They give extra points for alacrity and effulgence
I memorized every word
every.
single.
word.
of the 2000 cheerleading film
Bring It On
and my favorite part
was when Missy Pantone
put on that stupid Toros skirt
and no one
not a single fucking person
not a one of you
said
hey
maybe you like girls
it took me another
14 years to realize
hey
maybe
given my obsession with Bring It On,
Maria Bello’s 25 episodes of ER,
and literally anything Sandra Bullock has ever done,
at minimum
we should put bisexuality
on the table
please purchase me a ticket to the stage performance of Christopher Meloni: Zaddy
in two thousand and twelve, he departed
left his millions of fans broken-hearted
ten years he was gone
then swift as a swan
he came back to the place he had started
and finally this man with a booty
returned to tv for his duty
he’d roll up his sleeves
fans hearts he relieves
when he graces primetime with his beauty
in a suit that fits like a glove
to his nemesis he gives a shove
and the actor, you pray,
that the role he will play
is a man who is truly in love
May 24, 2013
after Law & Order: SVU, 15×01 “Surrender Benson”
I turn 25 in
a twin bed built for a
college student meet my
family for birthday
dinner and while over-
sized portions of beans and
rice and enchiladas
settle and the staff sings
Feliz Cumpleanos
over Fried Ice Cream, I
am trying not to cry
Everything is fine, I
tell myself, a mantra
so constant I don’t know
where I start and it ends.
I am lost unsure who
I am unsure why I
should celebrate this day
blow out the candle, smile
at my family, and
wonder what they would do
if they knew how often
I think about my death
it’s the second quarter
of my life and I am
tired of pretending
pretending I know what
I want pretending I
know who I am pretend-
ing every decision
I’ve made over the last
two years has been the right
one pretending I do
not wish that everything
was, that I was different
that I could breathe without
wanting to up and die
in a different uni-
verse, somewhere in New York
between Westhampton and
Montauk, there is a beach
home painted grey with wood
shake siding and a brick
chimney and whitewashed french
colonial doors it
is quiet, mostly, the
owners spend winter in
the city it is just
before Memorial
Day and they haven’t yet
come back for the summer
tepid water laps at
the foundation and the
empty field it faces
(really more of a swamp)
means the dead-end road is
eerie and private, just
perfect for relaxing
Long Island summers the
occasional weekend
getaway and torture
if you’re standing near the
house at the right time, you
can hear a woman scream
after nearly four days
of brutal physical
and cruel emotional
torture, bloodied and bruised
she stands over his limp
body his hands cuffed to
the wrought iron bed frame
momentarily she
considers torturing
him back but pauses drops
the blow torch she’d tested
in a flash he’s awake,
goading her from his cuffed
position on the floor
she tries to take it in
stride, keep her wits about
her, but she can’t seem to
with all the strength she can
muster, she pushes through
her broken wrist, cracked ribs
and concussion picks up
a metal bar and moves
beats him nearly to death
just before wrapping her
hands around the metal
bar, she catches herself
in the mirror she is
distraught exhausted feels
broken alone unsure
who she is or why she
is trying to survive
I know a terrified
and lost little girl when
one sees her reflection
I looked a terrified
and lost little girl in
the eye on that same day,
in my own universe
we don’t share trauma, but
we move forward in such
similar ways we try
to let other people
in and we try to heal
no one ever tells you
that trauma rewires your
brain they just expect you
to figure out that it
has and that to mend, you
(and only you) have to
do something about it
it takes years for me for
Her, sometimes we wonder
“how did I become this
happy?” and other times,
it’s “why am I so sad?”
eventually, we see
questioning who you are
who your trauma has pushed
you to be isn’t bad
it isn’t wrong it does
the one thing you always
assumed that trauma could
never do, for you learn
that it doesn’t break you
it makes you
Melissa Boles (she/her) is a Salt Lake City-based writer and an impatient optimist who believes that storytelling is humanity’s most incredible miracle. You can find her work at melissaboles.com, and you can always find her on Twitter, talking about writing, mental health, and her love of film and television, at @melloftheball.