(who blew the bulb ?) everywhere is bright    ever­ything is eyes   can't see you    in your mirror-mail-shard suit    i'm blinded  /  bladed  /  paraded to the roots / hear this chime ? /  this overwhelming chime / it's in all the things but    has predatory gut / it’s not vital  /  it’s hurt  /  spumming out allure    evident byproduct    you've stuffed it all down    clutted all the drains    of your fawning audience   burning hair   compounded the body    with capillary blain  / majesty,   your maj-jest-tea ;   it’s dishonesty ; you are what you are but you don't want to be-(you're not pleased) get you down from there sire ( if-you-please )  and grow an honest hovel / everything’s on discount    mo­ther-******* discount    it's a travesty    you are a misery (dismount) you were far from what you harm    now you keep it close    you snake just like a charmer / you slither you basket  you rascal  piping lewd at the tourist youths / such a hassle / bring on photography   the *******    it's embarrassing   it’s emm-bhar-rass-sing     (who blew the bulb ?)

You do it a
little at a time.
You start a holocaust at
5:30 am, over your
sausage and instant
coffee.

You do it with
your small hatred
and your snide
comments--your prideful
looks at the ***** man
with no shoes.

You do it in
one moment, by not
calling your dying
brother
over childhood
trivialities.
You do it by gassing
the goldfish, flushing love
down the toilet;
clogging the sewers with
your hatred and
malevolence.

You watch the green
grass die and the ants
drown, while you
smile over your
newspaper, and plot
your next hostile
takeover.
You did it when
you punched the
dog, and pinched
the child.
You do it when
you smile.

You're a mean
one Mr. Finch,
Mrs. Jones,
Mr. Smith.
But guess what?
You are dying alone.
Every day, every second,
and the moon and the
sun and the stars
celebrate your demise
and so do I.
You've never lost
any thing.
To loose, you must be
found.
You have to have a
bit of gamble in you.
You don't.
You're as useless
as an eel in
a quiche.

She saw him
My mother saw him her abuser
Eye to eye they stared at each other
For him to laugh and look down in embarrassment
For her to leave all shaken up
Now her kids are too terrified to leave home
Incase they see him...

I’m numb below the ankle
I walk on your eggshells
I pay no kind to splinters
I stomp on your land of glass

but in the middle of the night
when one sleeps so soundly
I weep at the sight of my wounds
for they do not ache a bit

I can stitch them myself again
using thread from my knickers
I make it much easier for you
to do as you do, I’m still bleeding

consequently I’ve left in shards
this repeats most every time
and at mid-sky I do it all again
I hear crunching beneath my skin

I think that’s why I feel nothing
nothing below the ankle
nothing below the belt
I’m cast away in a body of glass

jeans sell for more
with a stone wash
stretching and tearing
gives straight legs
like you a hole
lot more soul

It's HIS birthday today
THE MAN who ruiend me
he was meant to be my DADDY
Not my abuser
Why did GOD
Have to create him....

They say “use your voice”
What they don’t realize is that my voice is deep within my stomach
And I cannot find it
How can I find the words to explain what I’ve been through
And how I’m feeling when I’m in fear
Fearing I’d only be laughed at
Being afraid that nobody would believe me
And only believe my abuser
How can I compete with someone who is far much older than me
Because I’m just a “child who doesn’t know what she’s talking about”
So the only friend I have is my silence
Because she understands everything I’m going through
And I don’t have to say a word to her

So many can never find the words, the feelings,
because if they speak, what they know
It becomes a solidified highlight reel,
and not just a spiel, a tale told in the confines of safety to a person with a ticket that transforms them into the audience.

They devour the reel of desperation and despair,
The hurt child deep inside that starts through the mind, and leaks through the pours of your adult body, it paralyses you with fear, ruins your relationships, destroys the peaceful nights and waking moments.

It slaps you with a ghost hand and phantom pain, reaching from the past to remind you in the present that it still lingers,
they are still there  and they always will be, that it is their job to inflict pain.

Just one moment, one semblance of safety, is when the person with the ticket shows up to your screening, reaches for that ghost hand, and instead of twisting and pushing it away like you always beg, plead and scream to do
they grab the hand, hold it and say:

"This trauma is real, not a show, not a highlight reel, I will guide your scenes, your desperate cries and pleas, and I will help your child heal"