Atlantic City [poetry live | open mic]


Tonight this is a significant poem. I
wrote it about a significant time in my life, but then also… significant for it’s
the first time I actually ever cursed in a poem. I was like oh my God, can I do this. And that’s the second part, the
first part, the beginning, is an addendum that I just added on maybe like a
year or so ago or longer than that. it’s to go along. Anyway this is Atlantic City. it stays with you even after you run
more than a thousand miles away to the other side of the country, still you
swear you just saw his face in the crowd. it stays with you and you
question whether you would ever go to the cops again because I swear for a
long time it was something I would not recommend. it was eight plus hours of
hell, repeating myself, alone, exhausted, left to stand commando… but I won’t go
any further because these lines are already too tmi. it
stays with you deep, deep in the back of your mind, then a hashtag becomes a
movement and you want to speak up but mostly you just stay quiet and
empathize in silence. it stays with you so long you make the date your pin number.
it stays with you and then you write an ode to its memory so you never ever
have to repeat the story it will always come down to whom you
believe, in a he said, she said contest of wills, the public still tends to
be quite naive of who was right, what was wrong, as many stories exist as people
to tell, and everyday it seems another version comes along, half-assed at best
passed between those claiming to be in the know, personal friends of us all, like
fools they fucked for gossip and still can’t get it right but I remember way to
well it was June and a party was on that night. we were all down at the local pub,
our own private personal club that always accepted new members fresh off the boat. it was the beginning of another summer, another endless party til Labor Day
and I had just found my first Irish cutie. we teased, tested and tasted the
waters… everything was fine, everything was fun, it was supposed to be. but he knows I know whose face I saw by the boardwalk light, and he knows I know whose hands I felt rubbing my skin, and he knows I know another saw him, that Irish cutie I was with,
who caught a glimpse, whom I haven’t seen since. he knows I know what happened next,
in that tiny hostel hotel and what happened next and the
day after that as my life was dragged to hell and back. you’re a slut, a bitch and
such I cannot say, while he became the martyr. yeah, I heard how they shook your
hand at the bar and grovelled at your feet gall filled me because they didn’t
believe, but I had my friends, allies and truth on my side, but is it
enough as I lay scarred for the rest of my life, all because I slept with some guy and that *mothereffer*
took it as some personal invite he had no right. I was with someone else,
sleeping beside that sweet Irish cutie, until that guy so rudely awakened me, and that summer was never the same, well we all know assault is never a pretty sight. it was supposed to be fun. it was
supposed to be amazing. it was my last summer in Atlantic City. funny, it still was.

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