The Writer

 I will write myself out of paper bags, out of rusted iron cages, out of steel prisons, and out of the saran wrap that places itself over my lips, streams around me like the garland of a Christmas tree, then tightens against my jugular and suffocates me. I will write myself out of suicide, out of the popping tops off pill bottles, out of hollow veins and empty houses that families used to call "home."

 I will write myself out of starvation,
 Out of scales
 That are
 Bundled quietly
 In their packages,
 Labeled as
 "Self Worth"
 Or
 "Social Acceptance,"

 That chain themselves to
 Emaciated women's ankles
 Who file out,
 One by one,

 Into social settings

 Where no one knows
 That they are
 Picking at their food,
 Spitting it into napkins,
 Then sneaking off to the bathroom
 To dine on laxatives,

 While they
 Ache
 For
 Anything
 To make them vomit
 As much as
 Their own appearances do.

 I will write myself out of abusive relationships, where the heavy thumbs of rigid kings never stop pressing on the brains of broken queens with bruised countenances and no open windows to breathe. I will write myself out of the agony of broken fingers, stubbed toes, torn ligaments and deteriorating bones. I will write myself out of tragedy, out of burning houses with searing flesh and the horrid cries of dreams that have been suffocated and reduced to ash. I will write myself out of the fear that nags and locks my jaw, that devours my screaming mind as it begs for mercy, that drags its nails across the chalkboards of a good night's rest, that poisons the soil before the quiet seeds sprout, that leaves nothing but a cycle of endless drought and toil. I will write myself out of being the butt of every joke, being torn down because of my lack of eloquence, and being taunted when there is egg smeared all over my face.

 I will write myself out of the
 Sidewalk grating,
"Mental throw-down"
 Of rejection

 Just because
 I refuse to let men pry open
 The locks of my body
 And my soul
 And devour me
 Until I'm a putrid gaping hole,

 Or because I just wasn't what she was.

 I will write myself out of your sarcasm and your lack of applause, I will write myself out of your belief that you are God or know God more than I do. I will write myself out of your pretentious, overbearing guidance.
 I will write myself out of goat-heads and sand burrs, when they are up to my knees because I was stupid enough to walk around with big faith in the calloused pads of my feet. I will write myself out of your lack of faith in me. I will write myself out of your malicious tongue and on my way out, I'll push her right off of her pedestal. I will write myself out of my own stupidity and your snickers when I stick my foot in my mouth again, or when stupid Jade "cries wolf," and when she loses all of her friends.
 I will write her out of her drug addiction, and you out of your manipulation, and her out of her arrogance and you out of your pride. I will write myself a sonnet and convince myself that my body is more than just a fleshy mosquito feast, and that my head is more than static cling, and my mouth is more than a quick release or the barrel of a gun. I will write you out of the fact that you didn't know I was a time bomb.

 I will write myself out of the psychological rape that is gossip. I will write myself out of failed papers and all the days that I played hooky from work or lied to get out of chapel. I will write myself out of tweezing my eyebrows or drawing blood because my compulsive mind washed my own hands, once again, one too many times. I will write myself out of faking that I actually like you and want to be your friend, and I will write myself out of admitting that I don't always like to be kissed. I will write myself out of the relationships that failed and I will write myself out of the way my soap still smells like your body. I will write myself out of the asphalt I eat every time I try to mend the broken sheets of a story in my mind that was so concrete that I can't let it go.
 I will write myself out of being a pitiful shell and a gruesome excuse of a person.

And I will be a woman--
Full forced,
Bold legged,
Strong armed
And
Steel frame minded.

 I will boldly and honestly walk the paths I was terrified to venture down and I will do it without a man leading me around by the nose, or the applaud of the crowd. And above all things, when I get to the end, torn up and gushing from the thorns of my pen, I will bind my truths, no matter how ugly or horrifying they actually are.

And I,
The Written,

Will stand

As naked as an open book,

As raw as a gaping wound,

As docile
As a naive child,

To be ravaged through

By you.