what a mouthful,
what an
overly-explanitory,
non-poetic,
pompous,
boring title to
a poem.
But it fits the
feeling,
the bluntness of
the throbbing pain
on my jagged
thighs,
colored stripes
that evoke the same feeling
as biting into a
crisp apple.
That sweet
sensation
of tangy juices
flooding your dulled mouth.
That apple makes
the same sound
as the
splintering of the plastic fork,
the very weapon
who made those
stripes
whose color
perfectly imitates
the feeling of
the sound of
a bite of a
crisp apple.
But while my
imagery is lovely,
you –
if you
understand the meaning –
are sitting
there wondering
“What in the
hell is wrong
with this girl?
How is this even
possible?”
How indeed.
You would never
know because
beyond this team
the delicate
seams
of the buttons
I’ve sown on for you
and the winnings
I’ve helped you to
wither to
passing nods in the school halls
and none of you
actually knowing
who the hell I
am.
Because that is
the question at stake here:
Not, “What is
wrong with me?”
simply, “Who
is she?”
So allow me a
moment to explain
in a way that
you can actually understand,
because you are
debaters,
not poets.
It is not about
Ethan.
It is about the
constant reminder
of a lack of
someone special
to hold me and
tell me,
“It's going to
be okay,”
as the world
falls apart in clumps
like alpha
decay.
It is not about
loosing.
It is about
thinking that I was good,
about getting my
hopes up,
about forsaking
my modesty.
It is about
looking down on the lesser
only to be
looked down upon.
It is about
guilt
over letting my
coach down
and regret
over not telling
the girl in the round
who wouldn't
clap for the nervous newbies
what a bitch she
was.
It is not about
the mess.
It is about how
all of my stress
makes my
obsessive tendencies hard to suppress
and how none of
you teenagers
can throw your
own garbage away
and I am left to
pick up after
over-grown
infants in suits,
because I need
our area neat
in order to
think.
And it is about
sitting
in a hotel room
alone
on a Friday
night
while 31
teammates
order pizza and
laugh so loud
the devil gets
annoyed.
It is about
sitting
in a hotel room
alone
on a Friday
night
while 31
teammates
who would have
fallen apart
had I not been
there
to accommodate
their every whim
all partying and
rejoicing
in a social
structure
that I am too
scared to enter.
It is about
sitting
in a hotel room
alone
on a Friday
night
and thinking
about blood.
I know all of
your names,
all 31
teammates,
all of your
events,
all of your
worries,
all of your
triumphs,
who you hate
and who your
dear friends are.
You see me,
however,
the same way US
factories see Mexico:
your toxic waste
dumping ground,
your cheap labor
provider,
your back-alley
drug dealer,
your personal
playground.
All of your
abuse is causing
my babies to be
born without brains,
just hallow
skulls that die the same day.
Those dying
babies
drive me even
more crazy,
making me
anxious
and irritable
and scared
that I will slip
up
and someone will
see
the gruesomely
honest side to me.
That my 31
teammates
would recognize
that I cannot
handle
providing for
all of them,
that I cannot
handle being their
debate mother,
that I have my
own problems
and cannot fix
all of theirs.
Why is this such
a bad thing
for them to
discover?
Why don't I want
them
to give me a
break?
Why don't I hope
that
they'll
understand?
Why do I wish
that they never
read this?
It's because of
those stripes on my thighs.
For those who
aren't poets
and who have
never had
fleeting
thoughts of suicide,
allow me to
state quite plainly
that they are
self inflicted wounds.
I sat in that
hotel room
alone on a
Friday night
while all of my
teammates laughed so loud
that the devil
was annoyed
and my breath
wouldn't come
and my eyes were
a burning numb
and my hands
were shaking
as I felt my
blood pulsating
under my
delicately pale skin.
I had already
taken my walk and cried
so I sat alone
and tried to
tell myself
that it was now
time to hold
those tears
inside.
But the noise of
my teammates
laughing so loud
while I tried
not to make one single sounds
gave birth to a
baby born
without brain or
heart or blood
already pumping
in veins too
tiny to see.
I ran to the
bathroom,
looking for a
razor,
but there wasn't
one.
I was going to
be content,
fain relief that
no such relief
by means of self
mutilation existed.
But I
remembered,
from a
tournament years prior,
how sharp
plastic forks are when broken.
But I remembered
the black
plastic utensil in my lunch,
just waiting to
be thrown away.
But then I
remembered
how much easier
it is to break
than to fix.
Now, I suppose
you are wondering,
“Why the
thigh?”
which returns to
the matter of why
I do not want my
31 abusive teammates
to read this
poem,
to understand
me,
to give me a
break.
I don't want
your pity.
I don't want
weird looks.
I don't want
shame.
I've' dug this
hole for myself
and I will dwell
in it.
Such is the fate
of those who live to serve.
Believe it or
not,
I never cut
for your sake.
And, now, your
narrow-minded stereotypes
are begging to
understand
what other
reason I could possibly have
in inflicting
such pain upon myself
other than
grappling for attention.
You see,
while my 31
abusive teammates
have social
skills
or
noise-canceling headphones,
I now have a
ziplock bag
of splintered
black plastic
to draw my mind
from my soul's stress
and force it to
the body's bleeding.
And I suppose
that if one of my
31 abusive
teammates
did read this
poem,
I would
apologize for my crime
with the
deceptive “I'm fine”
but though I may
be ashamed
and afraid
for what I have
done,
I am not
regretful
and will not
say, “I'm sorry,”
for taking care
of myself
and putting
myself
back in a
position to take care of my team.
I don't have to
figure out how to
explain my
actions to you
because I will
never again
apologize from
something that I am not sorry for.
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