We need writers who fear nothing ― Yevgeny Zamyatin
The submissions for “I RISE” were numerous and beautiful and transformative. Thank You. Thank you for your words, your hearts, your souls, your blood. By sharing your stories, you give others permission to share their stories. I believe this with my entire being. If you’re wondering what your purpose on earth is, perhaps it is telling your stories to the world, darlings.
** Here are a few sentences from my favorite essays**
“Sometimes, instead, the lion within me salivates when chomping into the bloody meat of my soul; awaiting a weak moment to pounce on top of me and tear at the stripes of my vulnerability”
“It took me months to take a step out of darkness. But every time I would catch my little one sleeping, I would close my eyes and make prayer. We were safe.”
“I kept thinking, ‘kick him in the balls!’ But he was dancing like Ali”
“Don’t get me started on men who say, You make me want to be a better person. RUN! You need a better person from the get go.”
“Moments earlier, I had been cradled in my mother’s lap, in the most wonderful womb-like temperature water. We were taking a bath.”
“I rise and resurrect like dead, cold suns.”
You move me. You teach me. You make me fucking Rise Up.
Although it was difficult to make a choice, one submission shook me to the core, wrapped its ugly words around me like a giant python and squeezed everything out. Everything. Out. That entry was entitled: I Can’t Die. The author wishes to remain anonymous.
I CAN’T DIE
I am a Piece Of Shit.
I am a 14 year old PIECE-OF-SHIT-THE-WORLD-WOULD-BE-BETTER-WITHOUT-YOU-CHICKEN-LEGS-NO-ONE-WANTS-YOU-MOSQUITO-TITTIED Piece Of Shit.
I am a RUINED-YOUR-MOM’S-LIFE-SHOULD-HAVE-NEVER-BEEN-BORNPiece Of Shit.
Why can’t I die?
why am I here? why was I born? why is HE doing this to me?
I want to make the world better (and he told me how) I want to leave it. I want to feel nothing because I am nothing.
I try. Over and over and over. I slit lengthwise. I slit widthwise. I guzzle bleach mixed with contact solution. (why was I born? why can’t I die?) I eat 109 Advil. I cry and I cry and cry but I never bleed enough and the world never goes black.
Why can’t I die?
I can’t count all of my step-dads, but they all hate me. I am a hassle. I am a Piece-Of-Shit-hassle. This step-dad hates me the most. He chokes & punches & kicks. He deals drugs and shoots guns.
School is not an escape. School is Scrub-piece-of-shit-can’t-afford-clothes-can’t-afford-lunch-scrub-ugly-dirty-scrub-wierdo-piece-of-shit. (There is only one escape. There is only one way for the world to be better)
Why can’t I die?
I hear my brother and sister screaming. Wild, feral animal shrieks. My feet carry me down the stairs; my mind is not with them.
I am watching a movie. Someone else’s life: pretend, make believe, this doesn’t happen to real people.
He is shaking mom like a rag. Her limbs flap along her sides like long noodles. He’s holding her by the throat (always choking) slapping, punching, yelling:
“Go to the neighbors! GO NOW! Call the cops!”
My voice shocks them out of their screaming. My tone. My strength. My calm. Their eyes are still wide and their mouths are still O’s but they do as I command. He is holding her on the bed now. Punching still, but she’s not making any sounds and her noodle arms aren’t flapping. I grab him by the back of the head, (greasy pig hair in my fingers) and peel him off of her like Velcro. She runs to the corner.
He turns on me with (rage, hate, ugly, stone eyes) — PIECE-OF-SHIT-WHO-DO-YOU-THINK-YOU-ARE!
He holds me by the throat against the wall. My tippy toes graze the cheap carpet. Punching and choking until everything is dark and fuzzy static.
Icy metal suddenly burns my left temple. FINALLY-DONE-WITH-YOU-PIECE-OF-SHIT-BULLET-IN-YOUR-BRAIN-PIECE-OF-SHIT. I see his hateful eyes throughthe fuzz. He keeps talking.
My right hand gropes out to my side.
I can’t die I can’t die I have to save her or she is next then he will get them too I can’t die
My arms (not noodles) are acting without my mind; my eyes still see only static. There is a revolting crack when the vacuum meets his head. We both crumple. She is still whimpering in the corner (sick injured bunny whimper).
My legs and arms move; my legs and arms drag her out of the terror.
I can’t die
–Dear, Readers, Leave Comments of support and love for T. M. S. ( This writer gave everything & by sharing this powerful piece, I believe, was set free ).