It is so hard to scream.

{Rough write}

It is hard to wake up in the morning and look in the mirror and feel safe with my own reflection.

It is hard to cross the street at night without girls holding their purses and one another tighter and tighter to their hips than my jeans are to my own.

It is hard to watch the television when every major broadcasting network keeps flashing by  a face of a fallen sister or brother on every damn commercial break.

It is hard to be filled by anxiety every time I pass a cop on the streets wondering if maybe, just maybe, they might see me and pay more attention to the shade of my hands than the number on the speedometer across from them.

This is how I think I would feel if I could understand,

If I could fit into their shoes and not walk a mile but walk a lifetime.

I am apart of a community that chooses to ignore statistics unless they fall into their own political agenda.

And I blend into the crowd with my pink cheeks and shallow vocal chords,

Straining to help,

Straining to speak,

And wondering if I did work up enough courage to refrain from the worry of being exiled from those whose appearances match my own...would it really matter?

Could the words that come out of my lungs like leather petal daisies really mean something, really turn a scar back into smoothed over skin, really turn a few heads, touch a few hearts?

I stop to take a look at the chaos disguised as american society around me,

I scream “look at me” but nobody can hear me over the argument of whose life holds more value.

I scream “listen to me” but everyone's too busy typing their latest Facebook self-published hatred.

I scream “do you see me” but bodies are swarming too fast to check their own privilege, let alone mine.

I scream “do you hear me” but everybody is too busy listening for the sound of gunshots in the rain.  

I scream, I scream, I scream, but everybody's backs are turned and nobody's ears are open.

The air around me is almost too full with noise that it begs the point of combustion to wait for one more name, one more body, one more life, just one more….

I fill whatever air is left with my screams and imagine what you would say to me if you could just look into my eyes and listen to my voice:

This isn’t your fight.

Because I’m supposed to be on your side?

You’re ignorant.

Because I don’t agree with you?

You’re wrong.

Because you’re right?

Well, let me tell you, you are right about something…

All lives DO matter.

That means not just ours.

Not just the better off,

the got-away-with-its,

the Yes sir’s.

Not just the names on the 401Ks,

the names on the mortgage,

the names on the end of the year bonus,

the names on the school plaques,

the names on the credits,

the names on the television.

You and I have a safety net that so many will never be able to fall into.

You and I do not know the feeling of every inch of a knives blade the way they do.

You and I do not know what it is to be a Black American.

I do not pretend that I know their life, their pain, their stories.

I do not pretend that my life has more value than their own.

I do not pretend that our privileges in life are inherently equal.

I do, acknowledge the humanity between all of us.

How dare we look at fallen lives and debate whether their race, upbringing, or occupation somehow justify murder

How dare we continue to bathe in the sweet ignorance of the racist culture that the rest of our world is still swimming in

How dare we continue to live so divided, so segregated, so scared, and so hateful and call ourselves united

I am not oppressed. I can wake up, look at myself in the mirror, roam around the sidewalks, watch at primetime, and drive on the boulevard completely comfortably. And so can you.

So I say to you, what is hard, is to sit here and look at you who are bug eyed and full with too much pride and a certain denial of your abhorrence, and scream to you that right now,

It is hard to feel helpless in this fight.

It is hard to not be able to get through to you.

It is hard to know you will never see the state of the affairs for the way they are.

It is hard to be an ally to a body of people so in need and to know that you can’t be.

But I can’t believe to understand how hard it is, and neither can you, to not have this privilege.

It is for them that I scream.

Open Letter

I know what you’re thinking,

Oh shit, not this girl again...here we go,

metaphors, yelling, all the same old act about the same old thing,

and you know I’d love to stop writing about break ups and rape and the damn patriarchy

if the “same old shit” didn't keep happening.

This is an open letter to the boy who broke my heart,

the one who stole my innocence,

the one who played me,

and the one who took me for granted.

This is an open letter to all of you out there who don’t understand the difference between fuck and make love.

This is an open letter to the boys who made me feel like I should put my heart on the sidelines.

So my brain is in the locker room for a twisted word, broken breath, and sprained smile.

My tits fill in for Antonio Brown,

My ass for JJ Watt,

My mouth for Tom Brady.

My body is starting the game, the crowd is silent, and all you can hear is the subtle cheer “Just do it.”

Well you know what? I’m tired of letting you ruin my football game. Denver beats the patriots and I should be screaming at the top of my lungs but all I feel are the tears sewn to my cheekbones when you respond to last night’s good time with a bullshit excuse.

Because for so damn long I thought the only way to make you love me was by deepthroating.

That the only way to make you smile was to unhook my bra because you took way too long to do it yourself.

Oh, shit. Maybe that hurt your feelings. So I guess this is the point where I say I’m sorry.

And then I say I’m sorry again because last time I checked an apology didn’t mean a blowjob.

But you, sweet darling, don’t understand that the best damn thing that can come through my mouth is words, the sound of my voice which is blooming with flowers from the seeds you sewed last time you used your tongue to wipe away my tears.

So, yeah. I am sorry.

I’m sorry you couldn’t appreciate me.

But It’s not my fault your hormones have replaced your heart.

That you don’t know what the word “love” means unless you’re talking about that thing she does with her tongue and the way she moves her hips.

It’s not my fault that you’re tired of feeling because some other girls screwed you over just like you’re screwing me over now.

That you are so wound up in your own self and trying to be the perfect guy to realize you have a whole lot of fixing to do on your own ‘87 run down model.

And it’s not my fault that despite being the best damn thing that ever happened to you, you couldn’t put your anger or ego aside for long enough to actually mean “I love you.”

That reality wasn’t fun and being sober wasn’t worth it.

No, you didn’t rock my world.

No, you didn’t change my life.

No, you weren’t my sole source of happiness.

Now I know that I am my own happiness.

That your love means little to nothing as long as I can love my own damn self.

That for all those times I thought you were the reason the sun was shining, I was too blind to see that that sun rose for me.

So, to all the boys who thought I was drunk enough to be another one night stand, I’m sorry. Wrong girl.

To those of you who thought I just couldn’t make you happy enough, I’m sorry. I sure make myself pretty damn happy.

To all of you who thought that going on a date or me going in your room meant I was dying to have sex with you, I’m sorry. But you clearly need to work on your communication skills.

We thank these hallowed nights for their blankets and pillows, their midnight movies, but we never thanked the stars for your tired, bitter slurs, you're drunk slaps across the face, your hands holding mine down and not looking at the terror in my eyes.

You had me convinced my screams were whispers,

that my flailing was embracing.

You see, It wasn’t that I was saying “No” too quietly,

it’s that you just didn’t want to listen.

You never thought to ask a question or listen to the unasked answer.

The saddest part is you were raised by a woman made of violets and lilies, so please,

imagine her eyes being glued to the bed frame when you slammed the mattress because I didn’t want you to touch me,

your roses blew away when I refused to blow you

so your thorns pierce the word “no.”

My pathological fears are melting into your pillowcase as I cry myself to sleep because you couldn’t formulate any words except for “damn it” when I tried to tell you that you didn’t have a warrant to my body

I tried to say you don’t get to search and seizure my creases, my nooks, my edges,

and your lips spit poison onto my rope ladder, foaming up and dissolving so I fall back down to the bottom of the well,

bottom of the foodchain,

bottom under you.

And yeah, I may just be another girl.

And you may think I’m just a stereotype or body but my letters help to define who I am and that isn’t some simple sorority girl who lives for beer breath on her neck as you screw upstairs in the bedroom that’s been christened by the tears and blacked out thank-god-she-can’t-remember memories of far too many girls.

The thing that all of you have in common is that once you get the gun you can’t help but pull the trigger.

Slow down,

take a second to learn what pedals you could burn,

to feel the strength of the grip against your calloused hands that have the potential to smooth themselves out,

to imagine the barrel was your future AK-47 wrapped in a pink blanket baring your name.

But, no. No you don’t have the patience to be ready, you’re too full with anticipation to get what you want.

Too full of stems and leafs to ask what I want.

Well, I don’t want you.

I want the courtesy of consent, my basic human right.

I want to be loved truly and unconditionally.

I want to bloom and grow into those damn cream colored roses that none of you ever bought me.

I want to be happy.

And the best way for me to do that is to stay the hell away from all of you.

Love,

The girl you let get away,

the girl you raped,

the girl you took for granted,

and the girl who’s a hell of a lot better without you.

Run, my child.

I stood in a barricade of printed question marks,

I was claustrophobic in the confines of faith.

I was trapped, 

held down by a man named doubt.

It was funny to think it was all out of love,

out of love for him who I let become my holy word,

his smile was my glory,

his approval was my grace.

It took all up until now to realize,

realize the truth,

realize the reason,

He has challenged me.

My first love, my questions,

My heartbreak, my anger,

let them all be bumps on my path.

My path that He has set for me,

straight, He has said,

do not turn, 

do not stray, 

do not question,

run, my child, He tells me, 

run.

Wisdom’s wind will guide you forward,

virtue will keep your nights warm,

and grace will protect your face from the sun,

for you are mine,

and I will not let you know harm.

I have been freed from a cell of my own confusion.

I am escaping to a path comprised of Christ,

yelling to the open skies that He is all I need.

As I walk this smooth path all I can think 

is “Now, it all makes sense.”

The trials, the pain, the suffering,

that was all molded in purpose.

Those were layers he had planned for me to shed,

I shed out the anger,

the depression,

the nerves,

the loss,

the heartbreak,

the deceit,

all to become a solid layer of blessed flesh.

A golden tint has been given to my pale, white skin.

He hast made me Golden.

My tears of metallic hit the gravel

as the road becomes bumpier.

There’s a chill in the air but I can feel

arms wrapped around me,

and the gates to my heart tighten

as He has told me to guard it,

but the warmth radiating from inside is so full

as I feel his angel’s presence following me,

leading me,

protecting me.

I walk in the night,

usually scared of persons with dark intentions

and their dark motivations to be creeping behind the moonlit trees,

but with no fear in me but for He the Lord.

Fear and love so strong-

as the full moon guiding the tides I brush against.

I can feel His finger tip in the salt waters foam,

I can hear the cries of heaven as waves crash over rock,

run, my child, run,

run with me by your side,

run devout and unwavering,

run without pride or greed,

run knowing my word is true.

I take in His words with a single breath,

I run alongside Him who has given me a new start.

My path is full of stops of happiness I’ve never known,

innocent giddiness with blushes and hand holding giggles,

responsibility to the extent of such honor,

opportunities so mind boggling as the Grace of our God.

I run, while knowing I would run like this every second,

of every day,

for the rest of my life,

if it meant He would be with me,

making me learn,

making me understand, 

making me Gold. 

I run for Him.

I run.

The injustice against my body.

I have always hated being called “woman.”

Not as an identification, for I am not ashamed of my sex.

But as a way to get my attention,

to demean me,

to piss me off.

Come back here, woman.

Shut up, woman.

Learn your place, woman.

Woman.

Whore.

Slut.

Gold digger.

Prude.

Victim.

Statistic.

You see we live in a  society,

a community,

a body

of beings

who believe a chromosome divides the world.

That a single body part defines our lives.

XY’s are supposed to 

provide for me,

secure me,

tame me,

scare me

into shutting my mouth,

into staying home,

into saying the right thing, 

to the right people, 

at the right time,

in the right way, 

with the right dress on.

I know I am not the only woman in this room

who knows these words as truth,

I know there are men filling this room

who hate what this makes them seem to be.

Because a stereotype is not a definition.

Because profiling is not photography.

Because tradition is not law.

Yet our community continues to perpetuate a culture of separation, 

of definition based on the size of my chest and not the content of my brain.

But you see,

I am more than my body.

More than chipped nail polish and my grandmothers ring.

More than cracked lips and cherry ChapStick.

More than distant, cold kisses.

More than light switches and volume knobs.

More than passenger seats and bent over backs.

I am more than a hand grabbing my hand grabbing fabric.

More than that hungry, uncontrollable lust.

More than trying to be enough.

More than a final desperate attempt.

More than being in the mood or it's been a bad day.

More than my tears falling on fabric.

I am more than please babe.

More than It's okay.

More than you're so sexy.

More than fuck yes.

More than fuck me.

More than sex.

I am more.

I am worthy.

Worth conversation.

Worth love.

Worth consent.

I am infatuated with the idea of being asked if I want something.

Because guess what, world?

I am something.

I am someone.

I am 1 in 4.

I am one of many.

Many girls who have been given an injustice

and continue to walk around like the stereotypes that try to define them.

Many girls who must carry around hot pink pepper spray

because the Government hasn’t given us a reason to feel safe.
We see their faces in parking garages, 

in our nightmares,

in shadows on the sidewalk,

in every man that gets just a little too close.

And this is not because we believe men are pigs,

this is not because we choose to believe what the media makes XY’s out to be,

this is because society continues to love instilling fear.

Society is not evolving to the sound of fire alarms,

alarms blaring when a college girl screams “FIRE”

because it’s more likely she’ll be saved than screaming “rape.”

Society is not evolving to the flashes of red across the country,

flashes of fear that fill beings everywhere 

from a relative, to a stranger, to a significant other.

Society is not evolving because it’s choosing to remain ignorant.

To continue to bathe in an ocean of unknown and misunderstanding,

of unaccepting and ultimately shaming,

those who screamed “No” or were unable to,

those who were bound by their hands above their head,

those who were too scared to admit what happened,

those who are told they are lying or asked for it or told was it really even rape because you liked him?

I am one of those.

I am one who was silenced when I overcame fear.

Silenced by the one I trusted most who stopped loving me because they couldn’t handle my own baggage,

Silenced by questions of “why are you telling people?” and statements like “you just have to let it go.”

Well, I can’t let it go.

I can’t just shut up about it.

I can’t turn a blind eye until America wakes the fuck up and starts doing something about this.

Something about rape.

Something about justice.

Please stand with me,

join my hands,

breathe the same air of fairness

that will come once we say “no more”

No more to being scared to walk home at night.

No more to having our trauma being mocked by rape jokes.

No more to teaching women how not to get raped instead of teaching people not to rape.

No more to defining what I’m asking for by my clothes instead my actions.

No more to letting rapists get away with it.

I am calling bullshit.

Bullshit on rape.

Bullshit on society.

Bullshit on all of this injustice.

And I will continue to fight this bullshit until 

there’s no damn more to be fought.

25 WAYS YOU CAN STOP PERPETUATING RAPE CULTURE

25 WAYS YOU CAN STOP PERPETUATING RAPE CULTURE:
1. Don't say rape jokes. They aren't funny.
2. Speaking out for and being a support system for survivors. 
3. Not listening to music like "Blurred Lines"
4. Not saying that that physics test just raped you. 
5. Not slapping a stranger's butt in the hallway/quad/street/etc.
6. Not yelling that a girl has a "Nice rack" or "Nice ass" in public.
7. Supporting television shows that don't use sexual assault to move along a character's plot but for entertainment. I.E. Game of Thrones.
8. Believe those who speak out.
9. Don't shame those for wearing what makes them feel comfortable.  10. Acknowledge that this could happen to you.
11. Don't cat call.
12. Block meninist on twitter. 
13. Don't substitute the word "sex" for "rape"
14. Knowing that forced oral sex and penetration of any form are all still RAPE.
15. DO NOT defend athletes or celebrities that have been charged with rape or call their survivors "Career ruiners"
16. Do not laugh at signs like "No means yes and yes means anal."
17. Support those and consider doing the same that walk around with mace and rape whistles. 
18. Do not use terminology like "Don't get raped."
19. Do not shy away from survivors who tell you their stories.
20. DO NOT SUPPORT THAT RAPE IS SOMETHING "GOD INTENDED TO HAPPEN."
21. Don't sympathize for the rapist.
22. Don't question if it was really rape because the survivor was "drunk"
23. Embrace those who are courageous enough to share their story and applaud them for that.
24. Be aware of the alarming statistics of sexual assault.
25. WORK TO HELP END VICTIM BLAMING AND SLUT SHAMMING. 

Philophobia.

Arachnophobia.

Lygophobia.

Claustrophobia.

Mysophobia.

Thantophobia.

Philophobia.

Philophobia, the fear of loving and being loved.

A subtle feel as faint as the hairs on our arms, prevalent among us all.

The terror that accompanies your heart beating in a new rhythmic, expedited pattern

The terror that your heart and soul isn’t enough,

the terror that your trust could be cracked and smashed like glass on tile,

the terror that one day your everything could turn to nothing.

This is the terror that scares people away from midnight calls,

3 AM adventures with flashlights under covers, headlights in the drive thru, or TV lights on an all night Netflix purge.

From a heart beat pillow, personal therapist, world’s best kisser, and every little kodak moment in between.

So the question is what is worse?

Never knowing the power of an emotion you can feel towards a human being or never knowing the ever lasting piece of you that chips away with heartbreak?

To stay philophobic or to break away from your R rated wet sheets?

I guess it’s all in the risk, whether you are up for the risk, whether the risk is worth it all.

When I met Ethan I never knew what roller coasters he would take me on,

I never knew he’d be in a framed picture next to my bed in college,

I never knew that I’d love him as much as I do,

crave his touch as much as I do,

learn from him as much as I do.

See love to me was always a way to sign cards,

what your great grandma says to you on the phone,

how you feel about the newest version of an iPhone,

but God I never knew that love was a good morning text,

a sapphire engraved promise of commitment,

a contact under frequently called,

a profile picture,

a hand on my thigh,

a laugh at my clouded jokes,

a person I could see spending the day or the rest of my life with.

I found a person who could be my first, in every way possible.

Someone who made me feel loved, cherished, good enough.

A being who actually cares how I slept or what I’m up to.

I like to think I’m lucky, I’m special, I’ve put some good karma out into the world.

But, I dunno.

Maybe that’s just how love works- it puts us through tests and trials,

anxiety attacks and screaming fits,

tears on steering wheels and mascara stains on pillows.

But at the end of the day isn’t it worth it?

You can squash any argument and kiss the bruised ego away.

Because a daily reminder that someone finds you beautiful makes all the shit that’s going on in your head mute itself for just a couple minutes,

a forehead kiss can make you lose sight of everyone moving around you except for you two,

knowing that someone loves you just as much you love them is mind altering and truly something.

Something that can not be defined as simple as “Philophobia: the fear of love”

So Ethan,

here is my love letter to you,

simple and true to the way you bloom butterflies in my stomach,

you are my handyman, my tech support, my therapist, my best friend, my cuddle buddy, my movie critic, my 911, my shoulder to cry on, my forever and always.

You are a string of endorphins,

a jar full of smiles,

a drawer of intellectual thoughts and philosophical ideals,

a picture perfect moment,

a lover so comforting, kind, and compassionate.

I feel fulfilled in some way being your goodnight moon,

the planner of consistent reminders,

the knock on your door of temporary reality.

I fell in love with the way you say “I’m here.”

I memorized your phone number as a teeth baring smile.

I learned how to let my walls down from your hand rubbing my back.

I knew how to love from the moment I looked in your eyes and felt my heart implode.

Forever and Always you will be special.

Forever and Always I will remember our laughter filled days.

Forever and Always I’ll value your intelligence and generosity.

Forever and Always you will continue to share your sunshine with the world’s days.

Forever and Always I will love you.

Forever and Always I will get over my Philophobia.