My father used to be a stranger
occupying the same 4 walls I sheltered in
Occasionally offering me a tea
But forgetting I don’t drink milk.
He introduced me to the feeling of rage,
A mechanical voice box goading chemical reactions,
My catalyst, if you will.
Now we drink oat lattes together
And swear to fill the silence,
But it’s comfortable.
And when he messing up acronyms,
I correct him.
I don't pretend to know why Eve ate the apple
but I know she's not the one who ****** us.
He created Her for Him.
A Marionett made on a whim, discarded.
The predesecor to the ****** Mother.
Mary, I'm so sorry.
I wonder who realised first their limbs had strings?
A lamb and a shepard
Born for slaughter.
We were all daughters once.
I sat through sermons week in, week out,
never a doubt about where I was meant to fit.
I wonder what my daughters opinion is on having never been born.
I stopped reading the bible before I could discover the word for a Childless Mother but I'm pretty sure it's Women.
What does that make me.
When I eat an apple,
I like to cut it into slices and eat each segment individually.
I'll throw away the seeds, nibble at the core, discard the skin.
We were told she took a bite
but I often wonder just how Eve committed her sin
and what is taste like.
I do not begrudge Eve the apple.
I begrudge Adam the audactiy to ask for a partner in suffering.
I wish I could paint it on a wall for you to see,
all this anger and hatred and hurt.
Or maybe I just wish for a physical embodiment that I could dump at your door.
You should have taken your baggage with your boxes.
Oh wait, no, you left them to **** with my mind for months.
You really are the worst case of ****, I hope you know that, right?
You don't know what they say about you,
and they don't know what you say about them.
I know it all and say nothing.
On bad days it seems no one sees it but me.
It just stings they see the stupidity and not the cunning behind it.
I hate that you fooled me too,
that you so aptly twisted me against the only person who could have warned me.
I hate that I twisted the rest for you.
I hate that I'm lonely and you're thriving.
I hate that I am hateful,
I don't hate that I hate you.
I think I always have.
I believe my brother will grow to hurt,
to lash out when he can't reach the words he needs.
I believe he will grow to silence as he has been silenced
And to intimidate as he was intimidated.
But loathed more.
When the money runs out love is stunted.
It can't buy happiness
but it sure helps feed the hunger,
And no one can argue being deprived of affection isn't a sort of gut wrenching starvation.
There's an ache in his eyes,
and a promise that whatever fills it will hurt as he has.
He, who doesnt understand the difference between freedom and power,
Who longs for both having tasted neither
but like the starved will blindly accept either.
He is like my mother - lost.
All the lost are fearful,
and most of the fearful are violent.
I wish to keep the wishbone within the body,
Not snap apart a life under the guise of luck.
Collect lost pennies, not lives,
You evil murdering *****.
I sit in silence with my mother because how am I meant to say the roots of everything I despise about myself lie at her feet?
That I've learnt to refuse to let her make me feel shame and guilt for eating?
That to this day I look at my body and hear the echos of insults she hurled at eight year old me about the
fat on my hips,
their dips and dimples?
That my partners hands caress that same flesh
and she kisses away my hatred?
I sit in silence with my mother because she doesn't talk, she shouts
out of anger at the cage she's in.
And in her volume I hear the echos of everything she's been unable to achieve,
all her hopes and dreams cruches by pre-conceived ideas of femininity and society's prying eye?
Can never ask why she allowed herself to be chained, and silenced.
Why her present is only half the shadow of her past.
I sit in silence with my mother because how can I say everything I take pride in is what she hates most about me?
That my bisexuality is not a choice, but I've chosen that label and I treasure it?
That femininity to me is hair where I can see it,
swearing when people can hear,
and unapoligetically taking up space others would rather I vacate?
That my rejection of faith isn't a reflection of her,
but rather proof she raised someone who learnt to challenge before they accept?
That I'm strong and resiliant
but still soft around the edge?
escapril day 3