Break

I realized today
that I want to be broken.
That's why I've never found love.
That's why I've never opened my soul to anyone.
I'm too afraid that they'll cherish me,
and treat me like I'm special.
I'm terrified they'll think I'm pure.
So instead I look for a man to shake me
take me
break me.
The sun shines through white curtains,
but I still look red. 
Tainted.
How can that be, when I am a virgin?
How can I be so dirty?
My past explains it all.
A past of anger, hatred, and blood.
It's hard to think of myself without my past.
I can't, and I don't want to.
It has shaped me, molded me.
I am my parents.
The idea makes my stomach churn.
I can already taste the bile.
I am my abusive father and alcoholic mother.
I am a stranger to this country and an outsider to life.
So maybe instead of finding my own way,
I need a man to make it for me.
I need strong arms to push me,
force me into living productively.
That way I won't have to blame myself for
what a waste my existence has become.
If I find someone else to pass the blame to,
I may finally be able to love myself.
So long as I still believe I'm pure,
the curtains will remain white.
So long as I still believe I'm true,
I will never become my parents.


How many different ways can I say fuck?

.
I watched a man break tonight.
I couldn't look away.
He cried, his sobbing his heart out.
Sobbing his stomach out.
The stench of vomit filled the air,
burning.          
He cried for his father,
cried for a love not returned.
I cried for him.
Typical fucking woman.
Crying the instant something is upsetting.
But I can explain it this time.
I was drunk.
Wasted.
Shit-facedHammeredTrashed.
I was fucked.
And so to see someone else as fucked up as I
was sadistically helpful.
Did I mention the man?
I have to do so, before I forget.



(As funny as it is, I really didn't mean for both poems to have the theme of breaking. I wrote the first Friday, the second Saturday, and both times I was intoxicated. Just a cool coincidence, I gues...)