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Selected Chapbook Poems

by Julia Alexander

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1.
I Spent More Time In the Shower At RIC Than I Did In Class I spent half a semester in college. I studied the way a girl can turn into a rabid dog when she is trapped. I was chained to a fence and scratching at fleas. I allowed myself to destroy another person’s life just because I was caged and she was different, and she was an easy target. I spread this infection purposefully, and I could never apologize enough, so I have not apologized at all. I studied the way a girl can unravel when her problems are never fixed. I let old wounds fester. Nothing ever healed right. I let myself scratch the scars wide open. I spent more time getting high in Browne Hall than I did in class. I am not proud of that. I spent more time crying in the shower than I did in class. I am not proud of that. I did not ask for help because I did not know that I was sick. I studied the way a girl can look at the house she grew up in so differently when she is no longer allowed to sleep there. I made myself stay away from here for long enough to know that the best way to say “home” is with tears streaming down your cheeks, is with your whole body shaking, is with longing, is with your father’s arms wrapped around your shoulders.
2.
FRAT PARTIES ARE FUN I GUESS instead of writing another poem about wrapping my shaking body around a stranger, stumbling across campus, and stitching together slurred sentences to explain the reasons my skin bruises so easily, i will only write poetry about paper, about the way you can always see the creases when you unfold pieces of paper i am starting to think that it’s the same thought anyway.
3.
WOMANHOOD (WHATEVER THAT MEANS) 1. I sit on the chair we dragged into the bathroom and look in the mirror. I watch thin fingers try to brush out my rat’s-nest. Thin lips ask why I don’t keep it clean. She cuts out chunks that are too far gone to be bothered with. I watch wisps of blonde hair fall to the floor without saying a word. 2. Learn to hate the places my body chooses to protect with hair. Learn which hair is clean and which hair is dirty. learn to hate the hair. learn to hate the body. 3. Drink bottles of water until my stomach becomes the ocean I am drowning in. 4. Sit up straight. Sit up straight. Push your chest out. 5. I ask him to wrap his boney fingers around my mouth so that I am not tempted to ask him to stop. 6. I slide myself between a set of dirty sheets and a heavy body. Pretend to like this. Pretend to be sexy. Pretend to feel fine about this. 7. I bite my nails until they are bloody, until I can no longer use them to try to scratch my way out of this coffin called Skin. 8. Fold your arms across your chest. Do not speak. Look at the ground. Make yourself small. Become the empty space. 9. Skin reddens as his fingernails push deeper into flesh. I don’t think it is supposed to be like this. Hold back tears. No one wants to see you cry. 10. Run my own fingers through my hair and wonder how it ever got this tangled, wonder how I will ever get the knots out.
4.
HOW COULD I FORGIVE MYSELF WHEN YOU STILL AREN’T HERE? i cannot forgive myself for swallowing poisons in the hopes of drowning every thought i have of you. i cannot forgive myself for letting other men swallow me whole. he told me my skin tastes like cherries and menthol with pieces of my flesh still dangling from his teeth. i didn’t wipe my blood away as i kissed him goodbye. i will not forgive myself for trying to erase you from my notebooks. you are staining my skin like the coffee i spilled all over every page. you’re stuck to me like leeches. i don’t mind letting you drain me. i’d like for you to drain me. start sucking out all the poison.
5.
Working Through It the second coming, the hot tears, the pushing, the holding. the steam from the shower, washing away the blood, putting the dress in the pile of dirty laundry. the time passing, tending to the open wound, the world continuing to spin no matter how many times I beg it to stop. the acceptance, the removal of bandages, the motions of this life in the after, everything as painfully the same as the before. the reminder, the denial, tell myself to stop thinking about it. the steam from the shower, there is no blood left to wash. there are no wounds left to heal. this is not what I wanted to write about today. this is not what I wanted to think about ever again.
6.
Figuring The Rest Out As I Go Along I think so much. I should really have something figured out by now. I should really know a thing or two about the way a hawk circles and then its inevitable decent, about the way a girl unravels and subsequently sheds her skin, about the way a body rots and eventually is forgotten. I should really know a thing or two about that. I’ve got thoughts, too many thoughts like two snakes fighting to swallow each other whole, like phones ringing off the hook on both ends of the line, like a tap that won’t stop dripping no matter how hard you tighten the bolts. And, people have tried to snuff me out so many times I cannot tell the difference between the ashes and the new, between clean linen and filthy rags, between me and the dirt I rise from. You can hurt me if that’s what you want to do. You can smash my head on the pavement, and you can watch my legs keep twitching afterward. You can shove my head underwater, and you can watch my eyes pop out of my skull. You can watch me crawl away tail between legs every time you spit my name. You can hurt me if that’s what you want to do. But I see something at the end of this tunnel just a candle flickering but I still see it. You can’t blow that out. You can’t blow me out. You can’t stop these thoughts from slipping out of my throat. Trust me. I’ve tried.

about

These are some of my favorite poems from my four chapbooks.
You can find a Collection of Bruises I Cannot Show Off Here: issuu.com/juliaalexanderpoetry/docs/a_collection_of_bruises

If you enjoyed these poems and want a copy of As My Voice Shakes or TO BE A FLY ON THE WALL they are only available in print. For free copies send an e-mail to juliaalexanderpoetry@gmail.com

Me and The Dirt I Rise From has yet to be released

credits

released June 5, 2014

I recorded this in my bedroom while eating leftover Chinese food.

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Julia Alexander Connecticut

I'm a part time poet and a full time cry baby. If you get too close to me, I'll write a really emotionally confusing poem about you. It'll be exhausting for both of us.

To contact Julia for inquires of all sorts e-mail juliaalexanderpoetry@gmail.com
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