I would love to say that this poem is about you.
That you were the one, 19-years-old, clenching your left side in nauseating pain.
That you were the one who placed your hand in between your legs
And watched as blood stained the ivory sheets a crimson red
At some shitty La Quinta hotel in Georgia, two hours outside of Atlanta.
I started to believe that is how the story went
Because one day, five years later, I pictured you dead.
I twisted the story around so it was you who had to lay naked on that bed.
For five years I have tried to write about it
And for five years I let it consume me from the inside out.
For five years I have been fascinated by sharp objects, like razor blades to my own flesh.
For five years I tried to avoid looking into mirrors, and even threw them in a fit of rage,
To only see my cracked reflection, telling me “I deserved it” anyway.
For five years I was planning ways to kill myself in an attempt to kill you.
It was an attempt to escape the way your skeletal hands felt gripping at my thighs.
I was thinner then, and when you aggressively grabbed me by the hair and bent me over,
My hipbones clanked against the sink of that god awful La Quinta bathroom.
As I saw my reflection in the mirror, I prayed to a God I never once believed in,
And through the window blinds, I could see your mother sunbathing in the pool.
Her red lipstick, polka-dot bikini, fake blonde hair glistening in the sunshine.
I begged you to stop, but my feet were lifted from the floor,
I felt the damp coolness of your dog tag press into the small bones of my neck.
You made the final thrust and I held onto the dripping faucet.
I watched as you put your pants back on and placed a cigarette between your chapped lips
And threw me coldheartedly onto the bed.
For five years I couldn’t bare the sight of a person in camo, the print on a hunting magazine.
Chills ran down my spine, even when I wore my favorite color, green.
I thought because I wasn’t a virgin that I knew all about sex,
But then I figured you joined the Army,
Because you’re too much of a pussy to be a Marine. I guessed.
You left the room to chain-smoke a pack of shitty Marlboro’s,
And talk to your shitty friends on your shitty flip phone.
Your mother even entered the room and asked what was wrong.
A direct quote – “It must have been something I ate.”
Still clenching at my side.
On the flight back to New Jersey, we barely said a word.
I even tried to hold your hand but you constantly pulled away from me.
You came into my job and acted like you never knew who I was.
And for five years I tried to figure out who I was.
I’m not the slut, the whore, or tramp you made me out to be.
I’m not ashamed. I’m not ashamed.
That for five years I blamed the actions on myself.
I’m not ashamed. I’m not ashamed.
That for five years I was begging to be someone else.
Some months later you called me from a number that I was unfamiliar with.
You said you were in Germany and that you wish you gave me one more kiss.
For five years I thought of Georgia,
But never the succulent peaches, luscious fields, or gorgeous sunsets.
No, I think of July, the amber moon and the way it cried with me that night.
I think for finally admitting it after five years ---
Hell, it feels alright.
Author Bio:
Alley Shubert is in the Professional Writing program with a specialization in Journalism at Champlain College in Burlington, VT.
That you were the one, 19-years-old, clenching your left side in nauseating pain.
That you were the one who placed your hand in between your legs
And watched as blood stained the ivory sheets a crimson red
At some shitty La Quinta hotel in Georgia, two hours outside of Atlanta.
I started to believe that is how the story went
Because one day, five years later, I pictured you dead.
I twisted the story around so it was you who had to lay naked on that bed.
For five years I have tried to write about it
And for five years I let it consume me from the inside out.
For five years I have been fascinated by sharp objects, like razor blades to my own flesh.
For five years I tried to avoid looking into mirrors, and even threw them in a fit of rage,
To only see my cracked reflection, telling me “I deserved it” anyway.
For five years I was planning ways to kill myself in an attempt to kill you.
It was an attempt to escape the way your skeletal hands felt gripping at my thighs.
I was thinner then, and when you aggressively grabbed me by the hair and bent me over,
My hipbones clanked against the sink of that god awful La Quinta bathroom.
As I saw my reflection in the mirror, I prayed to a God I never once believed in,
And through the window blinds, I could see your mother sunbathing in the pool.
Her red lipstick, polka-dot bikini, fake blonde hair glistening in the sunshine.
I begged you to stop, but my feet were lifted from the floor,
I felt the damp coolness of your dog tag press into the small bones of my neck.
You made the final thrust and I held onto the dripping faucet.
I watched as you put your pants back on and placed a cigarette between your chapped lips
And threw me coldheartedly onto the bed.
For five years I couldn’t bare the sight of a person in camo, the print on a hunting magazine.
Chills ran down my spine, even when I wore my favorite color, green.
I thought because I wasn’t a virgin that I knew all about sex,
But then I figured you joined the Army,
Because you’re too much of a pussy to be a Marine. I guessed.
You left the room to chain-smoke a pack of shitty Marlboro’s,
And talk to your shitty friends on your shitty flip phone.
Your mother even entered the room and asked what was wrong.
A direct quote – “It must have been something I ate.”
Still clenching at my side.
On the flight back to New Jersey, we barely said a word.
I even tried to hold your hand but you constantly pulled away from me.
You came into my job and acted like you never knew who I was.
And for five years I tried to figure out who I was.
I’m not the slut, the whore, or tramp you made me out to be.
I’m not ashamed. I’m not ashamed.
That for five years I blamed the actions on myself.
I’m not ashamed. I’m not ashamed.
That for five years I was begging to be someone else.
Some months later you called me from a number that I was unfamiliar with.
You said you were in Germany and that you wish you gave me one more kiss.
For five years I thought of Georgia,
But never the succulent peaches, luscious fields, or gorgeous sunsets.
No, I think of July, the amber moon and the way it cried with me that night.
I think for finally admitting it after five years ---
Hell, it feels alright.
Author Bio:
Alley Shubert is in the Professional Writing program with a specialization in Journalism at Champlain College in Burlington, VT.
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