I Am (Lonely Version)

I am lonely and scared.

I wonder when life will be a pleasure for me.

I hear my silent screams echoing in the darkness.

I see blood spilling from my broken heart, staining my hands

and leaving red marks on all that I touch.

I want to live a day without feeling this way.

I am lonely and scared.

I pretend that the walls I’ve built can keep out my fears,

but really I’m just keeping out any chance of love.

I feel like there’s no reason to tear down my walls,

because who will love me anyway?

I touch the pieces of my broken hope, wondering if it will ever be whole again.

I worry that the darkness surrounding me will swallow me alive.

I cry rarely, but when I do it’s a pleasure to feel alive.

I am lonely and scared.

I understand that not everyone knows what I’m going through.

I say that it’s okay because I don’t want to talk about it.

I dream that someday my walls will fall and

someone will love me for me.

I try to smile as though the pain doesn’t exist and my life is perfect.

I hope that someday I won’t have to pretend, the smile

will be real, and the pain non-existent.

I am lonely and scared.

I Am (I Wonder Version)

I am poetic and thoughtful.
I wonder why bluebirds sing.
I hear the brush of angels’ wings.
I see the wind dance like candlelight.
I want wars to end and things to be right.
I am poetic and thoughtful.

I pretend that lilies are fallen stars.
I feel like I could reach the sky.
I touch rose petals that are as soft as silk.
I worry that people are weighed down by guilt.
I cry when I hear sad music play.
I am poetic and thoughtful.

I understand why there is hurt in the world.
I say that there’s beauty in everything.
I dream of warm, green forests with sunlight filtering, illuminating a hidden world.
I try to be responsible in everything.
I hope to someday hear wedding bells ring.
I am poetic and thoughtful.

Dear World, I Am a Writer

Dear World,

I am a writer.

No, I’ve never had one of my poems published.

No, you can’t walk into Barnes & Noble

And see my name on the cover of the latest bestseller.

And that might never happen.

Those things aren’t what make me a writer.

I am a writer because

I don’t know any other way to live.

I am a writer because I see a blank page

Or an empty screen and feel an

Irresistible compulsion to fill it with words.

I am a writer because to me there is

No greater feeling than seeing a page

Covered with my own words.

I am a writer because it makes sense

To me to breathe in ideas like oxygen

And exhale them onto paper.

I am a writer because as a young child

I felt this need to take my crayon

And scrawl nonsense words across my scratch paper

Until there was no more room to write.

It didn’t matter that my handwriting was

Made up of chicken scratches that

Even a chicken couldn’t read.

It didn’t matter that I didn’t know how to

Write any real words besides my own name.

I simply wrote.

I wrote twenty-letter words made up of

 Mostly z’s and x’s because I felt

That those letters were sadly neglected by the

English language and I simply loved the shape. 

I am a writer because I have to write,

Because there is something inside of me

That makes it so that writing is to me

What eating and drinking are to you.

It is a basic need for me.

If you took away my pen

And told me to stop writing,

I would look at you in shock.

Then I would reach for the nearest dictionary

To see if “stop” had somehow become

Synonymous with “start” or “keep”.

After confirming that it hadn’t,

I’d come back and reclaim my pen,

Even if I’d have to wrestle you to the ground,

Slit your throat, and pry it from

Your cold, lifeless hands.

Because to tell me to stop writing

Is the same thing as saying,

“Stop breathing.”

You might never read anything I’ve ever written.

You might not even read this.

If you do read something I’ve written,

You might not understand or enjoy it.

If you happen to read some of my writing

And you do enjoy it or understand it, that’s great.

But if you don’t, I don’t care.

If you want to criticize me,

Don’t bother, because I won’t listen

If you read my writing and want to give

Me advice on how to make it better, I’ll listen,

But I won’t necessarily change anything

Just because you think I should.

Because I don’t write for you.

I will fill line after line,

Page after page, book after book,

Until I fill a library with volumes of my words.

If I write a thousand books and have

A thousand editors write “Who cares?”

In red pen over my words, that doesn’t matter.

Because I care.

And I don’t write for them.

I write for no one but myself.

If I wrote for others,

There would be no joy in it.

I don’t write for the critics, the scoffers, the fools.

I don’t write for the ignorant masses that

Look at a carefully crafted poem and

Cannot find a speck of deeper meaning.

Their opinions mean nothing to me.

I write for myself.

I write, even though sometimes simply the

Act of holding a pen makes

My fingers ache down to the bone.

I write even though sometimes my hands hurt

As I type and fumble over the keys.

And I will keep writing, even if it hurts, because

I know that it would hurt much more to stop.

If I wake up one day and find that I can no longer

Move my fingers that will not stop me.

I will pick up my pen with my mouth

And learn to grip it between my teeth

And make it move across the page to form

The letters I once formed with my hands.

I will use my tongue to press each and every

Key on my keyboard, because even if

I type my words at a snail’s pace

At least the words are coming out.

If my teeth and tongue fail me,

I will hold my pen between my toes

And learn to write that way.

If that fails, I will try something else.

I will stop at nothing to get my words on paper.

I will keep writing.

One day, I will die.

I know it will happen,

And I’m not afraid of it.

But what I am afraid of is that

When my body has turned to ash,

My ideas too will turn to dust,

Be carried away, and disappear

As if they’d never existed.

But if I fill a million pages with my ideas,

At least they will be something tangible,

Something I can hold in my hands, look at, and say,

“I wrote this; this came from my mind, my heart, my soul.”

So, Dear World,

If you remember only one

Thing I say, remember this:

If you want me to stop writing,

You’ll have to kill me first.

And if you do,

If you take me and snap me in half

Like a cheap ballpoint pen,

I will bleed out on you.

I will leave my final writing

Stained permanently on your hands,

Not in scarlet red but with the

Jet-black ink that runs through my veins.

Because I am a writer.

Our Love

There’s something about the way you look at me,

As if I’m the only person that exists.

A look that sets me free,

A look I can’t resist.

Even though distance keeps us apart

And I’ve proven to be weak,

You still trust me with your heart

And you’re still the love I seek.

I want nothing more than to have you

Here by my side

To show you my love is true

And to know that you are mine.

So dearest love stay with me,

Show me worlds unknown.

When I’m with you you’re all I see,

And I want our love to show. 

Cat on a Sunbeam (older, but I'm finally posting it)

Sometimes I wish I could

Make myself smaller.

I wish I could trade my skin

For fur, my nails for claws,

And my hands and feet for paws.

I wish I could peer through glowing eyes

At a world of darkness.

I wish I could sharpen my claws

On the sandpaper of the Earth.

I wish I could curl up in a sunbeam

And purr myself to sleep,

Living a life simpler than this.

Abyss (older, but I'm finally posting it)

The rhythm traipses through

The abyss of mortality.

The breath of winter, with

Its starry icicles clawing at

The heartless moon,

Inscribes its soul on

The wings of my wounded faith.

The twisted vines of

Mermaid dreams

Embellish my marred flesh,

Obscuring the evidence of

My bonfire-bright abhorrence

And mirroring the endless

Seclusion of rock-bottomless

Sorrow and neglect.

Visions of cotton candy

Clouds collide with

The senseless recollections

Of constant criticisms and

Promises rendered empty.

Each mistake and malicious intent

Perpetuates the illusion

Of gossamer existence.

Pungent cologne,

Corpses of patio pain,

The rusted link of a

Chain and shackle that

Should be torn asunder.

Forced thoughts,

Well-meaning people

Attempting to repair me

And bind my wounds,

Illuminate the concealed

Remains of the hollow

Skeleton in the closet

Of my mournful spirit.

wake me (older, but finally posting it)

wake me when the sun goes to sleep

when each shadowed moment is mine to keep

wake me when the hand of time moves slow

and what happens in secret no one will know

We pretend (older, but I'm finally posting it)

We pretend life

is perfect.

We pretend the

masks we wear are

our true identities

and the throbbing pain

deep inside our souls

does not exist.

We pretend the

wind has substance,

that it can be

caught and tamed,

and waste our time

chasing it as if

it is the solution

to all life’s troubles.

We pretend that

truth does not exist,

but pretending

will not make it so.

We pretend,

but in the end

pretending gets us

nowhere. 

Letter to the Principal

I wrote this letter to the principal at my school, after some friends reported an increase in anti-LGBTQ* bullying at our school.

Tuesday, 22 April 2014

Dear Mr. Ellis:

My name is Hailey Saul. I am a senior here, an active member of the Gay-Straight Alliance, and I myself am a lesbian. I began to come out in November of 2012, midway into my junior year.

My purpose for writing this letter is to bring your attention to an increase in anti-LGBTQ* bullying in the past couple of weeks. As I am sure you are aware, the students in GSA, as well as a number of other students, recently participated in the National Day of Silence, a day of action in which students across the country vow to take a form of silence to call attention to the silencing effect of anti-LGBTQ* bullying and harassment in schools.

In the past two days, two of my peers have approached me and informed me that they have been bullied multiple times since the Day of Silence. Both of these peers are sophomore girls, one is a straight ally, while the other identifies with the LGBTQ* community. Both girls reported to me that, on multiple occasions over the past week and a half, they have been called “dyke,” “rug muncher,” etc. The phrase, “Go to hell, dyke,” has also been uttered. The second girl commented to me that she has been insulted more in the past two weeks than she has in the past two years. We do not know the identities of the perpetrators of this harassment, as they have not had the nerve to insult these girls face-to-face. Rather, they have been yelled at from across the quad, passing cars, etc.

I know that you take pride in the unique culture we have established here, and I have taken pride in that as well. Part of what made coming out less difficult for me was that I perceived our school to be a tolerant environment. In the past year and a half, since I began to come out, I have not had one person insult me to my face about my sexual orientation. I have always taken pride in telling my LGBTQ* friends from other schools and other States about how my school is a safe environment and I have not encountered any harassment. In light of this, I am appalled and disturbed by this regression.

I do not intend to generalize, but it appears to me that the harassment is occurring  primarily amongst the lowerclassmen. I, as a senior, have not heard anything negative since the Day of Silence, but my sophomore friends have been repeatedly harassed. Our school is supposed to be different. It would be a shame to lose that pride and integrity that we hold so dear as the upperclassmen graduate.

I understand that by participating in the Day of Silence, we did in a way “set ourselves up” for additional harassment, but I believe that this bullying, as any other cases of bullying, should be addressed. This harassment defeats the entire purpose of the Day of Silence. I hope and trust that you will take whatever measures you feel are appropriate and necessary. Thank you very much for your time.

Sincerely,

Hailey A. Saul

A Day of Silence

Written: Friday, 11 April 2014

Posted: Monday, 14 April 2014

There is something about silence that cannot be explained. In some ways, silence can contain within itself more power than words.

This morning, I woke up long before my alarm. On a typical day, immediately after awakening, I would jump out of bed and bring myself to a full state of consciousness by blasting music – usually Halestorm, 3 Days Grace, or sometimes P!nk – through my headphones while I select which men’s shirt I’m going to hide in my backpack until I get to school. How I am going to present myself once I’m outside of the house that hasn’t felt like a home in years, once I’m beyond the borders of the world where my orientation is a subject that we avoid like the plague for the sake of keeping the peace.

But this morning was different, because today is the Day of Silence. Instead of creating my usual musical escape to drown out my thoughts, I stayed in bed for awhile, gazing at the ceiling. In the semi-darkness, I allowed the silence to envelop me like a blanket. The stillness was calming, cleansing. I slowly rose, descended the stairs, and looked out my kitchen window to watch the sunrise.

The silence we are symbolizing today, however, is not so peaceful. The silence we symbolize is a prison that confines far too many members of the LGBTQ* community. It is a silence that enables anti-LGBT bullying to continue. It is a silence that both instills and results from fear and shame within the hearts of people who should not have to be afraid and ashamed to be the person they were born to be. It cuts deep holes in hearts, tears relationships apart and throws them to the ground like frayed scraps of fabric to be swept up and thrown into the trash, and too often steals away the lives of people who have so much to live for. Words hurt. Whoever said "Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me," was obviously delusional and most likely straight. But sometimes silence hurts even more.

Our silence today reminds us of, and awakens those around us to, the deadly cloud of silence that looms over our heads, spreading its poison like carbon monoxide filling our lungs. Our silence today is sacred and unifying. It connects those who have broken their silence, those who still live in silence, those who are in the middle ground between silence and speaking out, and those who simply care to see those who are bound by silence be made free.

Our silence today is strong, beautiful, and perhaps an even more powerful tool than words to put an end to the silence that hurts many everyday.

DAYofSILENCE.org

if i slumber

if i slumber
will i ever awake
if i succumb to the
darkness
will it consume me
snatch up my soul and
devour it
like a midnight snack

 hear my breath echoing

against the walls
feel the ache
of sleeplessness

 the thoughts that fly

flutter and spin in my
mind
my body and spirit
spiraling
free-falling

 i count my sorrows by

the minutes spent staring through
the night
and my joys by the delicious and
tantalizing
visions that occasionally find me
and my fears by the gut-wrenching and
horrific
nightmares that overtake me
more often than sweet dream

 i count each rip in my heart by

the tears my fingers have
made in my pillowcase
i number my broken dreams by
the times i wake up with a jolt
wishing that i could return to
my dream world
but knowing that the
next realm i visit
will be a land
of horror

 so i lie awake

force myself to subsist
on as little sleep as is
humanly
inhumanely
primitively
minimally
possible

 i’d rather remain frozen in a

permanent state of
insomnia
than face the
nightmares
that knock me
facedown and frightened
with my blankets on my
bedroom floor

Feel

*I wrote this one over a month ago, but never got around to posting it... It was right after my ex broke up with me... It's about how I wasn't able to feel the pain*

I don’t feel the pain.

But I can hear it.

Deep inside, I know

it’s there.

When I open my mouth

to talk about it,

my voice cracks,

chokes,

dies.

As my voice cracks,

my eyes leak.

Just a little.

Not much.

But enough.

Enough for me to

know that the

pain is there

and there’s enough

of it to make me cry.

When friends offer

their comfort,

it reminds me that

I need to be

comforted,

which means that

I’m hurting.

I know I need

the hugs,

but if I choose

to accept them,

I choose to

acknowledge the pain.

I know the pain

is there, but

I can’t feel it.

If I can’t feel,

how can I heal?

How will I know that

the pain is real?

How can I grieve?

I want to feel.

I just don’t want the pain.

Changing Seasons

Daylight comes.

Nighttime stays.

Bright blue skies

And cloudy days.

Touch of raindrop,

Sunshine sweet.

Silver snowflakes,

Pouring sleet.

Heart of silver,

Precious tears.

Changing of seasons,

Throughout the years.

spider web tale

weave for me a
pretty spider web tale
and I’ll listen to
every word

share with me

the delightful secrets
of the universe and
what lies beyond
 
unlock the untold
mysteries and show
me the answers to
all life’s questions
 
paint my name in
the midnight sky
and take my hand
so I can fly

Don't touch my life

What makes you think
that you’re entitled to be
a part of my life?
 
Is it that
we’ve known
each other
for so long,
been so close,
and you just
can’t let it go?

Are you still

grasping onto
the false hope
that maybe we’ll
reclaim what you
thought we once had?

If so, you’re

just kidding yourself.

It won’t happen.

It’s gone.

Stop holding on

to this twisted

delusion.

I’ve drawn this line.

Can’t you see it?

It separates me

from you and the

life we had.

See this line?

That’s where my

life begins.

Don’t cross it.

See this life?

It’s mine.

Don’t touch it.

frozen heart

take a lighter

burn my skin

light a fire

deep within

falling out the window

peering wide-eyed through

the cracked windowpane

of scarred skin and

bloody battles

knuckles turning white

from holding too tightly

to scarlet tissues

and hourglass dreams

quickly slipping from

the windowsill

wet with the dew

of seawater tears

gazing at the warm

light now out of reach

longing for the

safety and shelter

turning away

finding joy and love

in a new world

a new reality

What happened to that feeling?

It’s funny how we humans can lose feelings over time. We can have this overwhelming emotion, but within months, days, hours, sometimes even minutes, we forget what that experience felt like.

I recently experienced a moment where I remembered an emotion I haven’t felt in a long time. The feeling I had when I first started coming out. Isn’t it interesting that we can forget something so monumental like that? It’s been almost a year, and I’ve become so used to who I am that it is no longer something that I have to think about. I don’t think, therefore I am. I simply am.

Maybe that’s how it should be. It’s probably supposed to feel this natural. Who I am shouldn’t be a big deal. I shouldn’t feel something extra just because I’m not what the world would consider “normal.” It should feel normal to me, and it does. Maybe that’s how it should be, but sometimes I wish it wasn’t this way. Sometimes I wish it felt like something more.

Anyone who hasn’t come out (or who doesn’t have anything to come out about) can’t possibly know what it feels like. It’s indescribable. Imagine a world where a part of you must be locked up. Hidden. Caged in like an animal. Imagine that you are the one imprisoning yourself. That the cage – or “closet,” as we call it – is your own mind. Then imagine that feeling when you finally decide that you don’t want to live – if you can call it a life – in that cage anymore, and you finally reach out to someone. You can’t imagine it. You have to feel it.

I first started coming out on November 15, 2012. At that point, my sexual orientation was a part of me that I was so completely desperate to hide. I was scared, ashamed. I saw myself as a walking sin. I had spent years of my life, wasted years of my life, trying to pretend it all away. I thought that if I would just ignore it, then it would disappear. On November 14th, I finally decided that I’d had enough. I was in an extremely bad relationship with someone I honestly didn’t love, he had just gotten arrested (for beating his mother, no less), and I was exhausted. Putting on my happy face façade every morning and pretending that I was someone else was draining everything out of me and I couldn’t take it anymore. I was done. That night, I was emailing my best-friend/little-brother (who I knew was bisexual), and he knew that something was wrong. I told him that my boyfriend (ex-boyfriend now) had been arrested and also that there was something else on my mind, something I was really struggling to deal with. He asked me if I wanted to talk about it, and I suddenly had the feeling that I did. I arranged to meet him before school the following day to talk.

That night, I started to have second thoughts about coming out to him. Then I just took a look in the mirror. I kid you not, I looked my reflection in the eye and said to it, “You know what? You’re not straight! Suck it up and deal with it already!” The next morning, I met with my little brother to talk. I tried to tell him how I felt, who I was, but I couldn’t. Those two little words were on the tip of my tongue, but I simply couldn’t say them. I knew he was a safe person to tell, but I just couldn’t do it. My fear had such a fierce, intense hold on me that it simply wasn’t possible. So I wrote him a letter telling him everything. Even in the letter, I couldn’t just say it. I wrote at least a page-and-a-half discussing other topics, other struggles. I wrote about everything on my mind, except the one thing that I’d been dealing with for five years that, in reality, was probably the source of all of my other struggles in the first place. Finally, I decided that I’d stalled long enough and wrote out the two words that changed everything.

Later, he and I met up to talk again. I took out the letter and read it to him. I know that my voice must have been dripping with emotion, not because of what I was reading at first but from the anticipation of the part I would have to read. I was terrified, but I knew that I had to do it. For myself. I couldn’t keep living in a cage.

Finally, I reached the part that I’d been stalling on saying. I paused and took a deep breath, then finally said the two words that carried more depth, more meaning, than anything I’d ever said. “I’m bi.” I continued to read the rest of what I’d written. About my past relationships and how tired I was of it all. About my home life and how ashamed I felt. About how I wanted to stop feeling like there was something wrong with me. When I finished, he pulled me into what was probably the longest, most loving hug I’ve ever received.

After that moment, the first emotion I felt was a sense of relief. Someone knew my deepest secret, and it was okay. There was no judgment, no condemnation.

About a week ago, I came across the email conversation I had with him later that night. It was nothing incredibly special, and I think that perhaps that is why it is special. There was no pomp and circumstance about my orientation. It was just a conversation between a bi girl (that’s what I identified as at the time) and her bi brother. A week ago, when I reread that email, all the emotion of that time came back to me.

As I sat there reading through that email again, I could almost feel myself wearing my favorite sweatshirt over my favorite spaghetti strap. I could almost feel the weight of my favorite blanket draped over my shoulders. And above all, I could feel the novelty of it all.

In that email, we talked a bit about my letter, but it was mostly just random conversation. At one point, he mentioned his boyfriend (ex-boyfriend now, but boyfriend at the time). I remember how different that felt. Talking to a guy about his boyfriend, and that actually being ­okay. Normal, even.

Suddenly I felt like I was in a new world. A new reality. A world where everything I’d been taught was wrong and that meant that suddenly I was free. Free to be myself. A world where I didn’t have to be afraid to be who I am. A world where suddenly it was okay to talk about my orientation instead of hiding it like it was some disease that I didn’t want anyone to see. In this strange new reality, it was okay for me to talk about thinking that a girl was cute. It was okay to see two guys kissing or two girls holding hands. It felt strange, but pleasant.

I carried that feeling with me for months, all through Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s, even into St. Valentine’s Day. All through the cool fall and the frigid winter, I carried that feeling. Everything had a new meaning to me. Everything I did had a new purpose to it.  Even the simple act of ­­breathing was different. The air that entered my lungs felt, smelled, different than it had before.

As I read that email, I could feel that sense of the cool autumn air. I could imagine the fall decorations that decorated the mantle of the kitchen fireplace. I could smell that warm autumn scent, with the pumpkins and just that feeling that the world outside was cool but I was inside all nice and cozy. Then I could imagine the atmosphere beginning to change as the weather grew colder and the autumn leaves on the kitchen mantle were replaced by a Christmas tree in the living room and stocking holders on the mantle of the family room fireplace. I could smell the peppermint. The snicker-doodles  sugar cookies, hot cocoa, pumpkin pie. These scents carried with them a different meaning because they came at the same time as a new sense of freedom. I walked through life with a different attitude, a different outlook. That time wasn’t perfect. I didn’t suddenly have everything together simply because I came out to one person. It didn’t take away all of my other struggles. But it changed my world. Life was different for me.

I don’t feel that emotion anymore. I don’t carry that feeling with me everywhere I go. Now, the only emotion I feel connected to my orientation is that occasional fear. The fear I get when I’m around my “family.” That’s the only time I don’t feel like I can be myself. Yes, there’s that sense of freedom when I can be myself. But when I do feel like I can be myself, it doesn’t feel like there’s anything extraordinarily special about it. It’s just normal. And I wish that it did feel more special. I wish it had the feeling it used to have.

The other day, I asked someone how it is that we lose the feeling we get when we first come out. She responded, “You don’t.” If that’s true, then why can’t I feel it anymore? If other people keep that feeling, why didn’t I? What happened to that feeling? And will I ever get it back?