Sapphic Voices Poetry

Poetry by Lani Radack

Poetry Set Five

radacklani[at]hotmail.com

To Want to Save

Copyright © by Lani Radack, July 7, 2003

Leah called me today. Her little brother had his arm broken by his dad. He has already had all his teeth smashed out by his mom and now his dad broke his fucking arm. And she was heading over to get him. To take him to her apartment. And I warned her. Not to get too involved. Not to get in over her head. That this was not her fault. That she never hurt him and she didn’t have to save him. And she kept talking about her conscience and I said that made sense, but that the only involvement she had in this was that she was a caring and giving person in an amazingly important profession. And that if he ended up in foster care that that was not her fault. Just like the broken arm was not her fault. And she knows that. But it is hard to see a kid go through that.

And I know how it feels. To want to help. To want to save. And that’s what got me into this whole mess.

And I have relinquished trying to save you. Because you are crazy. And trying to save you only leads to hurt.

But I still want to save her. I want to save her even though she thinks I am a lying, manipulative bitch. And I used to think the same of her. And she says her feelings about me are based on her first hand experiences with me and not from second hand information or hearsay. But her experience is informed by yours. Governed by yours. Dictated by yours. I know. I was there. That was me. Only not as bad.

I saw her. She was pale and sad. Her voice on the phone. Using your words. And then I saw her. That day. Skeletal. Not any skinnier, but skeletal. And jaundiced. And sleep deprived. Sleep deprived. I saw you both last night. Playing basketball at 11 pm. Because you need constant stimulation. And we feel empowered when we are the ones who can give it to you. Sucking energy. Sucking spirits. And so she is skeletal.

I was skeletal. For real skeletal. 20 pounds sucked out of me. That’s how I dealt with it. How I found control. Control over food. Next best thing to control over my mind.

In between the two days I saw you last week, I saw my mom. On July 4th. And she was making pancakes and I only ate one. Because it was hard. To eat. Because I had seen you and because you had been scary. And I felt out of control.

Mark asked if I was trying to lose weight. I said I already had. “Oh, that’s why you look so good.” And then he back-pedaled but the damage was done. And mom was making comments too. “I wish stress did that to me,” she joked. Only it didn’t feel like a joke. And it was mean. To say that to me. When I’ve told her about it. My eating disorder. I have told her after hiding it for so long. And this is why I hid it. Because she forces food at me but then compliments me if I lose weight, even if I lost it by starving or by getting full watching someone else eat. Because that is what happened. With you. And Mark slathered his pancakes in butter and syrup and put extra syrup on mine, without asking, and I was repulsed. And the 2 extra pancakes I was contemplating were now poison. Because I hadn’t controlled them. And so I stopped eating.

Three days later you showed up at Diesel when we were both there. I was going to eat. I was going to try. I had eaten well for three days and I was going to try. And then you came. And we argued. And I was empowered, but you were mean and you lied and you manipulated facts and truths and I felt out of control. I looked like I was in control, so that I wouldn’t lose any more, but I didn’t eat for hours. And I hated you for that. Because I wanted to eat.

The next day I was at the party. The one that had caused the whole argument. Who would go, who would not. Why was she inviting both of us? Why was she friends with both of us? Why had she deceived you? Of all people to be talking about deception. And my stomach turned.

At the party, I didn’t eat. I tried. I forced down a bowl of orzo salad. That her mom had made. Because it was really good. And I tried to explain it. How food just looked like the enemy. How putting it in my mouth felt vile. How I felt it expand inside of me. How I hated not controlling what happened to it once it was inside of me. The food looked like you.

And I hated you for that and I still do.

So fuck you. Because I deserve to eat. And to have friends. And to have people’s perceptions of me to be based on facts and truths. And to have control over my own mind. Only you have none of those things. You have nothing really. And so you usurp it from everyone else. And I want to stay angry. To stay angry for more than 5 minutes at a time. To stay angry and not let my mind wander to your hurt and your past and your traumas and your pain. You showed us that bullet scar. Outside Diesel. To explain why you are so afraid of friends talking to each other. Because it got you shot. And that is traumatic. I can’t even imagine how traumatic.

But I didn’t fucking shoot you. And you are not even angry at the fucker who did.

And none of this writing should have been about you because you don’t matter any more. You want nothing to do with me and I want nothing to do with you and so it shouldn’t matter. Your hurt shouldn’t matter.

And her hurt shouldn’t matter. Or what she thinks of me. Or what you think of me.

But I want to save her. Because you never hit me, even though I begged you to. Even though I cried at night hoping you would just do it. And I cried for not knowing why I wanted it and I cried even more for knowing. And now I cry because I want to save her. Because you are going to kill her. Whether or not you hit her. I saw it in her. How scared she is. It must have been nice for her to watch you get mad at someone other than her. Reprieve maybe.

She has internalized your illness so much that she feels your pain. And I want to save her. And to save you. Because you are going to hurt her. Because they all hurt you. And you might kill her.

So I know how Leah feels, like it is criminal to stand by and watch it and not do anything.

Because you’re going to kill her.

Training

Copyright © by Lani Radack, July 14, 2003

"So eager to please they can even be trained."

I know someone like that.

How eager I was. How eager we all are. To please you. To make you all better.

We talked in class today about you. Okay, we never directly talk about you but everything having to do with the brain and with development and with emotions has to do with you. We talked about how children can alter their language when speaking to different people even before they have the understanding that different people have different points of view. And how fascinating that is. We know they don't understand multiple perspectives. If you fall, they will come and kiss your knee to make it better, because that's what they would want. Or they will offer you their blanket to soothe you, because that's what they would want. So that means they can still have empathy and compassion before they truly understand that others have different feelings and perspectives.

I think you missed that critical phase. The one that leads to the development of secondary emotions. I think I'm writing my paper about that. Either empathy or remorse. And why/how they don't develop properly in some people.

You called today. Twice. After over a month of not contacting me and of lying about me to others and of lying to me when I did see you last week, you called. Twice. Two messages. On voicemail. 8:45 and 9:15 this morning, when I was on my way to class.

I didn't notice til I was already in the lot at school. I was late. And then I saw that it was you. Who had called. And my heart thrust itself loudly against my ribcage. And I was sure I would be the first person in history to die of a punctured lung that was punctured by her heart pounding too strongly against her ribs. Primary emotion. Fear. No socialization necessary for that one. Innate. Fear.

But of what?

Unpredictability. Your scariest weapon. Would it be mean? Would you threaten me again? Call me names? Make accusations? Or worse - would you be nice? Quietly lull me back in?

I dropped the phone. Out of fear. Primary emotion.

And it was the worse one. You were nice. Couldn't we just talk? Calm. You were calm. Your voice was modulated. You wanted to just talk. You were extending yourself. Pride/hubris - secondary emotion. One that you managed to master.

Couldn't we be constructive? You would understand if I didn't want to. You would leave me alone. But somehow I don't believe that.

And then the second message. That proved me right. You left your phone number. As if I wouldn't know it by heart - calling you 300 times in one day at the height of my insanity. My desperation. Yeah, I think I know your number.

And I cried. Sadness. Confusion. Primary emotions. Fear. I was late to class. Crying in my car. Talking myself out of calling you back. Kids talk to themselves. It's a way to process the world. Egocentric speech. You know something about that.

The lure of it. To call you. To actually be constructive. And rational. For you to get it. To apologize. To really be sorry. And not just sorry that you don't have control any more, but really sorry that I was so hurt. And that you did that. Knowingly. Intentionally.

Fuck you. I hate you. Anger. Primary emotion. I was fine. I was fine. I was out last Thursday and saw you dancing and I did not leave and I did not cry. I just danced. I barely even looked at you.

And that's probably what did it. That I was hanging out with her. And dancing with her. And with others. And flirting. And smiling. And you didn't smile at all. And I felt sad for you. Empathy - secondary emotion.

I am rushed. I was late and I am rushed. Like I was rushed this morning - after crying in my car. Late for class. Because I felt sad for you. Like you trained me to. Trained me to when I was eager to please. I felt sad. And remorseful. Remorse for getting my power back. For not automatically calling you back like I have always done. And I'm sure that's why you called again half an hour later. For no good reason. Remorse for eating. Not as much as I should have, but still eating. I don't usually do that either. Not when I'm feeling like this.

So fuck you. You should be the sad one. The remorseful one. And not just because you have lost me. Lost control. But because you honestly see all the pain you have caused and you honestly get it and you honestly want to make it right. Or at least acknowledge that you can never make it right. The destruction. The injured hearts and spirits. The abuse. The violations. Sick, evil violations.

But no one ever trained you to do that.

On Roping and Invalidating

Copyright © by Lani Radack, July 14, 2003

I should not be writing about you. I should not be writing to you. But I’m blocked. I’m blocked until I do this.

You will not rope me back in. There. I tied in the prompt. No pun intended. I will not be roped.

I am out. Almost completely out.

So it’s a good thing you waited so long this time. Your timing was off. Finally you slipped. In your own game. The one in which you created all the rules. You slipped. Poor timing.

And now I am sane enough to know better. To not call you back. Even two weeks ago I would have. Called you back. But now I know better.

Because what would that do? What could you possibly say? To make me feel better?

You could pretend to get it. And I crave that. And I dream about that. And I need that. For you to get it. To get how your lies and manipulations hurt me. Destroyed me. To get how your words, the ones meant to hurt, still make me cry. To get how afraid I am of you. And not because I want to be, like you suggest. Like you manipulated me to believe. But because you threatened me. Intimidated me. Left me in bed. Lied to me. Deceived me. Accused me. Disrespected me. Isolated me. Invalidated me.

That was the worst one. Invalidation. And you knew that. My biggest fear. Because I told you - early on. When you threatened to leave. I opened up and told you everything because you told me to. Told me to not be afraid. You weren’t the enemy. I only wanted you to be.

You’re a mind fucker. That’s what you are. Because even now as I write this I lack the coherence I had only yesterday. And yesterday I was done crying. And today I cried.

Sweetheart, I cry for you all the time. I am starting to cry more for me. Because I lost myself completely for you. For you. And you are not even real. A house of mirrors. Lost in a house of mirrors. Maddening. But alluring.

I want to go and smash the mirrors. Or tear down the whole house. And set you free. A prisoner in your mind.

I think your spirit is gentle. I really do. I just think you’ve never met her. She is as afraid of you as I am. Because you abuse those who are gentle. Because you can.

And so I cry for you. Your spirit, Indigo. Because you abuse her as much as you abuse us.

In March I wrote that you were either immoral or amoral - and I’m not sure which is worse. And now I think you are amoral - and I think that that is worse. For two reasons. One: it makes it hard to stay angry. Because it means you don’t even know that what you are doing is wrong. Two: it means you will never change. Because you don’t even know that what you are doing is wrong. Amoral.

So I cry.

I cry for you, Indigo, or W, or whoever you are. Do you even know who you are?

You are not him. I assure you of that. And I hate that you are calling yourself that. Because that was my name for you. From Good Will Hunting. My name. When I thought you were immoral. Because he is immoral. And that’s why he was able to change. And that’s why he had friends. And that’s why he cried. And that’s why his friends stuck by him. And that’s why you’re not him.

I wrote last week that it’s not transphobia or internalized homophobia, but rather that I hate you and that you make no sense. Because only a couple months ago you were saying that I was the only person in the world who understood your identity. That I understood that you were female and wanted to use female pronouns and that I understood what you meant by boy and what you meant by girl, like “just a girl from the streets of Chicago,” like the Peacework article I found online.

And at the same time you were telling others that I hurt you. That I didn’t get you.

And then you were in the hospital and you were him and I was the devil incarnate because I had put you there. Made you want to kill yourself.

And that makes me cry, sweetheart. Because I want so desperately for you to be well. Well enough to be happy. And safe. And well enough to see how much I cared and how much I tried. And that I never meant to hurt you.

And today I feared you ending up in the hospital again. And that is part of why I cried. Because you will tell them the same thing. That I destroyed you. And some will believe you. And they will hate me. And I hate that.

And I hate not knowing what you will do next. And I hate that you probably know that. That you bank on that.

That you know I am crying and that you planned that. You planned the whole thing. Only now I am not going along with the plan. And it’s not because I am immoral.

It’s because of "Fuck you, fuck your virginity, stupid bitch". Because of leaving me half dressed. Because of your accusations. And invalidations. That I wasn’t really hurt. That my perceptions were off. That I wasn’t a good friend. That I never tried for you. That you had never lied. Because of lying to me about your sexual history - after comparing me to the others, with your hand down my pants - in my bed. Because of all the things I can’t list because writing time is over. Because of the things I can’t list because they will make me cry. Because I am done crying.

I miss you, Indigo. I never knew you and I miss you. And I loved you. Or who I thought you were. And I will not invalidate that.

But I will not be roped back in.

Under it All

Copyright © by Lani Radack, July 30, 2003

It's not even worth it. To pretend that you could understand. To get my hopes up like that.

Because you never did and you never will and you never could. Understand.

You pretended to. When you thought it could work to your advantage. You pretended to.

Like when you let me read you my writing. About you. After the first break up. You sat and listened to every last piece. And you nodded. Knowingly. And told me it was all true. And when I asked you if you were sorry you said you were. And you cried. And you held me. At first I didn't let you. I was afraid. But then it felt so good. To forgive. And so I let you. And I held you. And we talked of forgiveness. Of forgiving our pasts and our past selves. And I felt important. And respected.

And none of it was real.

And you don't get that. How much that hurts. How violating that is. That you were probably laughing at me. Laughing at me as I poured out my heart and spoke of forgiveness.

And now I am crying. Like I cried last night. I cried when I should have been sleeping. I cried into my pillow. So that my roommate wouldn't hear. I want her to think I am fine now. I want to think I am fine now.

But I am not fine. I am crying. At least now I am crying for me.

And that is part of what made me cry. That I no longer cry for you. That I no longer think it will do any good. That I spent so much time crying for you, and that you will never get that. And that while I was crying for you, you were laughing at me. And lying to me. And lying about me. Violations.

I cried last night. And last week. And right now. For me.

Because I am just realizing the extent of the damage. Of how much you damaged me. And because I am just realizing how much you will never know about that. And I am allowing myself to believe that you will never care.

Damage.

Like how I never want anyone to touch me again. How I don't even like to touch myself. Because when I do I think of you. I have to. Because you are so beautiful. And sexy. On the outside. And then I cry and my body tenses and everything hurts. Because your inside is poisonous. And I am poisoned. And ashamed.

You made me so ashamed. Of my body. Of how it worked. So ashamed that I think no one else will ever want to touch me. So ashamed that I don't want them to.

So ashamed of how I touched you. Of how it always hurt you. Of how I was the only person with whom your sex was not "spiritual." Of how I stopped trying to touch you after that. So I wouldn't hurt you so much. And now I never want to touch anyone else. Because it won't feel good. That fear of hurting her. Or of hurting myself. Of being made to feel ashamed. Like I hurt you on purpose. Like I had meant to.

I don't get it either. I never will. I never could.

But still I try.

I have conversations with you in my head. They are less sympathetic than they once were. So maybe I am getting it.

I write about you. You loved my writing. You respected it. Or so you said. I think really you were jealous. Or intimidated. Or intrigued. At how I would be more of a challenge.

I perform my writing about you. And it is hard. To do that. And I wonder what people will think. If I should feel ashamed. If they will get it.

And I wonder what you would think. If you would get it. If you saw me perform. You never came to a performance. Even though you said you respected my writing. You never came.

But still I wonder what you would think. Sitting there. Hearing me slam about you. And I wonder if you would be more upset by the pieces that are about you or by the pieces that are not.

And I wonder why I go do my work at Diesel. If it's to see you there. And I wonder what would make you more upset. Me glaring at you? Me raising my eyebrows in pity? Or me just plain ignoring you? Pretending you are not there. And I think it is the last one. And I wonder if I could do that. Or if I would do that. Or if I want to.

And now I am not crying. And I am ashamed of that.

Shame is a secondary emotion. It is related to empathy. And to remorse. It develops in early childhood. Normally.

And I have too much to write to be writing about you. And too much to think about to be thinking about you. And you creep your way into all of my classes. And I still don't get how. But how can I sit through a discussion on socio-emotional competence and not think of you? And how can I write a paper on the meaning of whiteness or my experiences with racism and not think of you? You poisoned everything. Everything. And just when I think I get it and just when I think I am fine, I taste it in my mouth. The bitterness of it on my tongue. Or I feel the pang of it. In my veins. When I am lying in bed. Thinking of you.

I would love to wish this upon you. I would love to think of that as the best revenge. To think of you feeling everything I felt and feel. Or at least to picture you bound and gagged, forced to listen to it all. Forced to get it. Because then maybe you would feel it.

But under it all you would be laughing. The last laugh. I get it now.

A Comedy of Errors

Copyright © by Lani Radack, August 14, 2003

A comedy of errors. That's what it is right now. My therapist encouraged me to stay in that mindset. Just keep looking at the absurdity of it all. Because I have no control. So just laugh at it.

At you. Your abuse. How it destroyed me. How you will never know that. Ha.

At my friends who stopped talking to me. Because I was making bad choices or because I was being selfish by focusing on me once I was making good choices. People who abandoned me in my time of need. Because I was acting out of character. Because I am usually the listener. Or the giver. And because I usually reciprocate attention to my friends. And because I usually have integrity. And dignity. Ha.

At three car accidents in 4 months. One right after the first breakup. One two weeks ago, when things were starting to go right again. One in my rental, the first day I had it, on my way to the Network slam, where I was going to perform again. Ha.

At the computer virus. Pain in the ass. Ha.

At dealing with the insurance companies. Everyone telling me different stories. You will be covered. You won't be covered. You do have rental. Arbella is denying your rental. Ha.

At finagling a new car loan with no new income. While also taking out loans for graduate school. $30000 in loans. Ha.

At the constables at my house last night. Seize my car? Go right ahead. It was totaled. Ha.

At trying to convince them I'd never received any paperwork about this. A summons? Letters from the bank? From lawyers? But I never got them. And they refuse to believe that. Ha.

At owing $10000 on an account I know nothing about. Because I was an authorized user when I was 17. And it has been on my credit report and I've never yelled at my mom for that. And have tried to get it taken off. Ha.

At the calls today. All of them. Trying to get information. Out of the constables. My mom. My dad. The attorneys who handled the bankruptcy. None of whom seem to know anything. Ha.

So you see it's a comedy of errors. A house of mirrors. Absurd. Maddening. And I'm supposed to laugh at that because what else is there to do?

How can I laugh at having no control? I am still eating and that amazes me. Not as much as I should. Today I had a salad. And some popcorn and a cookie at writing. But that is progress. Because had this all happened a few months ago I would be emaciated right now. Or dead.

Had you been there last night, instead of her, someone would have been arrested because you would have gone crazy. At them. Or incited me to go crazy. Or left. Or more likely you never would have been there at all.

But instead she was there. And she calmed me down and made me smile. And waited as I took my bath. And got my laundry for me. And folded my clothes. And watched and smiled as I tried on my new outfits.

Because I had been shopping all day. And had had a blast. And was in a good mood. Despite all the other craziness. And then I come home to people in uniforms at my door. And my whole body tensed. And I felt the knots in my back tie tighter. And I don't think I breathed. Because I was sure it was about you. About Indigo. Because why else would people in uniforms be at my door at 9 at night? And I thought something had happened to you. Or that you had threatened to have something happen to me. Or that you had hurt her. Because I have had dreams about that. About you killing her. Physically, psychologically, spiritually. And I thought they were going to ask me if I knew you. And if I could identify a body. Or testify against you. Because you had a trial last month. For things that had happened before I even met you. Things you never told me about. Things you would have denied if I had asked you. Things that would have made you mean to me had I mentioned them. "Don't ask no questions," you'd have said. And I would have listened. To protect you.

And then it wasn't about you. It wasn't about you at all. And I was relieved. But it was about you. Because I was sure I had done nothing wrong and I was sure I was telling the truth. About not knowing anything about the account. About never having received paperwork. From the bank. Or the creditors. Or the lawyers. Or the court. Never. And they didn't believe me. That my car was totaled. That they couldn't seize it cause it wasn't here. And once again I was exasperated trying to convince you that I was telling the truth. That I wasn't lying. That I did love you. That I hadn't meant to hurt you. By asking questions.

And so I cried. I cried instead of laughing, but then I laughed anyway. My parents always told me to not ask questions. About money. About the bankruptcy. Or the divorce. And I listened. Because it made the arguing stop. And now I have no information to get me out of this mess.

A comedy of errors.

She Struts

Copyright © by Lani Radack, August 14, 2003

She doesn’t walk. She struts.

At the club, she struts to her spot on the dance floor.

Blue bandana tied around her head. Basketball jersey. Short hair exuding coconut oil. The bullet scar on her left upper arm intrigues everyone in the room. Her skin is soft. Her skin is soft but she is hard. Hard and smooth. The color of a smooth latte. With a lighter patch on her cheek. And a labret ring under her bottom lip. Like no one else in the club. The club full of white dykes, all bopping or gyrating to Black music.

Mysterious. Intriguing. Strutting.

Five foot ten and 175 pounds. Muscular upper arms. A black leather belt on her blue jeans. She looks at everyone and no one all at once. While strutting.

Not smiling. A scowl almost. Tough. Tough but smooth. A scowl that makes me want to kiss her right then and there. To bite the labret ring right off of her.

Different women for every song.

And the one. The one who always stands near her. Smiling. Doting. An apostle. An apostle to the strutting smooth mysterious god in the center of the dance floor.

She moves her shoulders and her hips in rhythm. And motions for me to come over.

And I stare. At the way she moves. At how her body gyrates ever so subtly and sexily. And how her eyes never leave the eyes of the women dancing with her.

She is reading them. Gauging them.

Will they make good apostles too? Or are they too much of a challenge? Or is a challenge just what she needs right now? Because the doting woman is hooked and so she is on the prowl. Who to brainwash next. Who to suck in with her smooth, suave strut and her gyrating hips and her scowl that turns into the world’s most beautiful smile when she has succeeded. In getting what she wants. In getting a disciple to believe that she is the only one. That she shouldn’t be afraid. That there is no danger except in her own mind. That her friends are wrong. This isn’t dangerous. Her friends are stupid or ill-informed. That putting her life on hold is smile-worthy. That relinquishing her standards is the only way to be let in. That she needs to be let in.

She scans the room.

Looking at the woman in front of her, her eyes never leave, yet she manages to scan the room. Suave. Smooth.

She's found her.

They dance. She puts her phone number into her cell phone. She’ll call. She’ll call while she’s in Chicago.

Smile. Beautifully wide smile, her teeth sparkle against her labret ring. Her right eyebrow raises. Intrigue. Success. Another one. A bigger challenge.

Former disciple on her arm, she struts out of the club.

She winks. Knowingly. Subtly. Smoothly.

Fun Houses and Noise Makers

Copyright © by Lani Radack, August 14, 2003

Party noisemakers. The kind you blow in and the paper rolls out. I have three of them on my shelf. It was the same shelf where I kept your card on display. The noisemakers were there from my party last summer. Before you. When fun was fun. When silly was fun.

I gave you a noisemaker to cheer you up when you were at my house for the last time. When you was at my house invited for the last time. And you smiled. I had succeeded. In making you feel better. Because you had been kicked out and so my job was to make you feel better. And I spoon fed you lasagna and Greek salad and rubbed Arnica gel on your broken finger. And I tried not to cry. "Focus on her. Focus on her. Give her markers. Give her space. Anything to make her feel better." Anything to make you see how much I care. How much I will relinquish.

You had just come from her house. And you talked to her on the phone. And she went on about how unsafe it was for her to be at my house. And I was frustrated. And devastated. When I overheard it. And I told her that. I got mad at her instead of you. And now I know what you were saying about me when you were there. About how much I hurt you. She told her that right before, or right after, you two had sex. And then you tried to have sex with me the next night. And I was scared. And confused. And so I stopped. And then you got angry. At how I "used you as a masturbation post". At how I was selfish for putting my needs before yours. Like the time I had asked to be held after having tried desperately the night before to please you. And you had made out with me in my car two days before. And we had talked about it on the phone when we were both home. And She heard it. Heard the conversation. And I felt badly. And said so. And so you admitted that she loved me. On the phone. In front of Her. Dial tone. And then an email that you had been kicked out. And was going to go stay with her.

And so we competed. To take care of you. So that you would choose us. Because you admitted that you loved us. You told her She had kicked you out because you were still in love with her. And then you told me the same thing about me. And because nothing was fun anymore we didn’t know what to believe and because we were in love we believed you. Each of us. And we hated each other. For hurting you. For spending the time with you that had been promised to each of us. Separately.

You must know we’re talking about it. About you. And comparing notes. You knew that before and that’s why you pitted us against each other. Only now you have no say. And you know that. And so you have disappeared. Hopefully.

You and your games have disappeared. Party games. Not ones with noisemakers but ones with people’s minds and hearts and spirits. Because that is more fun to you. What the fuck is a paper toy when you can party with people’s psyches? And get spoon fed? And offered a place to stay? And then you can say that we were using you. For sex. When really we were just offering a place to stay. Against our better judgment. Selfless. Selfless, but not really. Hoping to prove to you how much better we are than the others. At caring for you. And in the process, if we derive any amount of pleasure or dare ask for anything in return, we are selfish. And uncaring.

Party games. Games I will never play again. Games in fun houses. Houses of mirrors. Who is who? Who’s playing who?

I’m done playing. This game isn’t fun anymore. It never was. But I couldn’t find my way out. Out of the maze of mirrors and roller coasters and deceptive clown smiles.

Never fun. Not then. Not now. But I’m still writing about it. And I still imagine you in it. And I want to lock you in. Lock you in and lock everyone else out. Because you are far gone. A lost cause. Trapped in the fun house forever. And even you don’t like it anymore. But you can’t get out. You won’t get out. You don’t even know there is an out. You don’t even know that you are in.

Your card is not on the shelf anymore. The party noisemakers are, but the card is not. One of the noisemakers is gone. In one of the bags of stuff I gave back to you. Left in your hallway. With the markers and your grey hooded sweatshirt. I thought it would cheer you up. Or make you remember. How much I had tried.

But it won’t. And so the card is off the shelf. Moving closer and closer to the trash can, but not quite in it. She tried to throw it out for me last night. I stopped her. I was throwing away old clothes and shoes because I was restless and needed to do something productive. But throwing away your card wasn’t one of them.

So it sits next to the purple trash can, waiting to be exiled. It was supposed to remind me of how much you cared and how much you liked me. It had a bunny. You never gave one to her. You never gave her flowers. But you never stayed the whole night with me and you did with her. Pitting us against each other. Making us jealous.

I think I will throw away the card tonight. The last remnant of you in my house. The last tangible piece of evidence that I was ever in your fun house. A souvenir. From the fun house gift shop.

Only I can’t. Throw it away. Because it is my only tangible reminder, along with your emails, that I didn’t make it all up. That the fun house was real. As real as a fun house could ever be. And, unlike your emails, it is in your handwriting. A souvenir. A memento.

I’m waiting to show it to Her. For when She has gotten out too. For when She escapes from the madness of your theme park. She is still in there with you. Hitting up against warped mirrors. Her body has changed too. Hers got bigger. Mine got smaller. Like fun house mirrors.

Do you know that you are in it? Do you care? Is it ever fun?

Because it was never fun for me. Crazy making. Noise making. A party gone horribly wrong. Never fun.

Please let her out. She doesn’t deserve to be in there. None of us did. You don’t. It’s not fun.

Time's Up

Copyright © by Lani Radack, August 14, 2003

What the fuck is this prompt? And why the fuck did my font just get smaller? Fucked up prompts and fucked up fonts. Rhyming.

And all I really want is to smoke another cigarette. Smoke another cigarette and cry. Because then maybe I could get my foot and hand to do whatever it is Toni wants them to do. Because normally I am very coordinated. Very coordinated in anything that doesn’t involve a ball and this doesn’t involve a ball and so I should be able to do it.

But my mind is elsewhere and for the first time in a long while my mind is occupied with any number of things that aren’t her. Car accidents, insurance nightmares, debt collectors coming and seizing my nonexistent car over an account I know nothing about, maddening phone conversations all day - with people who were not her, eating meat by accident twice in one week despite never having done that in 13 years, a computer virus, the dentist tomorrow, mom and dad, dad getting married, only two months after recouping from mom’s wedding dad is now getting married - and he tells me just as I am hysterical on the phone about an account I know nothing about.

And then there is the matter of her. Not the Indigo her but the other her. Because she has a crush on me. And because we’ve spent the past three nights together. No sex. No kissing. Just sleeping. And we talk at least 5 times a day. And we see each other at least every other day. And I have met her family. Her crazy family. And she has met my dad. My crazy dad. And she is nice to me. God is she nice to me. And I can’t be attracted to her. Not physically. Not romantically. Emotionally, yes. And that is my pattern. Never falling for the nice ones. Only in this case there seems to be grounds behind it. Because we have such an unhealthy past. With the same person. Despite the fact that she doesn’t acknowledge ever dating either of us. And I fear that is where some of the attraction comes from. At having been through the same thing with the same person. At having someone who gets it. My sponsor, really. Someone else getting over the same addiction. Only it is about more than that. Because we love spending time together. And I love how she smiles at me. When I laugh. At how we say the same things at the same time. I love her respect for me.

And my friends love her too. Even the ones who were skeptical. Even the ones who told me not even to be friends with her because of everything that had happened. What she had done to me. What I had been through. What she had been through. Even those friends like her.

And so it is not fair. That whatever this is we are doing can’t go anywhere other than what it is. Will & Grace, but both lesbians. Because no one has ever gotten me like she does. And I wish she were someone else. So that it could work. And I wish I could will my body into attraction. But that couldn’t work. It never has.

Like how I could desperately want my foot and hand to do whatever it is Toni wants them to do, but it couldn’t happen. One goes one way and the other follows. Not meant to work. Maybe with practice, but most likely not. Reflex.

Like the reflex to repel someone who has hurt you. Intentionally or not. Or to not get in too deep. Or to never really trust. Not her. Not anyone. Not when your trust has been violated.

Reflex. To apologize for your feelings. Constantly. Because you don’t know how else to respond.

Reflex. To not eat as much as you should and smoke instead when all of the feelings are too much.

Reflex. To go to her house after writing tonight. Because she will get it. And she will care. And she will listen. And you hadn’t had those things before.

So fuck this prompt. Fuck this promo and the five minutes left of it. Because my back hurts and I want to cry and I want to do things I can’t do. Not right now. Not tomorrow. Tomorrow is booked. And Friday is the new car. And Saturday is the party. And Sunday no one works. So the calls can’t be made until Monday and Monday was supposed to be vacation. Like this week was supposed to be.

Reflex. To end the piece where I started it. To tie up all the loose ends and make it neat and packaged. Bookends.

But this prompt isn’t like the others. I couldn’t do it. And my back hurts. And I want a cigarette. And I want the magic repair fairy to come and take it all away. Because I’m tired of my reflexes having to kick in to disastrous events.

But at least I have my health. And at least I’m not stupid. That’s what my roommate and I say. This would all suck so much more if I were stupid.

No neat closure to this one.

Time’s up.

Image Maps

Copyright © by Lani Radack, August 20, 2003

Image maps.

We did this in March. Right after the first breakup. It was in my first set of writing about you. And it felt so good then. To get it out. Because I knew what you had done was wrong, even though I didn't know what you had done.

And then a week later you called and so a week later I answered. Because I needed answers. And then the whole thing happened again. You were wrong again and again I didn't know what you had done.

All I knew was that the images of you refused to leave my head. Images of your face and your arms and your thighs. And your smile. Oh, that smile. Your secret weapon. I know that now. Because now I know what you have done.

Back then everyone said it was good that I was writing about it. It was helping me to heal, helping me to find clarity. Helping me to find my anger.

Now people just think I'm crazy. For still thinking about you so much. They told me time would make it better. Time was my best friend. I just need to get over it. To stop thinking about you.

Great fucking advice. Tell that to my brain. My brain that has stored the images. And so despite therapy every week and despite a support group, a support group I was kicked out of for writing about it and fucking with confidentiality, and despite the friends who have stuck by me and despite focusing on grad school and despite not calling you back and despite dating someone new and despite finding that anger everyone kept alluding to - the images won't leave my brain. Or my body.

I thought they had. I thought I had made more progress than I had. And then last week happened. Last week when she touched me for the first time. When I let her. And I kept going even when I wanted to stop. Because my brain has forgotten how to tell my mouth to say stop. Because when I did that you'd get mad. And then I did say stop. Because my whole body hurt. Every cell in my body was like a lit match and I needed to just lie as still as possible and hope that it would just fizzle out. The pain. And the images. Of you. She asked me if I wanted to be held. And I said no. Being touched was the last thing I wanted or needed or could handle. And then I thought you had been right. That I was truly selfish. That I put my needs before yours and now I was doing that again - with someone else. Because maybe she did need to be held. Because we had just been intimate and who am I to now say that I just need to lie still? Because your face is in my head. Because I can't get turned on without seeing you. And then I see you and I am turned on, but unsafe, and then I cry.

And that is selfish. To picture you when I'm in bed with her. To let those images in - or out.

And so I just cry. I just lie there and cry and apologize. Over and over. And she tells me not to. That there's nothing to be sorry for. That it's okay to cry. And to hurt. And to see you in my head.

But I know it's not. Okay to picture someone else.

And so I wish I was more attracted to her. Physically. Because maybe that would make it better.

Because emotionally there couldn't be more of a balanced attraction. And it couldn't possibly be any safer.

But it doesn't feel safe. Ever. She hurt me in the past. When she was still brainwashed. She hurt me. And I met her because of you. And a month and a half ago she too was still in love with you. And so how can I not think of her?

So I told her we shouldn't do this. It's not healthy. I don't want anyone at all to touch me. But if it's going to happen, it should be someone else. Someone who never knew you. Who never slept with you. Who never talked to me on the phone right after sleeping with you, with you still in the bed.

But emotions don't work that way.

So she tells me sex isn't that important. And I know that. And I know what attracts us to each other is that we say the same things at the same time, or that we laugh 80% of the time, or that when we get lost driving I don't get as mad as I would with anyone else. And she cooks for me. And brings me presents. And sends me silly text messages.

And I wish those images could just override the old ones.

Today I had to do a system restore on my computer. To reset it to settings from 2 days ago. And it is a great little tool. Because you don't lose the important stuff when you do it. Files and whatnot. They stay, but the bad stuff is gone.

I want a system restore for my brain. To keep the good things from the past 8 months. The lessons learned. About battering and love and brainwashing and mental illness and nonjudgmental friendships. About safety. About gut instincts. And to erase the bad stuff. The images of you. The remnants of your abuse. Visceral reactions to things I never realized were happening. Brainwashing. How gross my body is. Because you had made me ashamed. How I never could please you. In or out of bed. Despite how much I tried. Being convinced I am selfish when I put my own needs first. In or out of bed. The fear. The attraction. The attraction that is rooted in fear. To your beautiful face. Like how I found a picture online I hadn't seen before. Because I was looking up your name. To try to find out where you are. To know whether or not to be afraid. And the attraction to your seductive poetry. Like the writing on that same web site. About being a first time activist. And to the way your face and your poetry can turn on a dime. And spit fire. And the way you could soothe me after.

Like I wanted you to soothe me last week. When I was crying. In bed. Thinking of you. Of the images in my head and in my cells. And it hurt. And it won't go away. And people don't understand that. And I don't understand that. Because I still don't know what you did to me. What I did to myself.

And so I cried.

Where Flowers Aren't Weapons

Copyright © by Lani Radack, August 20, 2003

She bought me flowers at a gas station. Gas station flowers. And brought them to me in the car. And I smiled. Sweet.

Because I had just thrown up in the restaurant. In the restaurant with her mom and Leo. I had ordered eggplant parmesan. And the top was eggplant. So I ate it. Only the bottom was veal. She tried to make me feel better. Telling me it was chicken. But it was veal. And I felt it being pushed down into my stomach and I needed to stop it. Immediately. Because I have had enough food issues. Enough control issues. Enough control over food issues. And so it was my worst nightmare. Not controlling what I put in my body. Putting it in there under false pretenses.

And so she bought me flowers at the gas station on the way home.

Only I didn't smile as brightly as I did when you bought me flowers. When I was sitting in your hallway and you walked up the stairs with pink and purple flowers in your hand. And you smiled shyly. You don't buy girls flowers. You don't apologize. And you were doing both. And so it was different. It made my heart jump up and kick the lump in my throat and it made me blush. And you saw that. And I saved the card. And I still have it. Now for different reasons, but I still have it.

So her flowers were different. They didn't feel as unexpected. Or as special. Because she doesn't make a big thing of it. It's normal. Pleasant and wonderful, but normal.

Maybe that's why it's not as exciting. Why it doesn't feel as exciting.

Small indulgences. That's how you work. Like a captor. Or a batterer.

You made it into an indulgence if you stayed all night. If you didn't leave when I had hurt you. And thanked you. And apologized for hurting you. And said I knew. How hard it was for you to stay when you felt so unsafe. And I did know. Because I had once felt that too. How hard it was to stay with you when it was always unsafe.

You made it less hard. "I wanted to hold you until you knew I wasn't dangerous," you wrote to me. In your most beautiful and sensitive email. When I was desperate. Because you had left again. And so I stayed. Only I thought it was you who was staying. Who was giving me another chance. For hurting you.

I sit and try to figure out what was the abuse. How and why I feel how I do, even months later. And that is it. The twisting. The constant twisting.

She stays all night. Even when she feels unsafe. Or vulnerable. Or when I feel unsafe. Or vulnerable. And I convince myself it is all my fault. That this is happening.

Because I trained myself to do that. To take responsibility when situations feel unsafe.

Like the first time you left me in bed. She showed up at my door at 5 am and you left me in bed. You said you didn't want to. You tried to stay, but she wasn't going anywhere.

And as I lay confused and crying and unsafe, unsafe because I was vulnerable because sex with you was always unsure and exasperating - like life with you, my thoughts of myself were put aside for thoughts of you. Thinking of whether or not you had made it home safely. Of how badly you must be feeling about what has happened. And I called you soon after and that was the first thing I asked. If you were okay. Only a month into it and I was trained.

The next day you agreed to see me. You invited me over. And I had learned not to question that by then. Because the first time you invited me over after hurting me I did question it. And it made you mad. I was being cold and unfeeling. Note to self: It is a gift when she invites you over. Don't question it.

So I went over and before saying anything I asked how you were. And you said heartbroken. Your best friend had betrayed you. You took her to therapy with you to process that. I asked if I could go with you next time. You said maybe. Small indulgence.

Your abuse. Twisting it all around. When I am feeling abandoned and vulnerable and violated, you twist it around. It's about you. Your hurt. Your betrayal. Lies. Your best friend. Your crazy, clingy best friend. Who doesn't get boundaries. Your wife is more like it. Your wife showed up at my door because you were in my bed. And you had hung up on her. After I told you not to talk to her anymore in my bed, a violation, you hung up on her. And didn't answer any more calls. She showed up. Crazy. You made her crazy.

How much have you lied to her? Convinced her her realities aren't real? Convinced her she has hurt you?

You made her a book. Small indulgence. She probably looks at it every day. Like I did the card from your flowers. Or the emails.

I rarely read her emails to me. I don't have to. I can talk to her instead. She answers the phone. The first time I call. Normal. She returns phone calls. And emails. She buys me flowers. Because she wants to. Because she wants to make me smile. For me. Not for her. Because she likes me when I smile. More than when I cry. And I don't know what to do with that. With that normalcy. You were always nicer when I cried. Or begged. Or yelled. Even though I never yelled.

And I bought her flowers too. And she thanked me. Unlike you, she thanked me. And it was normal.

Thank you's are hard for you. It's not your style. I should know better. It's not your style. Like I'm sorrys or pleases. Preschool lessons you did not learn. Because nothing about your life is normal.

Fuck you. Fuck you and your craziness. You're supposed to say thank you when someone gives you something. And you're supposed to give people things when you've hurt them. Maybe not flowers, but attention. Or validation. And you're not supposed to make it about you. And you're not supposed to beat them to the punch. To accuse them of what you are doing so that they have no recourse. It's really not that hard. It's not supposed to be.

She knows that. She knows that and so she is patient. She is patient with my caution. With not wanting to get too excited again. Too absorbed again. And it is so normal that excitement doesn't seem necessary.

Do you even know about that? About things feeling so normal that no one needs to cry or write passionate, manipulative emails?

Here I am again. You first. You first because you will never have balance and love. People would like you, you know. If you were just honest. And direct. And real. Because you are beautiful and smart - unbelievably smart. And charming. They would like you. You don't have to be mean. Or deceitful. Or so damn passionate. Or sick. People would like you. Really like you. Whoever the fuck you are. Under all of your pretense and abuse and facade and circular logic and alibis and aliases and bullshit. I refuse to believe there is nothing under that. Someone I tried to love. Normal love.

Where tears are real and smiles are realer. Where people stay because they want to. Where words and love don't hurt. Where love is more than words. Where flowers aren't weapons.

If you have enjoyed Lani Radack's Poetry, then please be certain to e-mail her at  radacklani[at]hotmail.com  and thank her for posting her Work.

Click here for a list of all of Lani Radack's  Stories and Poetry at  Sapphic Voices Authoresses.