From Her (Part 2)

from her part 2

00 i n t r o d u c t i o n hello! maybe you’re back for some more miserable and mediocre writing, because there’s also a part of you that acknowledges everyone becomes a little masochistic and sarcastic to cope with life’s grievances. or maybe you’re just curious, in which case, welcome! i hope both parts of “from her” encourage you to tune into the emotions we usually push away or are too scared to talk about. because perhaps, the range of human emotions we have–the good and the “bad” alike–reveal our common desire to love boldly and to be loved boldly, to be seen and accepted in our fullest complexities. like part 1, part 2 is still simply one voice out of billions, yet inspired my many, and i hope it moves you in one way or another. enjoy.

Trigger warnings: trauma, sexual abuse

I still love you, differently but absolutely.

Your nonresponse was the loudest noise in the room that day.

You brushed me away like I was a cobweb, tangled in the dreams and ambitions I had no part of thrown into the fire to turn into ashes, my remnants throw into the deepest darkest seas.

01

did joseph grow into a man?

kind of sick of hearing that boys will just be boys

there was a boy named joseph met him in kindergarten at the chinese after school slightly taller than the others had humor that made the girls think he was cool he pushed me out the jumpy house said i’d make it deflate got the girls on his side watched as he created an army of hate against a seven-year-old who cried when she ate I held myself tight arms wrapped across my flat chest told myself to forgive to lay it to rest that it wasn’t my fault I looked a mess before a mean boy who could care less did joseph grow into a man? or did the boy stay a boy? did anyone deflate the ego that threw fists at my face when i asked if i could play and get by the day without tears rolling down red cheeks on display?

it’s been fifteen years has joseph found a girl he loves yet? when she cries about her waist when the mirror taunts does joseph stay or push her out the house say “grow up and have something better to cry about?” or does he hold her tight arms wrapped around her full chest say to forgive herself to lay it to rest that she’s doing her best that she looks beautiful when she thinks herself a mess that she’s perfect and nothing less did joseph grow into a man? or did the boy stay a boy? maybe he became the wall street breed pockets deeper with money than the insults he threw at me one day if joseph has a daughter i hope the boys treat her right so she can play in the jumpy house go in and out without a fight

sadness is a personality trait.

it’s been a while so isn’t it funny how I keep track of these hurts like words in a creed. i whisper them every night until my lips are swollen. i torture my enemies in my mind; seek revenge so i can fall asleep.

paralyzed by fear, killed by rage.

02

love languages

sorry, i don’t understand.

Her body grows numb as the flashback plays in her head, against her will. An index finger tracing from the top of her spine to the hem of her gray school skirt slow, deliberate, feeling. She never saw his face when he’d touch. Did he close his eyes as he explored her young body, so that the fantasies bursting in his twisted mind could burn more passionately? How vivid were they? What was he doing in them - what was he doing with her? To her?

She snaps back into reality, taking deep breaths in between questions. Another one about physical intimacy.

Fragmented history replays in her head. I’m prepared this time, she assures myself in her memory. But she is a fool.

Still an overoptimistic, played fool. She sits on his large leg and pushes her shoulders forward so he cannot touch her breasts. She is proud because she thinks she has power over what he can and cannot touch. So he doesn’t touch there: instead, he lowers his hands so they roam around her waist before landing beneath her skirt.

His hand is the size of her thigh. It explores every inch of skin there, his rough palm going up and down her leg in slow motions. Then his hand wraps around her thigh, a dry finger drawing shapes just inches away from the most private part of her body.

She finishes taking the test. She smiles because she predicted her results accurately. Meanwhile, her heart grieves her innocence. She shows her friends her results. They are surprised, but not really. They laugh every time she says she hates touch; she laughs alongside them because she wants to feel normal.

I hate being touched, she randomly tells her male friend the next day - a cry from the subconscious, perhaps. He makes a timid sound before nodding his head. Yet it seems he has forgotten by the end of their conversation. Her friend places his hand on her back.

See you around, he says, before throwing his backpack over his shoulder and walking to class. She takes a deep breath as she shakes off the ghost of his hand sitting on her back.

Her body is stubborn and holds onto memories her mind longs to forget. Even as she gathers her belongings and walks to class herself, it refuses to let them go.

Your childhood fears are ghosts in the dark and monsters under your bed.

Mine were lost arms and crushed legs in a pool of red.

(anyone else have an irrational fear of losing limbs?)

I comforted you like a therapist every single day and then you locked me out you shut me out and disappeared without a trace.

imagine a world where we tally the random acts of kindness we make instead of the bodies we fuck and haunt.

03

i want to be everything

human complexity

“What do you want to be?”

“Everything. I want to be a ballerina and I want to be a skater girl. I want to be 5'10" and model and I want to be 5'3" and cute. I want straight black hair and I want to dye my hair red and get a perm. I want a thigh gap and a flat stomach and I want enviable curves and thick thighs. I want pale glass skin and I want a sun-kissed tan. I want to be mysterious and I want to overshare. I want to be loved and I want to be feared. I want to be the center of attention and I want to hide away. I want to care deeply and I want to not care at all. I want to keep preaching intuitive eating and I want to be part of the 1% that successfully pulls off a diet. I want to kill with kindness and I want to give people a taste of their own medicine. I want to cook for a future family of four and I want to never be tied down to people. I want to save my body for one man and I want to kiss every pretty stranger I see on the street. I want to be the perfect girl who never sins and I want to do every sinful thing humanly possible and still go to heaven. I want good people in my life and I want to suffer for relationships so I feel like I earned love. I want to see every woman succeed and I want to tear every woman down so I can be at the top. I want to please every man I meet and I want to yell 'I hate your guts' all the same. Iwant those who have abused others to heal and I want them to suffer miserably until they die.

Am I a hypocrite? Am I too complex? I don't know, but what I do know is that I want to be day and night. Spring and winter. Calm and chaos. I want to be everything.”

I’m not sure if I should be flattered or enraged that you almost turned me into your mistress.

I sometimes wonder if it’s better to feel everything at once or nothing at all.

It hurts terribly when the Word meant to heal becomes weaponized and used against the hurt.

I have 24 hours to cover my gunshot wound with gauze ‘til I walk the streets again with the smile of a fraud.

04

the desire for human approval

more, more, and more.

It is an insatiable beast that laps water at a well with a shallow, corroded pit, until the last drops run dry and it must settle with the taste of its own spit.

When winter comes and snow crunches at the bottom of the shoe, the beast only grows stronger, with out-ofseason berries to pursue.

In the spring, even the freshest of fruits taste sour and coarse. Sweetness drowned in bitterness; gratitude traded for remorse. It is the beast that can never be satisfied, no matter how much one tries. Unless put to rest, it tortures until one dies.

Such is the nature of the never-ending desire to rule people and money, to build your own empire.

To hear the sound of your name ringing throughout the nation, to taste the poison of others’ jealousy for what only you could acquire.

To feel the high from every wicked but satisfied temptation, to smell the corpse of all enemies and fake friends burning in the fire.

To see a world of gold as a testament to your fame.

Even if its gilded, and kills you all the same.

I’ll let you write your own story instead of fitting you into the one I’ve already crafted inside my head: the home of monsters on stolen thrones.

I hope you don’t just look at my cover or read my prologue.

I hope you don’t skip to the acknowledgments, searching for your name, or the epilogue, to see if i’ve healed. read my pages. the parts others have skimmed over and found boring, too harsh to read, too unpleasant. hear my voice behind the words on the pages; wonder what emotions are screaming behind them, begging to be understood.

05

outro

dear reader, i’m reminded constantly of how complex people are: how we’re all a mix of insecurity, loneliness, love, desire, strength, anger, hurt, kindness. a lot of these thoughts and pieces were inspired by seemingly insignificant yet informative moments: wondering why my heart clashes with my head, wondering if i need to surrender a perfectly crafted plan, wondering if others relate. for better or for worse, i love leaning into and befriending all my emotions–the easy and the difficult ones alike–and i remind myself that it’s okay to still grieve things from the past while moving forward with renewed hope and joy. i hope you enjoyed this lighter read (it was lighter than pt 1... right?). thank you for showing love to both part 1 + part 2. <3 sincerely, jess

love boldly & let yourself be loved boldly