A Little History of Inner Violence

A few pieces about the twisted mind of eating disorders

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It pulls my head by my hair
lacing the chair's heartless back
forcing vile substances into a system in denial
my body says no,
begs to purge the awful liquids and monsters
monsters that crawl down my esophagus
and into my stomach
monsters that churn the acid into a boiling rain
and monsters that burrow on my bones
hiding their sweet faces from sunlight and cold.

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Logic does not exist here
Logic is twisted into tangled puzzles
that fuck with my mind and bury the roots
of my subconscious in poisoned soil
Logic was stripped naked and beaten to dust
then swept away into a porcelain sink
Logic, don't skip fuel
Mind, never allow it
Logic, destruction
Mind, good.

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Whether I run a mile or a Kilo meter,
it is the same
burning energy through wheezy tunnels
neglected tunnels
airy tunnels
turn over a Stone
you'll find me
the real me
the me that hides behind sweat(s) and memories
what weighs more, a pound of butter
or a pound a feathers?
Neither
a Pound of fat.
Numbers
Ideas
Wishes
Wants
Times
Memories
Pains
Purges
Tired
... tired.

Gone.

Memory

Listen to that purity and passion. This will literally bring tears to the eyes of most. A beautiful, moving song to begin with, and Mirusia just adds to the majestic nature of the piece. This is exactly how I feel today as well! I will be writing about this later. Enjoy! Mirusia, you are inspirational and amazing in every way.

Insomnia

3:20 am

As the doors of suburbian garage doors close, the eye lids of their owners slip and shut.
I wish my own eyelashes would meld together, and my irises hide from an unknown night.
But my time is the night.
The day is long, hectic and the sun burns into blue ethnic visionary pools.
Dark glass covers my pain and white liquid sprawls across scarlet skin.
But when the moon calls, my mind is alert, fiery, full of ideas, questions, wonders, thoughts, pains, sufferings, lust and joy.
As soon as the first leaf blocks a ray of sunlight, there is a special moment I cannot begin to describe.
Dusk settles and there is a scented wind that twirls my tendrils with sensual fingers. The hazy color of the sky dips into black ink and I am finally myself. Awake when all others sleep, alone when others find love, afraid when others at peace. But night calls, and I must obey for it be a stern master.

Welcome to Brigham Young University

Well I just started college at Brigham Young University in Provo, UT. It's a great school with a beautiful campus. However, I just haven't quite felt like I fit in anywhere just yet. No one really understands my odd sense of humor and immense amounts of sarcasm. No one dances like I do, or acts mildly insane like I do. I also found out someone I love very much would no longer be a part of my life by choice. So needless to say, it's been a hard beginning of college. But all college beginnings are hard, I must figure it out in my own way I suppose. So I decided to start writing again. Feel free to read my old stuff, mind the language, I censored nothing. Those were all written out of emotion or lack thereof and are therefore exactly how I was feeling at the time. I hope to continue this tradition in future posts. Honesty more eloquently, j.e.hinds

The Artists Hands

Fists cracking,
the first time their hideous faces noticed,
Canyons and crevices
stretch their ways
across massive knuckles,
Wide palms thick with gritty callouses,
Lines of leathered abuse
climb from wrist to tip,
those tips yellowed and beaten by steel strings.
Bulging edges,
ligaments spilling over hulking bones.
Oven hot scratches
just beginning to heal,
Her grace tore those feminine hands to pieces.
On the back of a steed she powers through,
beauty in it's purest form.
Yet when the gloves come off,
there is nothing left
but ugly, tortured,
cracked, dry, raw,
bony hands.

Rust and Relaxation

Maine roads salt her yellowing paint,

black blades try to scrub the windows 

with rhythmic, lullaby mouse squeaks.

The scent of gasoline buries itself in the exposed stuffing,

and the old radio tells stories about fishing in kneeless jeans.

Rust peels off onto calloused fingers.

The door cranks shut,

and she rumbles her way down dirt roads.

Disclaimer: Whoa mama language

A poem written for that girl, the one everybody talks about, but no one understands, or takes the time to listen to. *Disclaimer - does contain some language*

I am the girl
who can dip my face low,
and yet somehow silence an
entire hall way.

I am the girl
people snicker at,
the girl people
talk about,
the girl you all dream about,
but wouldn't admit
because it'd give you STD's of the mind.
because I'm promiscuous.
Dangerous.
"Rebellious"

But the truth is,
I'm no different than any other girl,
I'm no better or worse.
People call me
Slut
Whore
Bitch
Cheater
Liar
Why can't I be a person?

People do everything I do,
I just got snatched.
Suddenly,
it's me they're talking about
it's me,
they think is keeping every mans bed
sweet
and warm.

Rumors, they turn a girl into that girl.
They turned me into
Slut
Whore
Bitch
Cheater
Liar.

They're just lying to themselves.
And after I'm done,
I just won't give a shit anymore.

They crack down on my honor,
on my ability to control myself.
Tell me,
look me straight in the eye,
and call me those names you wouldn't dare speak,
call me
Slut
Whore
Bitch
Cheater
Liar.

They bounce off me like pebbles on a mountain.
I'll only prove you wrong.
And there's nothing you can do about it.

Narration and Waiting

I sat with perfect posture,

pinching my spine,

cracking nervous knuckles

under a sticky table.

He sauntered in and smiled

with perfectly crooked teeth.

Apathy never looked so good.

Slouching like a coat thrown over a sofa,

sipping milky coffee from a ceramic mug.

"Let’s go for a walk."

A simple request,

an invitation.

Nerves bit themselves under my skin.

I tried to be pretty,

like the other girls,

who slept around his feet

like loyal wolves,

curling,

clawing at his legs.

They waited patiently,

eyeing me every so often.

Each glare was followed by a coy grin,

I was no threat to them.

I was plump.
Awkward.
Homely.

We walked.

To a mossy, rocky river bed.

The stunning, 

radiant,

sultry

wolf mistresses disappeared

as my feet hit the sand.

I felt my body stumble

into a cumbersome, now wet lump.

My pale cheeks 

became crimson cakes on my face.

He laughed with dulcet melodies.

Hidden in the woods, 

his persuasion ensued.

Teeth dipped into my skin.

Shooting a burning star

through every vein, artery and bone.

My blood spun wildly out of control,

leaving the flawless smirk 

pasted on my frozen arms.

Rolling wildly down a muddy hill.

a slip and slide, 

made just for us two

Sprinting,

laughing,

rain drenching straight through

thin spring jackets.

Mud in my hair,

grass on his face.

Water soaking every inch of our skins.

When no one was watching,

he, that one beautiful boy, 

loved me, that one hideously sweet girl.

Now, all I have

is a plum colored bruise,

waiting on my arm

to remember.

Home: Where anger can't find me

Water pushes slowly through the sleepy stones.

Trees hang their leaves so I can touch their skins

while I’m wading through peaceful rivulets.

The anger that once ate away at my stomach

swims away through the broken culverts.

The sirens in the branches call me away,

away from the broken fate I left waiting.

List Poetry

Poems made of list, most commonly put into slam poetry, always fascinated me. I was also very angry the day this poem was assigned, so I decided it should be my inspiration and therapy.


Well, Did You Grow Up, Every man?

Did you grow up in the slums?

Have you ever had to work for anything in your life?

No.

Everything you have,

was given to you,

 for free,

without consequence.

Without callouses,

without scars, burns,

or blood.

Did you grow up, learning that every man would lie to you?

Hold you close just long enough to use you?

Men have left me in a small pit,

 just big enough to cover myself

with a turtle shell, 

so I can look out, 

but never really be out.

Every man left his violet and indigo marks on 

the women who raised me.

Every man pushed me until I cracked.

Every man I’ve gotten to know has done nothing

but stalk through the weed-smothered

gardens of my insecurities,

waiting,

to check my King.

Did you grow up, cooking for nine with money for two?

Did you hear your name while you hid in the closet,

waiting for someone to rescue you?

No. You didn’t. You played silly games, 

ran outside and played those damn games.

The games I never learned.

You toyed with math and learnings,

 in a little mansion by the sea.

You pranced around with your nose

touching the tops of trees, 

so you wouldn’t have to see me under your feet.

Did you grow up, knowing that one day, I’d say this?

How dare you tell me to grow up?

I grew up all right.

I grew up before I could speak like a woman.

I grew up in a world where I was nothing to you,

any of you. 

Did you grow up in a dreadful place,

where you were ignored,

where people only showed up

when you really only fucked up?

Did you grow up where no one saw you,

until your hips busted into curvature,

and you had to save up

so Victoria could share her secrets with you?

No. You grew up listening,

to the sounds of 

dead men playing music

to quotations embracing your private lessons of life,

the keys to being perfectly satisfied.

You grew up thinking you could stand on me.

You grew up like Every Man.

Well did you?

Did you grow up?

Yeah. I didn’t think so.

Oh Sisters, Let's Go Down.

I wrote this piece about my true companion, my horse Wess. He's been through everything with me, and as he gets older and I get older too, I realize how much he means to me, and how much I owe him. A tribute to a best friend who has shown me that no matter what abuse you've been through, and before he was given to me he went through more than most people can imagine, you can always come out stronger.


 Oh Sisters, Let’s Go Down.


 The temperature had reached a record-breaking heat, even for August. Even the trees seemed to be sweating. I was inexperienced, naive and sitting upon a thousand pounds of angry, hot and abused horse. The heaving of his chest raced onward, continuously situating at about twice his natural breathing. Wess, my newly acquired morgan horse, had been passed around from place to place. No one ever wanted him, and no one ever cared.
 As a younger version of myself, I had been moved around too. Never having a place to call home brought us together. He was given to me, literally. People say “never look a gift horse in the mouth” but what they really should say is, “one does not simply ride this horse.”
 About every fifteen steps, he would stop. His hatred for mankind would swell like a balloon being inflated, and he would defy me by stopping where he stood and refusing to move. Each time I had to dismount and walk for about a third of a mile, or until he decided it was a good idea to move again. I remounted and eventually we reached the river bank of the Ellis River, with about a gallon of sweat pouring all over my body, and dirt caked on my arms. I had a creeper dirt-stache above my upper lip and my hair was sticking to the underside of my riding helmet. To my dismay, and to make matters worse, everyone had already safely crossed the river.
 Naturally, Wess balked at the idea of crossing a heavy current, and to be honest, so did I. I didn’t know the special, shallow path everyone took, so I had to take the only way I could. Slowly pulling myself off his back and into the surging water, I took my reins and put them over his head. For the first time, I looked into the eyes, I mean really looked. I saw why he was the way he was. I reminded myself of how truly stubborn I was, and how all I needed was for someone to be a strong leader for me. It’s what he needed too. I whispered to him. I told him I loved him and we’d be able to do this. Even though I could barely swim, I plunged into the water, and for the first time, Wess followed me willingly.
 I began to struggle and my lungs filled with liquid. My head got stuck in the heavy current and I was purely and unequivocally terrified.
My paranoid Wess pushed me, picked me up out of the water and gave me a powerful shoulder to wrap my arms around. Together, we braved the river. The whites of his eyes appeared, and his ears were pinned backward, expressing the terror spinning madly through both our bodies. However, that brotherly shoulder was there for me when I needed it, and has been ever since.
 We both collapsed on the beach in exhaustion, shaking the water from our spines. I kissed his soft muzzle. I climbed, soggy boots and wet jeans and all, back in the saddle. After catching our breath, we cantered unrestrained across the rest of the beach and up into an open field. I dropped the reins and let him run at his own pace. I realized then that you can’t force a spirit like that into submission, but it can be earned. He ran farther than he ever had. Our pulses matched in perfect rhythm. I let my arms stretch from fingertip to fingertip and closed my eyes while he pounded through the grass. We’d found home. We’d found freedom.

La Roie, La Sainte et Une Amie

A playlist for a master of words, and a friend who has never let me down. A true friend, a terrifying friend, and a loyal companion.

Stilettos and Broken Bottles

I have an intense desire to be a part of high fashion. I've always admired it from afar, never even being able to dream of affording it. I adore Ferrera, Wang and Armani. They are all artists and they use their models to create something greater than art.. "because you live your life in it..." -Nigel, Devil Wears Prada

Stars, Music and Peace.

This particular piece is written about a song that connect myself and a very dear friend of mine, my best friend actually. She's in my class. We wrote about the same piece, and used the same quote from the lyrics in our pieces. Weird. But awesome. I really hope someone will find peace with one of the most musically dreamlike song, Caribbean Blue by the Celtic singer, Enya.

A Night in my Mind

Another creative writing piece: One about sleep. About anything really, as long as it's about sleep.

 I will do this someday, with wind chimes, and apple trees.

The Plastics... only dumber.

As part of my blog, I will be putting in in-class pieces from my creative writing class, starting with this one. This is about Middle School / Junior High / Hell / Breeding Grounds for Spawn of Satan ... whatever you'd like to name it and about the power that particular bullies can have. Well, like any middle schooler, I didn't particularly do anything worth remembering in middle school, so here goes nothing, pieced together from scattered memories, and bits of glass.