This House of Cards

by Hannah Brown

  no. please stop.

  The cursive I write my poems in isn’t always legible

  but the marks you left on my skin are.

  the cold hard truth

  In order to find the common ground, you must first have been paying attention to both points of view.

  for the boy across the hall

  How many times can a person go out on a limb before the branch breaks?

  this relationship is toxic and i don't know how to end it

  I get a rash on my neck,

  just below my left ear,

  every time I think about

  having to see you.

  september 24

  I don’t know who you were when you left,

  but I know the special place you held

  in my heart while you were here,

  and I can still feel the gaping whole in my chest

  that appeared the night I finally realized

  you were never coming back.

  twelve

  Everyone has at least one thing that they absolutely, without a doubt, have to do consistently or they might explode. My mom, for example, has to run. Every morning at 5:30 she has to go at least a mile, even with her bum knee, or the sun just doesn’t shine the same. My dad reads his Bible, my brother does pull ups, and my sister calls her boyfriend before bed. My thing, is talking about my rape(s). As psycho-cringy-whatever-you-wanna-call-it, as that sounds, it’s what keeps me going.

  At first I didn’t want to admit what had happened because what if it was real? I didn’t want to be alone in the pain he’d caused until all of a sudden I wasn’t. Then I was terrified that another human had to go through the exact same thing. I live in that fear, every single day, it is the thing that keeps me alive. The fear that I am not the only one and the anger that our numbers are growing by the second.

  I will shout it from the rooftops! Anyone who dares to listen will hear the gory details of what happened and I will tell you that it isn’t as bad as it sounds. So the women with their ears pressed to the door, listening from the outside, will know that it’s okay to go on living afterward. Do not tell me to practice what I preach. I will not rest until every woman is safe from the clutches of vile men who think they own the earth and are entitled to the love they refuse to give.

  darling, who hurt you?

  Sometimes I reread the words I’ve breathed

  onto this page and wonder

  which poor soul it was that put them there.

  justice

  I am broken. Shattered even.

  Hurt because I saw the way you treated others.

  I knew you would do the same thing to me,

  and I chose to love you anyway.

  For centuries women have fought tooth and nail to be able to take care of ourselves because, for us, it is a privilege. When you can change your own oil and fix your own plumbing you don’t have to worry about being stuck with a man who beats you into submission. Women who can change tires and gouge eyes out don’t waste time covering bruises with foundation or hiding dollar bills between pages of books, in hopes that one day they’ll have enough to change their name in a new town. No. not all men are like this. Just enough for me to be afraid. To clutch my keys between my fingers whenever I leave my house, even in the daylight. Enough for me to invest in pepper spray. I haven’t always known how to take care of myself.

  it was only a matter of time

  You said it was her fault.

  She was toxic and refused to get help

  or see things from your point of view.

  You said she was abusive,

  always looking for a fight.

  That I don’t know what yelling is

  because I never knew her like you did.

  You refuse to acknowledge that toxicity in

  that relationship was contributed by you as well,

  and you cut her off when you were tired

  of the toll never taking accountability

  for your actions will have on a person.

  Stop acting so surprised I’ve done the same with you.

  not often

  Sometimes I still miss you.

  I miss the person you were

  before you did the unthinkable.

  medusa

  I’m not sorry things didn’t work out between us the way you’d hoped. I’m not sorry for forgetting to call when I got off work or even for moving away.The problem with your decision to pursue me, is I am not a thing to be pursued. I am a woman meant to move mountains and I have no interest in keeping you around just so you can take credit for the miracles I perform.

  You keep talking about the very shy, very quiet, girl in socks who made everything okay, but I am not her. I am not quiet. I am not shy. My feet are bare now because I enjoy feeling the grass kiss my toes and the pavement burn my heels. I know the only reason that girl you used to know made everything okay, is because she was submissie. She made you feel big and strong, but she is dead now.

  I watched the life drain out of her eyes as I held her by the throat and pulled the tongue from between her teeth. I tore her ribs apart to pick the flowers in her lungs and bled her dry, so I could have something to intoxicate me when men like you dare try and convince me I owe you something. I owe nothing to nobody. Especially not the likes of you.

  I am medusa with hair made from the screams of the women I pulled from an early grave. They are gifted to me from the witches you thought would burn and stolen from the men who dare lend an unsolicited opinion about my body and the things I choose to do with it.

  Men. Just. Like. You.

  retribution

  This world is not yours to own and you will be punished for taking what was only hers to give as she screamed at you to stop.

  him

  He hurt me.

  He held my hand

  and cheated on me.

  Broke my heart

  and ripped my soul to pieces,

  until I was completely

  unrecognizable.

  The person I thought I was

  suddenly became nonexistent.

  He made me fall in love with him,

  sent me cute texts

  and told me he loved me.

  He said I was the only one,

  but he lied about everything.

  He raped and gaslight

  until I was sure I’d lost my mind.

  And then he left.

  manslaughter

  Some days I think I might like to thank him

  for helping me kill the girl I used to be,

  but then I think

  he didn’t have to be so goddamn vicious about it,

  and I remember boys like him never deserve

  a single kind word,

  because they are only ever looking out for themselves.

  what hurts the most

  Being able to remember all the good,

  and knowing everything that followed.

  if i say it enough it will be true

  Today is a good day

  Today is a good day

  Today is a good day

  Today is a good day

  Today is a good day

  Today is a good day

  Today is a good fucking day

  self care

  First, I fell in love

  with the blonde haired boy

  who had cartoonish features

  and knew all the right words

  to lull me into complacency.

  Second, I fell in love

  with the brown haired boy

  whose hands were smaller than mine,

  and said nothing right, but at least

  the disappointment was familiar.

  Finally, I fell in love with the girl

  whose hair was made of roses.

  She picked up all my broken pieces

  and told me there was nothing to be fixed.

  Then helped me decide for myself

  what was worth including

  in the ren
ovation of my heart.

  like hell

  I’m afraid I’ve run out of thoughts

  to shape my words into

  and it hurts

  without you

  I am love

  I am light

  I am so much better off

  to heal hearts

  How pitiful to dream of love

  when all you’ve ever known is pain.

  And every heart that’s been trapped

  between your tiny palms

  was gingerly placed, in a single piece,

  only to later be found shattered.

  A pile of shards on the ground.

  From that night in the park

  to this one right here

  everything you touch breaks.

  If only you knew how to fix them.

  You’d stitch them back up again,

  hands trembling, fingertips numb

  from missing the target.

  But glass cannot be sewn together,

  so you keep them in a box.

  All patched up and bleeding,

  covered in scratches.

  They waste away in that damp cave of yours.Every single one is piled

  higher than your head.

  A throne of reminders

  of those who tried to change you.

  They are the supposed list

  of everything that’s wrong with you,

  all the reasons you’re unlovable.If only someone had taught you,

  the pressure at which a thing decides to break

  is no fault of your own.

  It is a testament to its own fragility.

  And,if you want to heal hearts,

  it’s best to start with your own.

  anxiety

  It isn’t that I don’t want to talk to you. It’s just that my words get caught in my throat, they’re halfway up my windpipe, trapped beneath the pounding of my heart. How she got up there is something I’ll never ask. Perhaps she made the jump when you walked into the room, or perhaps she’s always lived there. In a home of lymph nodes and saliva, wasting away until her time expires. Pulling me back from anything that might be too dangerous, like talking to you, or checking my mail. Avoiding her daily tasks has become so tiresome she made new ones up to keep herself entertained.

  savages II

  Hell hath no fury like a woman who knows her worth!

  Hell hath no fury like the woman who is tired of being treated like an object, the woman who is sick of a man being in charge of what she can and cannot do with her body, even the woman who had to listen to opinions she didn’t ask for.

  Hell hath no fury like the woman you emotionally abused for months on end, before tossing her aside for the next piece of ass, the woman who was forced to pick herself up again after you kept going when she said no by lying there unable to move, and the woman who sat there while you beat her body until it was all the colors of the night sky; black, blue, and a sickly green.

  Hell hath no fury like the woman who grew up thinking that the only thing she would ever be good for is taking your last name and raising your children, the woman who was burned at the stake for being a witch, and the woman who was stoned to death for reporting her rape.

  Hell hath no fury like the woman who uprooted her family to flee to another country, in hopes of having a better life, only to have her children torn from her arms as they crossed an invisible line on the ground.

  and whose fault is that?

  The holidays have never been anything other than a glaring reminder of just how little the people surrounding me actually know about me.

  be honest

  You may provide the physical necessities,

  but can you offer the emotional ones as well?

  like a sea witch in the desert

  My home is a valley, a prison of dirt and large rocks. And I am trapped in a place I wish I never knew.

  i'll take unrequeted love for 500

  I have a crush on the moon.

  If she asked

  I’d give her everything I own,

  kill anyone she named.

  I would die for her

  or live for her.

  Hell

  I’d sign away my voice

  my soul Lord knows she already

  has my heart.

  I bet she keeps it in a box

  tucked away where no one

  can find it. A place

  even the devil himself

  would never dare to search.

  She’s probably hidden it

  in the ocean.

  It’s resting in the jaws

  of a great white shark,

  the belly of a killer whale.

  No no. She keeps it hidden in a cave,

  the same place she once kept hers.

  In the valley

  where the serpents lounge,

  the place I wish I could live out

  all my days.

  She’s got it locked in a box

  where the sun cannot find it.

  You see,

  he stole her last one,

  and I thought her so beautiful,

  loved the way her mind sings,

  I gave her my own

  asking nothing in return

  She lets me come visit

  whenever she’s bored

  or tired of the chase.

  We are like lovers in the night.

  I love her

  as she pines for someone else.

  I suppose for her, it’s always night

  that she’s the reason it gets dark

  she’s why the sun runs away.

  Maybe if she stopped chasing him

  screaming

  to give back what he stole,

  he would stop leaving.

  But around and around

  and around they go,

  the sun and the moon,

  my love and her lover.

  And around and around

  and around we go,

  the moon and I,

  stumbling into each other

  mumbling pretty words

  leading me on

  giving me hope

  saying his name

  breaking my heart.

  why the hell wasn't one enough?

  How many women is too many to rape in a calendar year? I believe your body count is sitting at four…

  and they did

  I said a prayer asking the gods

  above to take away my pain.

  I begged them to remove my

  memories, so living on without you

  would not be so unbearable.

  you

  I hate the little mannerisms I’ve picked up from you.

  I picture your face every time I say “oof”

  and I can hear your voice saying how much

  you love that I speak like you.

  Every. Single. Time.

  It makes me sick

  but I still can’t manage to hold the words in,

  not even the ones that remind me of you.

  I’m beginning to think

  you tore the zipper from my mouth

  the night you pretended not to know

  what it means when a person tells you no.

  subtle manipulations

  I’m choosing to love myself in all the ways

  I mistakenly thought you would love me first.

  My mind is healing from the ways you jerked it around,

  saying you loved me as you left bruised on my bones,

  fingerprints scorched into my flesh,

  a constant reminder of events that transpired

  while everyone I thought I knew

  chose to look the other way.

  beloved

  I want to kiss your palm and lick your jaw

  see you smile and

  dance to the sound of your laughter

  on a warm summer's night.

  I want to hold your face between my palms

  as I bite your nose
<
br />   and then your lip.

  always

  If there was ever a love meant for the ages;

  two people destined to find each other

  in this life and each one that follows.

  Over

  and over

  and over

  again,

  it is us.

  Always us.

  medusa II

  Stop telling me you love me while another woman is depending on you to be faithful. Stop telling me the goddess you are dating is crazy because she had the balls to call you out on your bullshit. Crazy is a cowards way of describing women.