Sickly sweet
like poisonous sap
drinking your innocence
you sit on his lap
An explosive laugh
contageous to guests
as thunderous
as his angry fists
Smile so bright
music so pulling
his web of deceit
so soft, so lulling
trapped inside it
there is no escape
you love him
you hate him
despite the rapes
stay away little girls
you're of no consequence
Daddy doesn't care
about your innocence
Sunday, March 15, 2015
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
Film
A film of self-defense
self-denial
Denial altogether
covering the lenses
of eyes that never cried
denial of the inside
the red heat of self
dark cataracts to reality
cauterizing release
blocking the view
of wounds that
never healed
blackened and charred
the chips fall away
like obsidian teardrops
tiny shadowed tears
This film covering my reality
a lifetime
of denial.
A lifetime of unknowing
self-denial
Denial altogether
covering the lenses
of eyes that never cried
denial of the inside
the red heat of self
dark cataracts to reality
cauterizing release
blocking the view
of wounds that
never healed
blackened and charred
the chips fall away
like obsidian teardrops
tiny shadowed tears
This film covering my reality
a lifetime
of denial.
A lifetime of unknowing
Monday, March 9, 2015
Between knowing and accepting
I recently had a harsh reality slap my face. I am not sure what hurt most...that I fell for this incident or that I came to a solid conclusion as a result or that I ..........
I was so hurt; used by someone to hurt someone else.
The kicker was this: I was helping because I was asked to. Someone I've never really known as a mother, reached out to me. I felt like I had a chance to prove myself to her. That's the truth.
That's the truth.
Then I did what I was trained to do as a life coach. I asked the proper questions so she could find her own answers. I was honest with her and I felt proud that she was recognizing me - ME - of all people as some source of help when my entire life I've been nothing. Less than nothing to her (despite her claims otherwise. Actions speak louder than words and her actions have contradicted her words for my entire life).
I fell for it.
Being used to hurt someone else I love, made me very, very angry.
It also fortified the disdain I've felt for this stranger I'm supposed to call "mom" or "mother."
But in the end, the worst part of it was the realization of my desperate need to have been loved and nurtured and worth something to her. I didn't know that need was there and had dismissed her entirely as a broken, manipulative user - someone I would never be.
I did not like her. I definitely didn't love her.
But I guess deep inside somewhere I never touched, I needed her to love me and I needed to matter but when I was two years old she left and we (my brother and I) were in foster care. Didn't know where she'd gone. My father was in prison. Family tried to locate her but she was nowhere to be found.
To hear her tell it, completely different story in which (of course) she's the victim but I know she was on drugs. I've heard many things about that time but I do know my brother and I did not experience the nurturing and love we should have. A lot of drugs. A lot of sex as infants.
The truth is out and has been, but I've not been surprised.
What surprised me most was the realization I needed her acceptance.
Now I am confused and floating in this space of uncertainty.
"When all that I've known is lost, and found..."
That's it. Limbo. Or, according to my therapist, "liminal space"
When I was little, I revered Florence Nightingale. I wanted to be her. I spent hours in front of anatomy charts and I remembered every bone in the body. I started learning every muscle, too.
I read her books. I wrote. I got published. "Mom" missed all that.
I had little to no encouragement for my passions. I was a walking zombie. Devoid of any direction except to be good. "Be good."
I wasn't "good."
I never was good.
Nor was I ever good enough.
This is called a "breakthrough."
And it hurts like a javelin shoved through my skull, from head to toe, split in half.
It also makes me afraid to move forward, but I know I will.
This was the least of my pains. The other stuff....I am afraid what "breakthroughs" will be there.
I was so hurt; used by someone to hurt someone else.
The kicker was this: I was helping because I was asked to. Someone I've never really known as a mother, reached out to me. I felt like I had a chance to prove myself to her. That's the truth.
That's the truth.
Then I did what I was trained to do as a life coach. I asked the proper questions so she could find her own answers. I was honest with her and I felt proud that she was recognizing me - ME - of all people as some source of help when my entire life I've been nothing. Less than nothing to her (despite her claims otherwise. Actions speak louder than words and her actions have contradicted her words for my entire life).
I fell for it.
Being used to hurt someone else I love, made me very, very angry.
It also fortified the disdain I've felt for this stranger I'm supposed to call "mom" or "mother."
But in the end, the worst part of it was the realization of my desperate need to have been loved and nurtured and worth something to her. I didn't know that need was there and had dismissed her entirely as a broken, manipulative user - someone I would never be.
I did not like her. I definitely didn't love her.
But I guess deep inside somewhere I never touched, I needed her to love me and I needed to matter but when I was two years old she left and we (my brother and I) were in foster care. Didn't know where she'd gone. My father was in prison. Family tried to locate her but she was nowhere to be found.
To hear her tell it, completely different story in which (of course) she's the victim but I know she was on drugs. I've heard many things about that time but I do know my brother and I did not experience the nurturing and love we should have. A lot of drugs. A lot of sex as infants.
The truth is out and has been, but I've not been surprised.
What surprised me most was the realization I needed her acceptance.
Now I am confused and floating in this space of uncertainty.
"When all that I've known is lost, and found..."
That's it. Limbo. Or, according to my therapist, "liminal space"
When I was little, I revered Florence Nightingale. I wanted to be her. I spent hours in front of anatomy charts and I remembered every bone in the body. I started learning every muscle, too.
I read her books. I wrote. I got published. "Mom" missed all that.
I had little to no encouragement for my passions. I was a walking zombie. Devoid of any direction except to be good. "Be good."
I wasn't "good."
I never was good.
Nor was I ever good enough.
This is called a "breakthrough."
And it hurts like a javelin shoved through my skull, from head to toe, split in half.
It also makes me afraid to move forward, but I know I will.
This was the least of my pains. The other stuff....I am afraid what "breakthroughs" will be there.
Wednesday, March 4, 2015
Bloody Salt
Unheard and unheeded
Lonely drops of salt
Turn inward
To tears of fault
Turning to blood
Infused with toxicity
Self-loathing
For unknown
Reasons, beyond understanding
The unspoken need
For love
Never received
Constant need
For worth
Proof of worth
Beaten and swallowed
In salty blood tears
Never revealed
Unseen...
By the very one who cries them
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)