And so we decide it’s better to be alone
than to be hurt.
After years of experience we believe
it’s best to kill what makes us human
than to let it kill us.
So we fight during the day and surrender
to regret during the night because fear
never filled empty spaces, it just made
I am doing this old school, putting pen to paper.
Like 13 years ago when I started writing this mess down,
learned that violence can inspire creativity.
On the floor, the bed dragged to the door,
mommy told me not to make much noise because dad
was convinced he was alone.
In case he heard me, got upset and kicked the door down
there was only one way, jump out of the window
to the grass that, I swear, was never the greener.
I found a gift in your violence, beauty in the bruises
that covered my mother’s body every time you saw the
bottom of the bottle.
I found words beneath the insults to write down my anger,
to make sure it doesn’t boil inside of me turning me into the
drunk, selfish monster you came to be.
#savingme is the column where abuse victims can publish their experiences just to let go and find comfort and support. Maybe it doesn’t feel like much but just publishing your story for others to read makes you strong. You can send your story about the abuse you went through to email@example.com and you can choose if you want it to be anonymous or not. More details here.
Can’t you see it’s still me behind this mask.
I thought you would see through this version of me.
Just believe there are good intentions behind this.
I know that the road to hell is paved with good intentions
but I am paving my road back to me. Can’t you hear
these tired steps that I am taking?
I am scared to let anyone touch me.
I am scared to let anything touch me.
I am scared because I can’t remember anymore
what I buried under these layers of denial.
I have been staring at this piece of paper forever.
I can’t pick up the pen and write a single line.
Maybe I’ve lost my way with words.
Maybe I just lost my feelings for you.
Maybe you left my system after all those years
of writing only about my memories of you.
The emptiness of this room whispers
to me with the same pain you had in your voice:
“Sometimes love just isn’t enough”
With those words you made the poetess
in me want to set on fire all of the poems she wrote.
If not love, then what?
I always believed happiness wouldn’t give me
a thing to write about but then I meet you and realized
that every movement of your imperfect being is a
poem waiting to be engraved on my skin