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Mary-Jane Watson Poem
I’m afraid of bright blue cars.
Every time I see one driving down the road, my body tenses and I look away.
Only then to look more closely to see the driver's face.
Once I figure out who’s driving, I can relax a little, but the pit in my stomach never fades.
I can’t go to the gym.
The gym used to be my place.
For me only. It was my time.
It was somewhere I could relax, and feel better about myself.
But even now, I find myself avoiding the weights and machines as if they were toxic.
I can’t watch someone mix vodka, cranberry, and orange juice.
At the bar, people ask for that beverage a lot. And I make it for them.
But the sweet citrus can’t ever rid of the sour memories that come by every time I prepare the drink.
Because every time I look at that cocktail, I think of that first time you made it for me, and how we kissed and fooled around in the sheets after I tasted it.
Every time I go to the gym, I remember the way you’d spot me when the weights got too heavy and I couldn't lift them by myself.
Every time I see a bright blue car, I visit the night where yours rescued my friend and I from a party and made sure we got home okay.
But every time I see that drink, I can’t forget how I drank enough to let you do things to me even though they made me uncomfortable.
Every time I go to the gym, I can’t forget how I felt like you were taking away my space and time that I had set aside for myself.
Every time I see a bright blue car, I can’t forget that you have one of your own and only live a few steps away from my house.
But even those memories pale in comparison.
Because no matter how much I try to forget, I always think of you.
I remember the night when you were too drunk, and I was too tired.
I remember the way we fell asleep and I felt okay in your arms.
I remember waking up a few hours later.
My trust was gone. I can't speak of the rest.
But one thing I distinctly remember, is never saying the word, "yes."
They say you have "problems." They make it sound like you’re fragile and that you’re actually the victim here.
But how can you be the victim when it was me who felt violated?
How can you be the victim when it was my body that you were doing things to?
How can you be the victim when I can’t look at alcohol without freezing in my tracks,
When I can’t go to the gym that I used to go to?
How can you be the victim, when I’m the one who's afraid of bright blue cars?
Copyright © Mary-Jane Watson | Year Posted 2017
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Mary-Jane Watson Poem
Some days aren’t so great.
They drag on like the heavy chains of sinners, and every dark emotion fills my being.
On those days, I question everything.
People whose friendship has proven true to me.
My family.
My peers.
Myself.
But then, on those days,
If I’m lucky,
I see a glimmer of hope.
Like the tiny sparks preceding a roaring blaze.
Taking form in a conversation.
An exchange.
A smile.
Those days, I am reminded of my experiences.
The horrors behind me.
The journey of healing ahead.
And most of all, the promise of a new beginning.
It’s out there, and maybe one day I’ll find it.
Those days project a multitude of colors encompassing the beautiful spectrum life has to offer.
Today was one of those days.
Copyright © Mary-Jane Watson | Year Posted 2017
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Mary-Jane Watson Poem
Titanium.
Smooth and cold to the touch.
Rhinestones.
Blinding shimmer, small iridescence.
Blood.
Thick, warm, metallic.
Even the beautiful gems become absorbed in the red,
Their shine masked by hemoglobin and platelets.
Pain,
A tiny shoot at first, then blossoms into white hot petals.
Penetrating the skin, carving all the way through.
Adrenaline comes next, replacing the sting.
Numbness fills my body, already void of feelings.
I guess if I am looking for ways to feel hurt other than through emotion,
That an earring will look prettier than slash marks on my leg.
Copyright © Mary-Jane Watson | Year Posted 2017
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Mary-Jane Watson Poem
They tell me happiness comes from within.
How can something like that come from the deep dark blue depths of my soul?
I am filled to the brim with so much misery and hurt that I actually feel nothing. I am nothing.
Nobody cares, and no one understands. They put me in a box so that they can make sense of my state. But they don’t get it. I doubt they ever will.
I don’t want to be around anymore. I keep looking for ways to find meaning in my life. To find a point.
There can’t be a point when the pain is dull. Strong enough for discomfort, but never enough to make me shout.
But I am screaming from the top of my lungs. Except the world has gone deaf.
The words bounce across my chest inside of me every minute. It’s like a constant construction zone, encapsulated in my mind, but I can’t get it to turn off.
I’m stuck inside my sorrow. A monotonous continuum, with no way to get out. At least not by myself.
Help.
Copyright © Mary-Jane Watson | Year Posted 2017
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