Monthly Archives: April 2016

For someone from my Distant Past

It has been nearly seven years since we have crossed paths and seven years since I saw your face anywhere besides Facebook pictures and yet somehow you managed to impact my life in such a way that I have an inferiority complex when it comes to guys.

Seven years and still those words haunt me when attempting to pursue a romance or when I look in the mirror and see that overbite and those pimples that you reminded me of every day. To you, it all meant nothing. I was just that ugly, awkward girl in your class throughout all of middle school.

It didn’t matter at all to you how my innocent, naïve heart was crushed to a million pieces or how much I desired to down a bottle of pills because I believe every word you and your follower friends said. It didn’t matter to you how I would go to bed with a soaked pillow every night questioning why I was so hated by you. All I ever did was like you, and it resulted in cruel words that impacted me harder than the sharp edges of a thousand knives to my delicate heart.

If I could go back in time, my god how I would warn my thirteen year old self that you were not worth it. You were not worth pining after for my whole eighth grade year. Maybe I loved your dark eyes and your plump lips that curved into a beautiful bright smile, but those were the only distinctive features about you. On the outside you were a handsome, popular, brilliant athlete. On the inside, you were nothing but a cold, heartless bully who destroyed a young, fragile girl mentally.

Yet, where are you now? A nobody with dreadlocks that hopes one day someone will care about your mixtapes. If only thirteen-year-old me could see that this is what she was hopelessly infatuated with.

Yet, would I listen to my future self back then? Probably not. For I was living in a fantasy world. A world where you would be sensitive and kind-hearted. Where you would bless me with my first kiss and wipe away my tears. Where I would gaze into those big, brown eyes of yours and you would view me as beautifully as I viewed you. Where your words were much sweeter and comforted my damaged heart. Where you would stand up against those bullies, us against the world.

Perhaps, I fell for this fantasy version of you. Perhaps you were the embodiment of everything I desired to be with, popular and loved. That was something I was not for I was an ugly duckling that lacked social skills and the butt of everyone’s jokes. For this reason, my heart chose you and chose to put the fantasies in place of your horrendous personality.

I kept living that fantasy and desired a romance that never happened because in reality you were repulsed by me. You made it your goal for you and your friends to make my final year of middle school a living hell and not a day goes by where I wished that common sense would hit me that underneath those innocent eyes and baby face you were as ugly as you thought I was.

That boy who cursed me out then bragged about the next day to all his friends like it was something worth a reward, the boy who gagged when he found out how I felt about him, the boy who would tease my every movement and word, the boy who tried to spit on me and put dust in my hair, the boy who swore I was so repulsive that my slightest touch made him cringe, that was the boy you were.

When I looked at you again anytime after this epiphany hit me, I no longer saw those gorgeous dark eyes and that smile but rather an ugly little boy so overwhelmed by his own insecurities that he needed to follow his friends and pick on anyone below their pathetic little circle to fit in.

-Lisa Marie Wolf

 

 

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For My First Boyfriend

No matter how much time has passed I will always remember your bright hazel eyes and that blonde patch of hair on your head. You were always one of a kind and someone I will never forget.

Why do I never write of you, then? Well, our romance was one in which words cannot describe. Even as I write this, I struggle to find the right words and tears begin to fill my eyes. Of every guy I have ever been involved with, you are deemed as the one who will always hold a special place in my heart. You had immense love and care for me and proved so with every kiss and touch and that will forever be something I will hold onto in my darkest days.

We could be described as nothing more than, to others, a prime example of love between two not yet blossomed adolescents. We were young, immature, and naïve. We were sixteen yet spoke of the future as though we had a clue. In our eyes, which were blinded by the strong feelings we had for one another, we were inseparable.

I think back to those months with you and think of it as not just a juvenile high school relationship but rather as one of the happiest points in my life. All I remember is butterflies, laughter, passionate kisses, and comfort in each other’s arms. I think of how you would get enraged when you saw tears run down my face and the time you exploded at a group of idiotic boys for stealing something from me. How we could talk hours upon hours about anything and how talking to you felt so natural in a time where I was socially awkward. I think of how I felt compelled to run to you and comfort you when I heard what you were dealing with.

We were perfect.

Sure, it does not excuse the agony caused by you flipping the switch and not desiring to be with me anymore in that summer of ’12. That week where I seemed to have an infinite amount of tears and where food did not seem to stay down in my stomach. Where dark circles remained under my eyes and I had no idea what sleep was anymore. I attempted to go out to forget that we were together and yet the mere sight of our former dating spots triggered those painful memories I so desperately wanted to erase. As did rereading that conversation over and over again and seeing that relationship status that you used to break up with me as opposed to confronting me and for weeks I believed I despised you for hurting me and not even giving a care. You got to run around with a smug look and flirt with who you pleased right in front of my face and there was not a damn thing I could do but cry in private and grieve a once-perfect relationship that fell apart. We were in the same high school for one more year so I faced you and watched you move on while I was stuck hopelessly devoted to those magical months despite how more distant in the past they were.

And for that year I embraced hope to rekindle that flame that was long burned out until my last day of high school came where I received my closure and an inevitable truth hit me; the were no hope of reconnecting for we were not meant to be. We kissed for the first time in months that day and yet there was no sparks or butterflies as there had been the year before. It didn’t matter how things had been because no matter how deeply in love we were or how we once looked at each other like we were each other’s world and spoke about the future because we were not meant to be.

Even if four years has passed and I discovered that you broke up with me not to hurt me, but rather to protect me from yourself and that will forever hold a place in my heart, I ponder if it could have worked out between us if things had been different. That is not the course life chose for us, however, and I thank you for giving me such beautiful memories to have of the first relationship I was in and allowing me to say that I was genuinely happy even if for just six months and all thanks to you. I wish nothing but the best for you.

-Lisa Marie Lupo

 

Can You Tell Me

You can tell me how she looks with her clothes off. You can tell me what size her breasts are. You can tell me about how her hair touches her nipples when she releases it from those buns ahe always ties it in. You can tell me about all the beauty marks and scars she has on her body and where they are all located. You can tell me what her lips feel like and how the touch of her soft, bare skin feels. You can tell me how she sounds when she moans, if she screams or if she contains it with the bite of her lip. You can tell me what her kinks are and how well she pleasures your own. You can tell me how it feels to be inside her and how well she rides. You can tell me how she sounds when she’s done and if she leaves you satisfied.

Yet, can you tell me who she is?

You claim to know her so well. Can you tell me who she is underneath her skin? What does she aspire to be in life? What does she do for a living? What does she do in her free time? What makes her smile and what ticks her off? What is her favorite color? What does she look like when she cries? What has she suffered through in life? How did she get those scars and how many are there? Does she desire a meaningful relationship and family one day?
What does she think of when she sees you?
You claim to know her just because you have seen her naked, yet you cannot tell me even the simplest of facts about her as a person. You may know her physically and intimately, but you are a damn liar if you claim you know and respect that girl, because you do not know a single thing about who she really is nor do you care to know or else you would be more interested in what she has to offer within not what she has to offer under her clothes.
So answer this, can you tell me about that girl?
No you can’t, not at all.

To A Special Someone 

Dear XXXX,
Are you happy?

You get to prance around with your girl, unaffected by the long-lasting impact what you did has caused me.

You were the first, and so far only guy I loved. The word “fuck buddies” used to leave a bad taste in my mouth when describing you to people because in my eyes you were so much more, and yet now it’s all I tell people we were because it’s easier than telling people how it felt to kiss you under the stars or how much I smiled whenever you texted me.

At one point or the other, the roles were switched and it was you that swore you had a thing for me. Maybe that was true, but my attention was elsewhere. All I know is that summer of 2014 I had suddenly took a liking for you. Was it the way you called me beautiful, or the way you kissed me in the rain by the Hudson River? Either way, I fell and fell hard for you. I would come to realize any old boy can call you beautiful or persuade you he want to be with you but I was eighteen and did not know any better.

I think about your eyes, your little smirk, your soft lips and oh god do I wish to rewind to that lovely summer and fall nearly two years ago and relive it all. I don’t even regret a single moment with you despite all the despair it came with.

“He’s just a dumb boy.” To me you were so much more. You were my reason to wake up every morning. You were the smile on my face and the beat of my heart. You were distinctive to any other guy I have met so far in my life. You were my friend, you were loyal and you would care enough to talk to me every day for months and months and get lowkey jealous when you saw me close with someone else. You did perhaps feel something too, or maybe it is just my perception that is blinded by love for you that is romanticizing even the littlest of things you did for me.

You were always the tears I shed for you each night. You were the influence of the darkest days of my life and the reason why I felt my heart shatter for the first time. You were the dark cloud that stayed over my head as I attempted to down those pills. You were the bruises on my wrists as I subjected to my harmful desires for the first time in a long time.

You were the first to present to me the cruelty of the real world. The people who betray you, who stomp all over your heart once they have it, those who see a vulnerable young person and use them to their advantage.

I gave you my body, my time, my love. When you finished with me, you ran off to her arms and left me with nothing but dead hope of me ever being able to call myself yours and with memories I wanted to force out my mind.

“My feelings are long gone.” Images of you and her. Facebook blocking. All of this while my mind lingered on you and only you and the wounds were still fresh. I briefly found comfort in the arms of another but you were still burned in the darkest depths of my mind.

You still are or else I wouldn’t be writing of you on a Thursday night with tears in my eyes of every embrace, kiss and painful exchange of words we shared in my head.

Not a day goes by where I don’t think of you. Even if I have given up hopes long ago of rekindling whatever it was we were and even if I have gained interest in other people since then, I will never forget you. Over a year has passed and I still remember your dark eyes, your cheeks I loved pinching so much, your soft body, the way you loved dark colors, your love for anime & gaming, your introverted nature, your dark sense of humor, how you seldom spoke with emotion, your perverted attitude equivalent to my own, your beautiful smile, how special you made me feel.

My god, how I wish I could go back in time and do it all again. Be stupidly in love without saying it and have that perception of you again. It wasn’t you, but yet it made me happier than I have ever been in my life.

But I can’t, it was not meant to be and as you said, your feelings are long gone. You refused me a chance because you were not seeking commitment yet you have a chance to someone else when you were done with whatever you wanted with me.

For the earliest parts of 2015, and even now, I sometimes wonder if I cross your mind. If you think of my face or pass by a place where we made memories and miss me too. If it pains you to say my name and if you wish to run into my arms again. I wonder if you long to tell me all your troubles and hardships you face as I do with you.

Have I impacted your life as you had mine?

Probably not. Probably just some stupid little overly attached vulnerable girl you fucked and nothing more. You have someone now to call your own while I’m left with the scars of what you have done to me. It is easy for you to love again while I can barely let anyone in without pushing them away regardless of how I feel about them out of fear of history repeating itself.

You don’t care about that because you got what you wanted from me. You don’t care about how I can no longer be with someone without questioning their every motive nor about how someone could grow attached easily than others and how every moment we shared was more intimate and romantic than any moment I shared with any other guy so far.

I question how can I love again? Will I ever be able to or will I always be reminded of you whenever I do so much as even get close to a guy? Will I stop pushing people away and learn to trust again? Will these memories and your face forever haunt me?

Will I ever stop caring so much about you even if you are no longer a part of my life?

Clearly not, as I still write about you after so much time has passed since we last shared an intimate moment together and I still remember you so well and since you have impacted so much the scars still show whenever I have a new chance at happiness with someone else.

And even if I was too full of shame to admit it and you don’t ever deserve to hear it, whenever someone talks of the first time I ever really loved I will think of you.
-Lisa M.

 

One More Time

“One more time”, she tells herself, as his hand gropes her breast under her dress, his lips on her neck. “One more time.”

Another night passes. Somehow, her lacy black thong is on the floor and their clothes are trailing from the living room to the bathroom. Her long, dark hair is covering her sweaty face as she rides him. On the outside, she is moaning with pleasure. Internally, she is feeling slight shame. “One more time.” She tells herself. “One more time.”

“One more time.” He tells himself one week later. He had truly believed he would never see her face again, and yet here she was, her hands stroking his penis gently. He felt damn near guilty for being so vulnerable to such pleasure from her, but he could not fight the urge to push her body against the wall and fuck her then and there.

“One more time.” He told himself. “One more time.”

His self-control could barely hold past a few days, as them going at each other’s throats turned into her getting on her knees and taking his cock down her throat. As he moaned he swore to himself that this would be the last time he gave into such foolish temptation. “One more time.” He told himself as he pushed that long, dark hair out her face and she stroked, “One more time.”

“That’s it.” She cried out the next day when she received no text back.

“That’s it.” He reluctantly grumbled as he flicked the ashes of his cigarette into the ashtray. Even if she remained implanted in his head all day, especially when he pleased himself, he simply refused to give in. They were beyond toxic for each other and the only connection they had was when he was inside her.

Still, he found himself with her thighs pressed against his cheeks. He licked around her vagina, hitting the spot as her body twitched and she could barely even contain to say, “One…more…time.”

She enjoyed teasing him. That is why she went down on him in a theatre with people just inches away. He enjoyed punishing her for her reckless attitude which is why he spanked her until her cheeks were as red as a tomato, to which she only pretended to protest against.

“One more time.” Would leave his lips as though he was being programmed to say it. At this point, he hardly even believe that phrase anymore. It was like saying a word over and over until it loses all meaning.

“One more time.” She mumbled in a monotone voice to herself as the water from the shower faucet poured on them, though she was already moist at the mere sight of the body she had come to know so well and still be so darn attracted to.

Every time to them was one more time. One more time of furiously shoving their tongues in each other’s mouths, one more time of releasing their pented up lust and desires for each other as he thrusted and thrusted until he came, one more time of pissing off the neighbors with moans and screams, one more time of her being taken to a place of euphoria with every lick and caress that no man had taken her to before, one more time of their clothes being a mere nuisance that was torn off and tossed away into a pile, one more time of the post-sex talk and cuddle, one more time of her running out of his apartment in fear of commitment, which had turned to her falling asleep in his soft, gentle embrace, and one more time of saying, “one more time.”

Each time was, “one more time.” Until that phrase lost any significance and faded away into the air because it stopped exiting their mouths. They had accepted this as a lie. There was never a one more time for them.

Once or twice is an experience. A few times is a bad habit.

More than that? Well, it becomes an addiction.

 

 

 

The Death of Melanie Valentine 

Her blonde hair reached her shoulders and her bangs always covered her face. She was faceless aside from her dark red lips and tear-stained cheeks. She was obsessed with light floral dresses. In the cold weather her knees would be red and covered in bumps, yet she was numb to it. She craved the pain. “Melanie deserves it.” Says her older sister, Lexie. Her only sibling. Her sister despised Melanie since she was always stealing away the attention in the household.

“Melanie just takes up space.” Says her mother. Her mother despised Melanie for always creating unnecessary problems. Maybe at one point she loved her daughter, but the moment her daughter began keeping everyone awake with her sobbing at night and robbing money from the family with her need for therapy, she despised her existence. She truly believed it was all in her head. 

“She needs reassurance 24/7. It is quite an inconvenience.” Says her boyfriend, Brian. Brian loved Melanie’s vulnerability. The moment he realized that getting under Melanie’s skirt meant dealing with her poor mental state, however, he began to find his satisfaction elsewhere.

“She is always doing things for attention. When she is not the main concern of anyone, she makes sure she is.” Says her best friend, Isabelle. Melanie was once Isabelle’s shoulder to cry on. When Isabelle was finally cheered up, she refused to let Melanie’s depression rub off on her. 

“She nearly passed away from blood loss last week after she slashed her wrists. It’s a damn shame she didn’t, it might save us the service of having to put up with her.” Says Justin, Melanie’s ex-boyfriend. He was a narcissist that dumped Melanie once he decided that he could not put up with Melanie constantly crying for help anymore.  

The sleeves of Melanie’s dress always covered her wrists and the skirt covered her thighs, both of which were covered in cuts. 

“She does it for attention.” Says Lexie.

“She just wants everyone to pity her as if she has any real problems.” Says her mother.

“Ugly.” Says Brian, his eyes not leaving his phone.

“I noticed the cuts on her wrist. I don’t ask where they are from though because I know that’s just why she does it. She wants people to pretend to care about her.” Says Isabelle.

“If she is really that miserable, she should just dig the knife deep and finish the job.” Says Justin.

The day came where Melanie did just that. 

There was no warning or note. Melanie had been hoping for someone to take her warnings seriously and yet no one did so. 

Melanie, exhausted with trying to reach out to people and fed up with feeling agony and selfish for seeking help from those she had helped out with for many years, allowed the knife to dig into her wrists until the handle touched her skin.

“I deserve it.” Her last thoughts were. “Everyone hates me. I deserve it.”

Melanie was found the next morning, her lifeless body near cold and her pale pink dress stained with blood. 

“My baby!” Cried out Melanie’s mother, the first one to spot her daughter’s corpse.

 Days passed and everyone discovered of Melanie’s passing.

“She did it for attention.” Muttered Lexie bitterly. When she attended the funeral, she was thrown out the church due to the commotion she caused while delivering a speech of how her sister deserved to die because she was a nuisance. Her breath reeked of alcohol. 

Justin did not attend the funeral. When he scrolled past the news on his Facebook, he just smirked and said, “Looks like she did us all a favor.” Then he moved on about his day.

Her mom did not leave her daughters side from the wake to the funeral. “My baby.” She kept crying out. “I should have been there for you.” She screamed through her sobs as she reminisced Melanie listening to her complain about the abuse she received from Lexie’s father. “I was so selfish. Why didn’t I listen? Why didn’t I help you?” Melanie’s aunts had to drag away her mother from the grave because she attempted to jump in with her daughter’s coffin.

Brian was at work when he heard of his girlfriend’s death. He dropped his phone, which was his best friend, the moment he saw “R.I.P. Melanie Valentine” on his News Feed. After work, he ran to the wake and barely missed it. He observed his girlfriend for the first time in a long time and took in her beauty. Her bangs were pushed out of her face and her face was no longer stained from tears. She laid in her coffin in her favorite pale blue floral dress, sleeves covering the gash from her stabbing herself. He remembered her wearing that dress the day he decided he wanted to be with her and they kissed for the first time. He grabbed her cold hand and cried. “I should have listened. I should have helped you. You tried to reach out to me, why didn’t I help you?”

Isabelle could not bear to go to her best friend’s funeral. Instead, she locked herself in her room and cried for days. Her family and friends tried to force her out, but nothing. She wallowed in her own guilt. “I’m sorry, Melanie. I should have listened when you told me you weren’t okay.”

The person that shocked everyone the most was Melanie’s father, Jonathan Valentine. No one, not even Melanie’s mother, had seen his face since months after Melanie was born. He flaked on them, forcing the mother to return to Lexi’s father’s abuse. 

At the wake, a strange man arrived in all black and a hat. At first, everyone whispered and questioned who he was. 

Until the mother said, “Jon?”

Jonathan took off his hat, causing everyone to gasp. Jonathan ignored them all and instead got on his knees near the casket. Despite barely knowing his daughter, tears streamed down his face and he kissed her cold cheek.

“Melanie.” He pushed out through his sobbing. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to know you better. You were such a beautiful young woman and you did not deserve to go like this. You did not deserve to believe that no one loves or cared about you. Not a day went by where I didn’t desire to meet you and be there for you. Daddy loves you very much, sweetheart. And I am here now.”

A figure arose from the casket at that moment. The figure was not visible to anyone yet it was huge and stood over everyone in the room. The figure had long blonde hair with the bangs down to the nose, red lips curled into a frown, and pale skin. The figure had on a pale pink dress with red stains. 

Though not audible, the figure uttered a few words before it disappeared:

“Where were you all when I was alive?”

  

Happiness

Sometimes I wonder if happiness exists. 

Or it’s all just an illusion to guise the fact that life is truly painful. 

The agony and despair some face on a daily basis makes you question if this life is worth living.

A life where I can no longer sleep at night because my mind is clouded with negativity. 

A life where I can barely go a day without tears in my eyes.

A life where I crave loneliness because it’s better than facing the cruelty people bring. 

A life where I can barely feel as though I am worth something no matter how hard I try to get myself to believe otherwise. People can tell me how beautiful and amazing they believe I am; I am still finding it harder to believe with every experience I face. 

A life where I can barely push myself through the day because it takes all my energy to even push myself out of bed into a world of depression and disappointment. 

A life where I have been hurt and tormented so much I am numb. 

A life where I have went over the limits of my strength and now am nothing but vulnerable and easily broken.

A life where I have so many mental scars I can no longer trust someone no matter how genuine they are. 

A life where I feel I can not reach out to anyone, not even my closest of friends out of fear of bothering or  them misunderstanding. 

A life where I am used, betrayed, bullied, and walked all over then left questioning if I deserve it.

A life where no one understands the impact of their words and treatment toward someone. 

A life where I am too delicate to handle this poor treatment. 

A life where no amount of pills or therapy will help. 

A life where I cannot express any of this out of fear of being deemed as crazy or crying for attention. 

A life where I no longer remember what happiness feels like or if I ever felt it at all. 

Or as an ex of mine once so delightfully said, 

“No one wants a depressed, insecure girl who whines all the time.”

I have came to the conclusion that some of us just aren’t meant to be happy. I ponder at times if I am one of those people. 

The Knife

Jagged knife.

Baggy hoodie. 

Night sky.

Near empty car.

Filthy smell. 

Hooded man.

Innocent teen, iPhone in hand.

Messenger bag. 

Home-bound from work, pay day. 

Slash, Slash, knife through flesh. 

Bloodied tip. 

Teen left in tears.

Valuables gone.

Hooded man gone. 

No witness. 

Traumatized.

Scars remain.

Culprit moves on, yet teen lives in fear.

Like every New Yorker.

Children, Teens, Adults, Elderly.

Everyone is a victim, everyone is a suspect. 

Innocent lives, all living in fear.

Fear of the knife to their flesh, any moment.

Inhumane.