I haven't written poetry in an incredibly long time, but this past week I've penned multiple pieces. From August 12-19 I was lucky enough to attend a peer residency in Grand Marais, Minnesota, with a dozen other writers, poets, and artists. There, I read more poetry than I have in years, and remembered how beautiful sharing thoughts in a poem can be. I'm feeling thankful for the wonderful new friends who shared their work with me, and who also reminded me that I can call myself a poet even if it feels wrong and even if I feel like I'm not good enough to adopt that label.
Below is a poem about moving through the space of academia. It's also about anxiety, depression, and lack of support while traversing multiple encounters with oppression. It's about being a survivor, it's about trauma, and it's about PTSD. Thanks for reading.
valuable
what does it mean when people deem your harassment
your assault
your trauma
not that bad?
when they would have
handled it differently?
when people you loved and thought loved you tell you
you should get over it
that it's done
that it's in the past
move past this
that the people you thought loved you become cold
you're alienating me
your tone is a little hard to swallow
i’ve done so much for you
and this is really dramatic
because you are that scratched CD
skipping in your car
as you drive over that bump
singing
help me, help me, help me
a burden
emotional
intense
anxious
ungrateful
unrealistic
dramatic
angry
everyone hates me
waiting for justice
waiting for closure
waiting for happiness
waiting for peace
in your mind
because it's all fucked up in here
tears fall backwards
up your nose
into your brain
so that it feels full and sloshy
and you can’t speak what you know is right because your words are drowning
people doubt you
you doubt yourself
maybe i'm overreacting
but why do you feel so sad but how the fuck do you know what he really meant
why do you cry every night partner's arms around heaving stomach wrapped tight
salty snot drips into mouth
nose and eyes, raw, red
why do you freeze knots in your stomach
bile in your throat
every time you see him
and him
and think you see him and him and him
from across the campus you love
and hate that you love
because it has failed you
in so many ways
6 years unraveling my mind
from its spool
and it never looks as perfect when you put it back
tangled and messy and less pretty and sad
my survival relies on knowing this:
i don't need to belong to an institution to be valuable