting
wearing his arrangement like a boutonniere on his shirt, disguised as drool falling down?
Why doesn’t he see it now?
When I was younger, I tried to sneak into his nursery,
tried to catch glimpses of the roses before they were ready.
Maybe I soiled those flowers, caused them to wilt.
and my younger self should have known better.
That a boy of fifteen who was bursting at the seams, should have just avoided the wildflowers altogether
and of every trip to that nursery, that it the one I remember the most.
Did I almost find his seeds?
Should I have let the good flowers grow more?
Was that the day he first felt the weeds
at the bottom of his soul
did that day force the addiction to grow?

Anxiety on Tuesday - a poem.

I keep a journal and mark down every time my body does that nervous tick
The one I have no control over
And I crawl into myself, hoping no one will see the wear and tear of bones amongst new beginnings
Muffled daydreams.

I've walked amongst tightropes
While minuscule ants scream out, begging me to fall unto hardened earth below.
The trapeze holds onto my shifting balance and does not lose faith that I can make it to the other side
And I am two steps away when gravity deceits me and I tumble head over feet
Down down down and find that there is nothing left but endless time.

Housewarming - a poem.

It was an uncomfortable affair when my happiness finally shook hands with my depression.
Through sideways glances I told them that they must reside in the same vacancy.
Learn to mingle in the smallest of nooks and crannies.
To not cry over spilt milk at thanksgiving, but not necessarily laugh either.
It was an uncomfortable affair and move in day came at the blink of an eye.

On Friday mornings happiness would dance around the kitchen but depression always made sure it was with a bottle of vodka pressed too firmly to the lips.
Depression would fill the bathtub just a bit too scaulding but happiness would light the candles.
Happiness liked her tea cups on the bottom shelf but depression liked the tea cups scattered on the ground in tiny chips.
Happiness could not help falling in love with depression through shifts at work, crouching into bathroom stalls to let the rivers flow from my eyes when the moment felt right.
Now they share the same bed at night, shaking hands exploring throughout hours of headlights shifting through the blinds
Depression always calling happiness mine.

He told me he didnt understand how I could be depressed but also be the happiest I have ever been
I guess I became comfortable with the chaos,
The feeling of emotions leaking from my chest like bad toxins
Do not question what you do not know and we won't have a problem.

I want to buy a big microscope to count the dead skin cells on my floor.
Admire how they were once a part of me
And see if any out there belong to the shadow of who I used to be.
Mingled into the cracks on the floor boards
I wonder which skin cells shed happiness, falling off and floating through the humid air with nothing but elated joy. Feeling loved by its surroundings.
Or which ones fell out of misery, not feeling comfortable in itself just knowing rainy days don't make the good things stay.

Existing in Existence

So, as I am winding my way down to the end of my second to last semester in college, I've started thinking and exploring who I truly am. The only thing that I am absolutely sure of is that figuring out exactly who I am is extremely difficult. Attempting to exist outside of the perimeters and definitions that family, friends, professors, peers and coworkers have long mapped out for me is nearly impossible, or so I find.

I am Kennedy : the Senior waiting to receive her degree in English.
I am Kennedy : the perspective law student who doesn't know how to verbally communicate her thoughts in a 200 level course, let alone a prestigious law school, even if I do have the grades be accepted.
I am Kennedy : the apparent one upper, although it is a habit I have been working on. I will confess it was not something I ever truly noticed on my own.
I am Kennedy : the girl who is just existing most days to make sure that everyone else is okay, even when I can't make the effort to be the person that made them that way.

And that is where the disconnect lies. I find that I am a people pleaser, but only when it comes to their preconceived views of who I am. I strive to make others proud of the body, the mind, the space that I have been inhabiting for 22 years. However, when it comes to satisfying them by existing outside of this realm - I'm lost. I'm so lost, there appears to be little to nothing that can bring me back to the center.

And maybe that's okay. And maybe it's not. Yet, I'm learning to navigate in the skin and bones and soul that I have struggled for so long with. For years, I attempted to restructure the foundation that I was built on. I never realized that the house I needed all along was whoever I wanted myself to be. I'm still learning to go home in my being.

I think I'll get there one day.

The Great Divide (or I'm a People Pleaser) - a poem.

I could hand over all of my belongings, and still not please enough people.
I could contract myself into an angstrom, and still take up too much space in your dusty home that you made of insults and demands.
I could become a certified genius, and you will still prove me wrong on my darkest days.
Just try not to kick me too much when I am already down.
See...I was diagnosed with anemia when I was nine or ten or eleven
And I bruise easily and you will leave marks up and down my body like a sour love that I haven't had enough of and those bruises will tell my story but the plot line still won't satisfy you.
Will it?

I first realized I was a people pleaser at the age of fourteen when I would hand over lengthy excuses of why I couldn't spend a Saturday night out on the town
The most intricate little stories
The most elaborate timelines
Just so I would not hurt you
and did they ever really mean anything in the first place
and I shrink into myself because I know no one will care if the light bulb in my room went out
but see that light bulb got me out of bed and now it's dimmed and I'm being suffocated by a blanket that is shedding pink lint balls onto my bruised arms and tomorrow I will return to people pleasing and it will have all be a mistake.
Me not them.