[poem] silence (1)

i wonder:
how much of my personality is a result of my trying to be
smaller
less noticeable
less
‘in the way’?

how much of me did i carve away
little chips at a time
years and years in the making
to make myself
‘comfortable’
to be around?

and how do i reverse it?

[poetry] death (1)

When I think about my childhood
I remember the absolute certainty I had of my own death.
Not a future death, not some nebulous “when I’m old” death.
The same certainty that I had
of my first name being Britnie –
spelled with an “i.e.” –
and that the sky was blue.
That’s the kind of certainty I had about my death.


A death that I knew would happen before I turned ten.
A death that I knew would happen before I turned thirteen.
A death that I knew would happen before I turned fifteen.
A death that I knew would happen before I turned seventeen.
A death that I knew would happen before I turned twenty.
A death that I knew would happen before I turned twenty-two.


A death that I knew would
wait for me a little while longer
after I turned twenty-five.

I’m not dead yet.
But that doesn’t mean I haven’t died
a million different times and a million different ways
in the thirty years I’ve breathed on this planet.
We live and die so many times throughout life.
Who says the final death is the most important one?


When the goddess of the dead wants to hold your hand,
who are you to tell her no?

[poem] Cinderella

I spent a long time trying to be smaller.
Quieter.
Less “Me”
as if that were possible.

But I tried so hard to be anyone but myself.
I would mirror the people around me.
I’d find out what they wanted me to be and
fit myself into that mold the best that I could.

If I were in Cinderella
I would have tried to cut my feet to better fit into that slipper, too.
If only to make the Prince smile again.

“Myself” is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to be.
I’m still discovering what that is.

I’ve learned a little bit about what I want to be, though.
Thanks to Gretchen Rubin for the idea, because
this really did help me start to discover
who I am and who I want to be in a very solid, real way.

My #1 Personal Commandment is to
“Be Britnie. Always, unapologetically, Britnie.”
But in order to do that, I had to discover her.

Who is Britnie?
And, better yet, who do we want Britnie to be?

How can I be someone already?

I’ve only ever been the person that I thought
other people wanted me to be.
— Sissy, Brit, Toshi, baby Britnie, Pet–

People have called me so many things
but they were the roles and I was just the actor.

What do you mean, I get to decide?

What if I decide wrong?

What if you don’t love me anymore?

What if I decide who I want to be and then you don’t love me?

The parts that were already “Britnie” existed so, so quietly.
They didn’t need to imagine what it was like for someone to see them —
To really, truly see them — and walk away.
Say they were unworthy.
Unlovable.
Less than.
Not good enough.

Before I even knew they existed
I had rejected the parts of me that made me “Britnie.”
A part of me had already decided who I wanted to be.
And I decided I didn’t love me.

My worst fear had already come true.

I changed my laugh.
Then, when I decided I laughed too loudly, I covered it up.
Hid my laughter.
I taught myself to laugh silently, laugh so hard that
I’d make myself sick before I made a sound.
I covered my smile — the smile I spent my childhood
practicing in the mirror until I was satisfied it was
different enough, better than the way my face wanted it
and then… I fought against the impulse to smile all together.

I stifled my joy out of fear.

What if it isn’t actually funny?
What if I’m being annoying?

What if they don’t love me?

What if they don’t love me?

What

if

they

don’t

love

me?

[poem] Infection

It’s hard to heal in silence.
It’s even harder to heal a wound you try to pretend doesn’t exist.
If you don’t see it, it can’t be real.
Right?
But that just means that the wound gets more time to fester.
Soon enough, it’s infected.
Infections, when left untreated, can kill you.
It took me a very long time to admit that I didn’t want to die.
It took me even longer to realize that I wanted to live.
It took me no time at all to notice
“I don’t want to die”
did not mean
“I want to live.”

[poem] A Lesson of Identity

Did I ever say I’m sorry, Amanda?
I screamed so loudly that day that I think I broke something in us.
You were my very first, very best friend. You were my everything.
You were literally made just for me. My very own baby sister.
(what love such as this does ever in the world exist?
I would have done anything–)
You were mine and I would do anything for you.

You just wanted my attention
so you called me by the only name you knew.
(Sissy!)
And I just needed to know that I existed. I needed to be just me for once.
(That’s not my name! Don’t call me that anymore!
I have a name! Use it!!
I’m Britnie
I’m Britnie
I’m Britnie
I’m—
so sorry
—Britnie–)

I think I broke us.

I promise I still want to be your Sissy.
But I also need to be Britnie.

[poem] Saltwater

I was born from sorrow and grief and loss
brought into a world of never-enough
harsh words, loud noises, searing cold
of course there was pleasure there
of course there was
but what impact is a drop of happiness 
– kindness – 
in a world that is drowning in pain?

Would I know happiness if I felt it?
What about kindness if I experienced it?
Love? Joy? 
Would I feel anything but fear when I
inevitably encounter it
out in the world
directed at me or growing in my body?
Would I be able to embrace it
when my entire being is telling me to run away?

My mouth opens and I spit poison.
I want to say “thank you”
I want to say “I’m sorry”
It’s easier to start a fight with you
so so much easier than being vulnerable
so much easier than asking for help
so much easier than admitting I’m hurting.
I have to defend myself against the world
it doesn’t matter that you haven’t hurt me yet
you will, you will, you will…
eventually, everybody will.

I never learned that words were not weapons
I learned that they were created to hurt
I learned how to hurl them at others first
use the words that hurt the most
discover what can do the most damage
if I hurt them badly enough
– maybe –
maybe I’ll (finally) be safe.
But then I learned how to turn those weapons
on myself. (it was the most dangerous lesson.)

I was born from sorrow and grief and loss
Into a world where words were weapons
I never learned how to be vulnerable
without bracing for the pain.
Fighting you is more natural than 
accepting or responding to your affection.
I wish I knew how to love you gently.

[poem] tree of (my) life

There is a tree
Tall and wide, with thick branches
The leaves are vibrant
A life in full color

At the center of the tree there is
what first looks like dark bark
It is wet, sticky, dark
Your fingers would come back red, should you touch it
Don’t touch it – the disease might be catching

It rots
From the inside outward
Slowly seeping
Contaminating every cell that touches it
Changes it or demolishes it
It is a slow growth

There is no telling how deep the poison goes
Not without cutting the tree down
Cutting the trunk apart to see all the rings
Show every dark secret hidden within it’s depths
There is no seeing how far the damage goes
Not without killing the tree

You can try to remove the tree
Replant it somewhere with better soil, more sunlight
The dark roots cropping up around the tree should run deeply
They are thick and gnarled close to the trunk
But when you dig you find they quickly taper
There is no length, no depth to the roots
And what little there is quickly pulls away

The same dripping rot from the core has poisoned the roots
Halting growth, stealing energy
Causing the roots to grow thin and weak
The roots break away easily when you transplant
Enough of the root has remained that the rehoming will not kill it
This has been done before and the tree quickly adapts to its new home

Two question, whispered quietly behind closed doors:
What good does healing the branches do when the core and roots of the tree are poisoned and rotting?
With damage this deep, is it still possible to save the tree?

The Quiet One [poem]

I am not the squeaky wheel
I spent my entire life
shaping myself into something else
something “better”

i don’t know how to use my voice anymore

i learned how to be
the quiet one
unassuming
how much quieter can I be
before I become the silence of the grave?

other people need it more
i’m not going to get it anyway
i don’t deserve it
i didn’t earn it
don’t be greedy

i am a bleeding wound
without a bandage
i took the clothes off my back
and wrapped it around it instead
i’m out of clothes
and still bleeding
i didn’t know
a body could hold so much blood

“help”
i whisper
and it is louder than any yell
my eardrums have burst
surely someone will come
i can’t do this by myself anymore
“can you hear me?”
my breath drowns out the sound of my voice

“you’re annoying”
i’m sorry, i’ll
be quieter
be smaller
be less
cut myself into smaller sections
fold them up like origami stars
cute, right?
i’m cute i’m cute i’m–

you laugh too loud
you laugh too much
you have a weird smile
is one of your teeth crooked?
leave me alone
go away

–sorry
i’m so sorry
i’ll be better, i promise
i’ll try harder
give me another chance
to prove it to you

i am worthy of your love
i can be, i promise

who knew a wound could bleed for 30 years?