Dear God

 

Do you look at me anymore?

Am I still your daughter?

Am I still eligible to go to Heaven?

I used to be.

Dad is convinced I need

a good man,

a good fuck,

to pray the gay away,

to suppress my feelings,

so one day they will go away.

 

And God, I’ve tried.

I’ve spent so many days at Your alter on my knees praying.

Hoping You can show me, teach me, take me away.

 

I’ve spent many sleepless nights in strange men’s bed,

hoping they could straighten me out,

but instead, I leave each morning feeling more hopeless than before.

 

I’m captive,

caught between my faith,

being the woman

You expect me to be,

and her.

 

Her,

with her gentle eyes,

and piano hands.

Her,

with her flawless smile,

and contagious laugh.

Me,

wanting to be

who You want me to be,

Who my family wants me to be,

who I want me to be.

 

But you made me.

And You’re not supposed to make mistakes,

Right?

God,

I’m tired.

Tired of being wrong.

Tired of being afraid.

Afraid to talk to You.

To tell You,

this is me.

 

Me.

 

The me You made.

Made in Your image

and with Your love.

 

Right?

 

I’m still me.

Right?

I still love Dad,

and You…

 

But, I love me, too.

 

Is that wrong?

 

Because if I love me, I have to love her, too…

Because she

is part of me,

and I can’t pray her away.

 

God,

You said

love is patient,

and kind,

and she could be it,

she could be home.

 

Little do You know,

You’re breaking me apart.

 

If You see all,

do you see me

crying on Sunday

numbing my soul

with silver blades

  and alcohol?

Searching for refuge

in the sound of her voice

and the warmth of her hug.

Pushing and pulling

struggling between You and me

and who I need to be

treacherously close to living in sin

 

Dangerously close to living in Love.



 

Bipolar Speaks

 

One: Depressive.

 

I am the weight

that sits on your chest

making getting out of bed

impossible.

 

I am the snooze button

pressed too many times

meaning messy hair and

raccoon eyes

 

I am the skipped meals

that still manage to appear

in the thickness of your thighs

as you sit in front of the mirror as you cry

 

I am the hollowness that

lives inside your chest where you

imagine your heart is supposed to be

but numbness is all you know

 

I am the buzzing inside your

brain that drives you slowly insane because

it’s late and you want to sleep but

I want to know how you will die

 

I am the smile that never reaches your

eyes cracking and fading because it’s too weak

to light the darkness of your eyes but strong

enough to deceive the fool

 

I am the pit just below

your stomach aching as I radiate

from your head to your toes making you regret

God only knows

 

I am the creeping crawling thought

about silver blades kissing the softness

of your skin until the pain

gets you high


 

                TWO: Manic!

 

I get you high.

Higher.

HIGHER!

With hearts pitter patter

Flutter faster

Reckless

     Disaster

 

Scattered                                                            papers

S̶o̶m̶e̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶s̶h̶i̶n̶y̶

Scattered                                               thoughts

O̶h̶,̶ ̶s̶o̶ ̶p̶r̶e̶t̶t̶y̶

 

Start.

STOP.

 

***

 

Drinking.

Binging.

Blood pumps faster.

Uncontrollable laughter.

Manic—

Plastered.

Words blurred,

Somewhat s l u r r e d.

 

Shifty feet,

Vivid dreams,

OPEN eyes,

Fly High,

Crash Hard.

 

***

 

Pens clicking.

Uncontrollable

Tick-

                                                               Tick-

Ticking.

Count five.

Click-

                                                                Click-

Clicking.

 

Words tumble out.

Fall out.

Collide.

St-

St-

Stuttering

 

Draw blank___

Freeze

 

Eyes.

Eyes.

So. Many. Eyes.

 

Skin CRAWLING.

 

Giddy-Shivers-Tingling-Fingers-Impulse-Disaster-

Must.

Go.

Faster.

 

Faster.

FASTER!




 

For Jesse

 

I would love to write you a love poem,

one about how when I look you in the eyes

it’s as if time stands still and someone squeezes my heart

to stifle its beating only to release swarms of birds

somewhere behind my belly button.

 

I’d like to capture the way your hugs

remind me of a fall day, full of contentment and comfort,

but overflowing with magic that dazzles me,

leaving me seeing nothing but vivid colors,

warming me from the inside out with a sense of serenity.

 

I aspire to describe the way your kisses

leave me breathless, but not drowning, gasping for air

but like the moment when you’re coming out of a deep sleep

nuzzled in the space between utter bliss and total ecstasy,

with no thoughts, no worries, just total surrender to the security of the moment.

 

I’m yearning to translate the way your laugh

sounds better than any music I have ever heard,

because it reaches straight into my soul

touching all the broken pieces; reviving them,

giving me motivation to put them back together.

 

I want to illustrate how your touch

is soft like fuzzy blankets against my bare skin on a cold night

gently caressing everywhere the cold air nips,

with velvet fingers,

gently melting me with delicate love.

 

But sweetheart, let’s be real.

 

I’m not a soft spoken, sappy sort of girl.

I’m broken, jagged

hardened but not quite hateful.

 

A long time ago my soul got wrecked

custom holes got punched into it and

I haven’t been able to fill them since.

 

But in the middle of the night,

when you run your fingers over my bumpy love body,

I feel like the brokenness is bearable

like maybe the bumps, the tears, the scars,

they each contain their own beauty.

 

The same beauty that I find in your eyes

that still gives me butterflies

when I look too closely,

when you kiss me,

slowly.

Fiercely igniting a fire that overtakes me

like the moment after an orgasm

where your body tingles; head to toe

your mind is fucked up, but in a good way

words slurring into one another but they’re not quite words

more like segments of thoughts

jumbled into a giant ball of letters wishing to mean something.

 

You!

You, make me mean something.

Before you, feeling something meant fear,

pain and anguish a moment away

because promises

are optional.

Baby, I can’t just be another option.

 

Because when you wrap your arms around me,

holding me close enough to count your heartbeats with my own,

it feels like I’m high.

Like the first time you got me stoned.

You heighten my senses

making every touch, every kiss, every giggle,

gleeful.

It’s like you make everything right in my world.

 

You’re my own brand of cocaine.

Giving me a euphoric high,

just by kissing me.

Your body pressed against mine,

is like electricity shooting through me.

I lose my sense of fear,

only wanting to get you nearer.

You’re my adventure;

my dreams of something better.

You’re like a fairytale,

only with more sex,

real love,

and without the midnight curfew.

 

I fucking love you.

And that’s all there is to it.

Because rambling poems,

and pompous metaphors

cannot begin to illustrate my love for you.

 
 
 
 

Mia Phelps

Mia Phelps recently graduated from NAU with a BS in University Studies with emphases in English and Social Work. When she's not writing you can catch her remodeling her new home with her fiancé and their two dogs or curled up in her “grandma chair” in front of the fire with a good book.

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