Why is it that since we were kids, only you can make me cry?
As if my feelings were fire and my body was trying to put out the flames...

How did we once occupy the same space?
that made us both the fierce competitors we are today.



Maybe we are more the same
then I like to see.

Maybe that's a lie.

Maybe I want us to be more the same.



But I know what we really are.
Fire and Water.

Unable to live and let the other thrive.
Our very existence squelches all hope for peace.

The thing about growing is that sometimes
it looks like leaving people behind,
growing out of them.

Caught up in the outcome, the rainbows and sunshine,
I find myself needing to be reminded of the journey, one dominated by pain and re-forming.

Is it selfish to want better for yourself?
Is it fake to change, to be different than the origin?
Is it wrong to live in your truth even if others don't see it as so?


If so, throw the first stone.

But don't be surprised when I use it to build something beyond Your wildest dreams.

If so, light a match.
Set me on fire.

And watch as I shine brighter than the stars in the sky .
As my light flickers on your face.
As beautiful strength rises from the ashes.

I may be selfish, but it is me who got me here, and me who will remain.

When I recount the abuse years later to my lukewarm father,
I don't know why I expected anything different then the sting of
"Why didn't you tell me?".

He asks, WHY.
My answer is HOW?

How do you tell the grown man you see every weekend that your brother's father beats you during the week

And your mother lets him

sneak into your sister's room while you cry in the closet.


What my dad doesn't realize is that his words don't heal,
but instead rip open my homemade sutures.

I love him.
He has good(ish) intentions.
But his questions and intentions sit in the air
because I refuse, and the little girl in me refuse,
to consume *******.

No, thank you.

The only thing we are looking for is help
in getting a professional
to come with real sutures and real support.

They say mothers know best, but
who knows best when your mother is not a mother,
but instead a statue made of lies, stunted by fear and frozen by addiction, and her mother turns a blind eye?
It is still hard for me to wrap my mind around them standing there, seeing my hurt, watching me cry, and being unmotivated to act.

I try to put myself in their bodies, their minds, and understand.
How could you hear the cries through the walls, the muffled screams into pillows, AND STILL BE SILENT.




BUT then it all comes back to me.
To be a woman in this family is
to step out of your body and say
"I am not here" in order to survive.

And I realize I don't have to step into their bodies.
Their bodies lie in mine.
Every time His skin connects with mine
their skin screams out too...
Because their skin makes up to surface of mine.

But my mind separates us, makes us different.
It decided to evolve past the ****** up narratives
of being silent, of "taking it", of simply surviving.
Because when they chose to protect themselves,
it is me who went unprotected.

If we pay close attention,
our values can lead us to our deepest pain.

You see,
I value loyalty
over most things.

From the outside that can seem admirable.

but my hunger for loyalty comes from the Monstrous Betrayal
CARRIED
by the little girl I once was.