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 firstname.lastname@example.org 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.
It doesn’t really hurt anymore. It hasn’t in a while.
Sometimes the memories float through my
mind and make me shiver but it doesn’t
hurt anymore. It hasn’t in a while. Sometimes
I miss you before closing my sleepy eyes and
I feel like I can feel your touch but it doesn’t
hurt anymore. It hasn’t in a while.
Years and years ago people waited for the
pain to go away, for the heart to heal and then
they were alright, but now it’s hard to clean one’s
life from a former lover’s presence. You are
virtually reminding me that you’re not mine but it
doesn’t hurt anymore. It hasn’t in a while.
To hell with pain, I can deal with that but I
can’t deal with not being able to escape your
eyes and move on with my life. You are always looking
at me from pictures, reminding me of what we
had and even thought it doesn’t hurt anymore,
and it hasn’t in a while, I’m still sitting here waiting
for your presence to go offline.
I’m waiting for your name to stop being on the top
of my messenger contacts. I’m waiting for my hand
to stop clicking your name wanting to write something.
I’m waiting for Instagram stories to stop telling me
where you are. I’m waiting for the day I’ll stop opening
them. I’m waiting for our pictures to disappear from
my gallery. I’m waiting for a day I’ll be strong enough
to delete them like you deleted me.
But it doesn’t really hurt anymore. It hasn’t in a while.
The road is dark, the steps are heavy.
With each breath you gain more understanding
for his actions, for his addictions.
You look in the mirror and the reflection smiles
saying that you look just like your father.
Every lunatic needs his doomed heir.
In the end her weak spot was her heart
because it was louder than her mind and
you knew how to use that to your advantage.