Virgo, ENFJ, optimist, poet, unicorn, queer, self-sabotaging, artist. But hey, who's labeling?
specialsundays said: Jill can I reblog the Hurt Me poem?
Yes you may!
I could say that every man who has ever put his hands on me
has hurt me.
I could also say that every woman who has ever put her hands on me
has hurt me too.
But they don’t mean the same thing.
Not when you say it out loud.
If I’ve learned anything about men
and people in general,
it’s that everyone hears what they want to hear
and what they expect you to say
will be be correct.
They might say,
“Did he beat you? Did he rape you?”
“Did he give you any bruises?”
“He’s not going to get away with this!”
“I’m gonna kill that asshole next time I see him.”
“He’s got something comin’ for him, I’m sure of it.”
“What the hell was he thinking?”
“How many other girls will suffer?”
“He needs to be stopped!”
“You should report him, go to the police!”
Or, they might say,
“Aw, baby. I’m sorry she hurt you.”
“Everything will be okay, you don’t need her anyway.”
“She was a bitch, you’ll find someone better.”
“She doesn’t know what she’s missing, I promise.”
“You’re better off without her.”
“I already feel bad for the next poor girl she finds.”
“Don’t worry, you’ve got better friends than she does.”
“I always knew she was crazy.”
“You really need to stop falling for such broken girls.”
“You can do so much better.”
These assumptions we have
regarding the mistreatment between men and women
exist for a reason.
I wish they didn’t.
And then I think about my life,
feel the hurt in my chest turn black, heavy stone,
when I realize no one has ever asked me
if my girlfriend hit me
if my boyfriend broke my heart
if it was my fault to begin with
if I expected any of this to happen
if I could have prevented it
and if I could, would I have even wanted to?
The way a man hurts a woman should not be a fact.
The truth is,
I have been hurt
exactly how you imagined I would be.
Your responses are legitimate.
I am not unique.
Everyone has been right.
That is the saddest honesty imaginable.
- poem by Jill Greenseth
a body does not want to die (1/30)
There is no easy way to explain what it feels like to want to die. To know what it feels like to feel nothing at all. Vulnerable is a safer word for saying that you expect people to hurt you. A body does not want to die. A mind is not so easily predictable. When death is barreling toward you as a fifty ton, unstoppable force, fear can set, or can be accepted. Life can be accepted, or given up with either a second of judgement, or a lifetime of debate — Of questioning — Of knowing the answer, but unsure of how to vacate skin and bone. Choice wears a black veil. Stares at you with barren, grey eyes. Takes you by the hand and walks you to a cliff with no foreseeable ground and steps away. It burns where you feel like your heart should be. It fills your throat with clouds and the ocean waves push the back of your eyes. The ground does not shake. The air is temperate. There isn’t even a draft but your skin still crawls. There is no such thing as weather. Silence is the loudest sound you’ve ever heard. It builds in your skull where your brain should be — Where your brain should be telling you the only thing a reasonable person might say; No. No… A human infant can only wrap their tiny hand around an adult’s finger and want to survive, without even knowing what survival is. That same soul, now, can’t even fathom sustaining life itself. Would it be wrong to slay the only vessel that has ever carried you this insurmountable distance? That tried to keep you alive every time you ever got sick? That got out of bed when it was so tired it didn’t want to move ever again? When you choose an ending, does it therefore mean you choose the story? Can we create our futures by creating our lives? Is it possible that we were given the power of choice to see stare death in the face if we want to? A body does not want to die. A mind is made up of every mistake you’ve ever made, but is also made up of every time you laughed and every time you pulled someone out of the wreckage by saying or “You’ve got this” — “I believe in you” — “I love you.” A mind is made up every time you touched someone else’s skin and didn’t feel afraid. A body does not want to die because it does not deserve to. You are not a coward. You are not weak. You are as strong as your body. There is no easy way to explain what it feels like to want to die. Nobody can tell a brain what to think, but a wise, reasonable person I found somewhere in mine once said, “no.” Keep your body. It fought hard for you. It will always fight for you. You must always fight.
According to my horoscope, if I am “single,” I should start dating.
Okay. BREATHE, JILL. You can do this.
I have absolutely no idea how to go on dates anymore.
wise decisions on a first date with a straight woman
When you ask her out on a date and she says yes,
be careful to not convince yourself it’s actually a date.
There are rules to this game.
Plan a time to meet, plan a time to leave.
Meet her somewhere you can see her clearly.
The darkness might confuse her
and she could mistake you for something/someone else.
Order something nice for yourself.
Be confident in your choosing.
Tell her why you like it.
Pay close attention to what she orders,
the way she sits,
the way she touches drink
and if she faces you or not.
Be kind, but don’t be too kind.
It would be so easy to scare her away.
Take your time with your drink.
Let her know you want to know her.
Don’t be afraid of small pauses.
Laugh when she says something funny,
but not so loud that other people can hear,
she’s not used to this.
You’ll make her uncomfortable.
Listen to her voice.
Listen for the happy she carries
and if she smiles when she speaks.
Order another drink,
ask her if you can buy the second one.
If she says no, do not insist too much.
If she gets up to go to the bathroom,
see if her leg brushes against yours,
or if she places her hand on your shoulder.
Try not to focus too much on what she is thinking,
have faith that she will tell you when you ask her.
When she returns,
pay close attention to how her posture changes
and if she pulls her chair closer,
if she’s changed her hair,
if she looks at you with curious eyes.
When you glance back,
it’s okay to bite your lip.
You’re letting her know
that you feel the bashful build up in your cheeks
and in your stomach.
Tell her what you are proud of.
Explain why you are someone she should want see again.
Don’t immediately invite her out.
Wait to see if she asks first.
Ask her about her passions.
Get her to talk about something she loves.
Respond openly, but understandingly.
Prepare yourself to leave.
Tell her you have things to do in the morning,
whether you do or not.
Do not play too easy.
Notice whether she is disappointed or not.
If she asks you to stay for another drink,
debate as though it is a hard decision,
even though you know it isn’t.
You’ll want to stay,
you could stay there all night.
You could curl up next to the stories she’s told you
and the hold the vulnerable in your arms.
Thank her for the evening.
Tell her you enjoyed her company.
Make plans to meet again.
When leaving each other,
give her a sincere hug,
then place your hands on her shoulders.
Tell her to have a wonderful night.
If she kisses you,
do not let it hold too long.
kiss her gently
place your hand to her cheek
and slowly pull away.
If she doesn’t kiss you,
do not push her.
Lightly peck her cheek,
and touch her hand before saying goodbye.
Walk away slowly,
turn around to give a friendly wave.
Stand up straight.
Run your fingers through your hair.
Wait for the phone call.
Wait for the message.
If it does not come, let her go.
Never push a straight woman to love you.
Do not expect anything.
Let her go.
- * - a poem by Jill Greenseth - * -
an all too familiar experience in this little life of mine.
EDIT: Holy crap. Is it even POSSIBLE for me to write a short poem anymore? Darn.
Katy Perry’s BFF
For two weeks
I called into my local radio station
to try and win the competition for
Katy Perry’s BFF.
hang out sessions
and of course
Katy Perry herself.
Not that I would actually win her,
but in some strange kind of way I would.
There are people who claim to love her more than I do.
There are people who have tattoos of her face on their asses
Don’t get me wrong,
I don’t want to be Katy Perry’s best friend.
I want Katy Perry to become best friends with ME!
I want her to be so jealous of my life,
She will have no other choice but to move here and want to be my best friend.
I think she might like coming to our weekly gayborhood parties. Gays and
glitter and bow-ties and brownies.
I think she might like to go on bike rides to the Skidmore bluffs and watch the sun set over the forest.
I think she might like to take tequila shots
and dance to bluegrass rock.
I think she might like to kick back on the couch
and watch parks and rec, 30 rock, and orange is the new black
while eating home-popped popcorn
and sipping on cheap red wine.
I think she might like to go on impulsive road trips
and end up at the ocean at night time
when all of the stars are out and the waves at out feet.
I think she would fall in love with Portland,
I’m sure she would write a song about it.
Damnit, I’ve got a roommate with a curly moustache!
I’d give her a flannel shirt
and she would rock the shit out of it.
I’d take her to all of the hot springs in the summer
and we’d take mushrooms by the lakeside.
I’d show her what good pizza tastes like.
We’d get brunch every weekend and eat so much
we’d have to take a nap at noon.
She’d like the fires in my backyard
and all of my clever story-telling.
She’d learn to love dressing up in drag
and we would learn to call her Sir Fire - Workit.
She’d win everyone over
with her goofy-cackle laugh.
I’d bring her to watch poetry
and it would be love at first sight.
She’d probably kick my ass at slam poetry.
She’s probably amazing at pool when she’s drunk.
She’s probably better at shooting zombies than I am.
Katy Perry probably doesn’t trip over everything like I do.
I think she might have an easier time finding a date than I can.
She’s probably going to sleep with one of my long-time crushes.
She’s probably going to sleep with one of my exes.
She probably thinks that her cats are better than my cats.
WHO NAMES THEIR CAT Kitty Purry, anyway?!
She will call herself a Portlander
and that this is her home.
And she will forget about me
leave feeling like that fucking plastic bag
drifting through the wind wanting to start again.
She will probably end up writing an entire album
about how her life is so much better than my life.
YOU KNOW WHAT KATY PERRY?
I don’t care if you kissed a girl.
I don’t care if I unreasonably praise your music
and scream your words in the car
or in my bedroom
or while I’m doing the dishes.
I never wanted to be your american dream anyway.
You know what, Katy Perry?
You’re jealous because my life is better,
so fuck you,
you can’t have it.
You hear me roar, Katy?
Sorry, but this life is mine.
Go be a dark horse somewhere else.
- * - a poem by Jill Greenseth - * -
Dark Horse is playing in the kitchen right now…