I choose to be sad and real Instead of happy but fake Internally gaslit So that other people Are comfortable in their bullshit While force feeding it Into my mouth.
It looks like cooking And waiting for the food To burn just right.
It feels like being annoyed at roommates Doing whatever they want and Not washing a wine glass That they know you use And had also drank from.
It sounds like the fire of the stovetop Burning hotter and hotter As the depression swallows me up In its suffocatingly comforting waters.
When the food is done The leftovers are heated up And the juice is poured Into a recycled Pure Leaf tea bottle, I am just simply being In my sadness.
I accidentally Made my roommate’s Pad fall into the toilet And all I did Was wipe off the water And put it back on the Medicinal container.
It dried and looks like Nothing happened.
They won’t know What had happened. I mean they aren’t good With telling me things either.
They’re even worse With not noticing When I need someone to Be there for me.
Sad and real Is not a trend A hashtag Or a movement.
I simply am being What I am At this moment, Even if it means Doing it alone.
Image Description: Black text on white square block image reads a short writing/mini poem as follows below.
I feel safe under the trees. They move in the gentle Motion of the wind. I know I can rest now. I know that my body Will not be exploited. I know that my rest Will not be politicized. I can fantasize, Romanticize Anything in my dreams. My inner child And I are one. I am free In the wide landscape Of slumber.
I am the moon and the stars, the sun and the comets.
I fall like rain and rise in time with the tides.
I flow with winds that travel beside mountains from times of old.
I am at once the wonder and also the terror.
I have known and hold both innocence and perversion within the confides of my soul.
My body has been torn apart then put back togther with the scraps of sanity I grabbed with each trial I suffered.
I know the gray areas are only bridges that keep the infinity within me anchored.
And that makes me no less the powerful human I am right now, the one I always will be.
I am Jourdan R. Lobban.
And I am Riv J. Lobban, Riv-Rayne J. Divinity.
I know that I am a survivor, a warrior, a miracle baby and person whose existence is worth celebrating.
I am at peace with the light and dark within myself. And I love all parts of me from feriociously ugly to downright beautiful.
For everything I have done that is unspeakable, I hold myself with compassion, nurturing, love, and non-judgemental, unconditional accpetance. I know that the reasons why I did those things came from parts of me deeply wounded from all the trauma I experienced.
I know who I am. I embrace who I am. I accept who I am.
I am the king who defies all.
A queen of her own right.
A downright Godx With An Edge.
And most importantly, a flame that lights up in the dark without any fucking apology.
There isn’t a specific pinpoint for the peculiarity of this new stage in my life.
I could be poetic in my description, however, only one phrase best sums all the my emotions and sensations I feel inside of me.
And that is, “What the actual fuck?”
Extra, extra emphasis on the word “fuck”.
I moved out of the only home I ever really knew and took a one-way train ride to the one and only buckeye state. Most of the things in my possession are already destroyed by the trash compactor because I had to throw out almost everything I had. There were journals, books, clothes even, and it still had to be removed from my life. And in addtion to cleaning out my entire dorm room, setting up my new phone with service that I now pay for, booking an Air Bnb for a week while I figured out a longer-term housing situation, and filling out electronic paperwork for leaving my university permanently, everything was preparing me for leaving Delaware, my childhood home as well as prison, behind.
Forever.
I spent most of my short twenty-one year life living from bedroom to bedroom. The one bedroom I spent the years of my early childhood to my late teen years is seared into my head like a hot iron emitting pulsing gas while stuck into cooling water. The four walls covered in paintings picked by my parents, banners with my deadname drawn in the style of Philadephia Zoo artists from when I was child posted above my bedroom door and ontop of my windows to the outside world. Back then, my neighborhood was the whole world to me. Walking around the many streets, with varying houses and townhouses, listening to birds who sung their hearts out in joy of their freedom, it was all I really knew. It took many years before I was allowed to walk outside, and then all over the neighborhood. It never made sense to me until I was older why I never received a key to the house, which was that my father never wanted me to have true autonomy over myself and my life. So for the time I was naive, I relished whatever little liberation I received. Those walks were little sneak peaks into a life I dreamt in secret of having, one where I went wherever I wanted without needing anyone’s permission, made new friends, experienced rad as hell adventures, and fell in love with wonderful people, hoping one of them was my soulmate. I was sincerely envisioning for a one-and-done type of deal. Whenever I came back to the house, the deepest parts of my subconscious knew I was officially back in the cage again, never knowing when I would taste the exhiliration of liberation once more.
That was my life for twenty years. And I thought it would stay like that for the rest of my life, a sanity-searing cycle of broken promises, violent codependence, and brief, rare moments of the freedom I so long craved. It was all my body knew how to live on. It was what I was conditioned to experience.
A nightmare will never be enought to describe it, but it was a nightmare, a nightmare I slowly began waking up from.
I wasn’t ready, no way in hell for sure. But it was happening, and I realized soon enough I needed to get ready.
It was time for me to break out of my own tower. The motivation?
Nightmares are Dreams 