Seventeen.
I start doing homework at coffee shops and Applebee's
I cannot tolerate my father's *******
But for the first time in my life
I am able to revive myself from the frustration he fills me with.
Each time his biting comments pierce my skin I say:
"College eight months"
"College seven months"
"College six months..."
By telling myself that coming home has become optional
I am able to smile and gently whisper
"Yes, Dad."

Sixteen.
One of the two times I can remember compassion from my father.
A heartbroken me watched my grandpa deteriorate
Just ten days after I had entered recovery
From a bad bout of bulimia relapse.
Dad actually hugged me
Even cried with me
When grandfather died.
But for the other 360 days of the year that did not include that week
Even when my friend committed suicide
My father did not meet me with kindness.

Sixteen.
My battle with bulimia
Was mine to wage alone.
When my parents got the call
They were more worried about my wastefulness
Food isn't cheap, you know.
Daddy continued to bash my weight
And I continued to spiral downward
Until I decided I was worth more.

Sixteen.
Had I told you a boy had taken advantage of me
I would have just been a **** once again.
After all, I led him on
After all, my shirt was fairly tight
After all, my friends told me it was my fault.
I know you would have considered me blameworthy
I sure thought I was.

Fifteen.
One handful of pills
And a crimson message on my arm
Lands me in intensive therapy.
I sit there
Telling myself I am not like the other suicidal kids around here
I'm not ****** up
I just ****** up.
Sick of listening to people tell me why I did it
The most frequent was my experiences with molestation
Just because some pervert touched me
Doesn't mean I'd go off the deep end.

Fifteen.
You didn't care
About my drinking, my cutting, my anything
Until you heard my plans to end it all.
You called me a ****
When you found out I had slept with my ex.
You permeated **** culture by telling me not to discuss my abuse
With anyone but my counselor.
You didn't mean to,
But you did.

Fourteen.
The other time I remember compassion.
You heard that I had been horribly violated
By your cousin.
It curdled your blood
As well it should
And you told me we'd get through it.
Fortunately,
It was never yours to get through.
You tried your best to help me
But to no avail.

Fourteen.
Lost my virginity
With a strong chance of unwanted pregnancy
That was thankfully inaccurate.
Started drinking
Taught myself how to throw up
Tarnished your perfect image
Of Daddy's little girl.

Thirteen.
Middle school ends
But my battle with eating disorders
And my dysfunctional relationship with food
Gains speed.
My then boyfriend described my dietary patterns to you
Before he was scared to death of your rage for him.
Where are you Dad?

Twelve.

Eleven.
I cut myself for the first time
And obsessive thoughts about food began to litter my mind
Depression and anxiety
First showed their ugly faces this year.

Ten.

Nine.
You told me I was fat again
So I began storing things in my room
Whole bags of junk food
I would have miniature thanksgiving feasts
Because eating in front of you was horrifying.

Nine.
Got a phone call from my fourth grade teacher
Who was in earshot of me telling my friends I was fat
My mom cried that day
Although she has a lot to do with my self-image.
But still
Don't let her pick up your mess.

Eight.
Humiliated me in Wendy's
For not ordering a kid's item.
Children are like elephants
We really don't forget.

Seven.
He touched me
And I didn't know what to make of it.
I thought this was truly just a game
You could not have protected me, Dad
He is the one at fault
No one else is.

Six.

Five.
You told me for the first time
That eating a bagel would make me fatter.
The first time I remember being skinned with comments
About my weight.

Four.

Three.
My perfect sister was born
As she entered the world
I was suddenly no longer good
No longer skinny
No longer pretty.
She would become acceptable by society's standards
And I never would.

Two.

One.

Zero.
Do you ever wonder what your parents imagined for you
When your mother was pregnant?
I do
And I don't think they imagined
A counter culture, feminist
Resident fat girl.
I was defined before I was
And I redefined my expectations.

My uncle slit a man's throat with a box cutter in my childhood home and didn't apologize.
Sitting in a circle filled with crack smoke and stale beer breath.
This is a shining example of what I've lived with
and the lengths I've had to go to escape the thing people call "destiny".

Thievery, lies, pressure, and violence
has been calling my name for the longest.
But I know the voice too well to be taunted.  

Words are my freedom and words are my piece of mind.
There is not a single substitute.
Whether poem, prose, or paragraph,
This is the only calling I've ever had.

I've lived with a hoarder, addicts, senility, and ignorance
in a variety of different combinations and forms.
At times, power, water, freedom, money, necessities, have all been an unachievable thing to me.
Lost to the vile goals of those folk I love.
I am the only one who sees the beauty in the fragile and odd.
The others see only a mess on a paper, and move their eyes to the nearest glowing box.

My father drowned when I was six.
My grandfather followed soon after.
My mother felt the stab of this and caved so many times.
I witnessed and shared the burden of her pain and grief.
My grandmother forgot everything she ever loved or knew, and short after passed as well.
Pets and possessions,
friends and followers.
All gone with a drastic breeze.
I am the one with the vision, but I am trapped in a shell of a city,
covered with that wretched stink of refined soy.

Will I be able to unburden the world from myself?
You all give me such great courage and allow me to share the beauty as I see it.
You all have such great skill with symbols and it makes me feel like home isn't far.
I want this. I want this.

If I keep breathing like the rest of the world
I feel I may miss the sound of the world's heartbeat.
But my death would not bring a solution for the ones I love.
Only a warrant for more death.
I need this. I need this.

With my words, I conjure up hell.
And hell brings with it the familiar.
Run little kitties, run.
The Doubling House and The Sequential Church will not hold forever.
My havens are temporary, but the craters are forever.
I will struggle till the pain becomes all I am
and I buckle under the weight of what I shouldn't have taken
from the mighty Atlas.

I do this for me.
I do this for you.

Talking about your assault
As if you are removed from it.
When someone apologizes for his unforgivable actions
Even though he was always unapologetic
I calmly reply
"It's okay"
And sometimes even with a smile on my face.

But it's not okay
Or rather
What he did to me will never be okay
And I always feel foolish after that response leaves my lips

You lie to people a say you hate him
But really
If I'm being honest
I never did

Although, my situation is different than most
Because this wasn't some vicious act of ******
But rather, a game my teenage cousin with Aspbergers
Told me to play.
Looking back,
I was fourteen once too
And I wasn't even close to perfect
I can't incriminate him based on one dire mistake.

I never wish to minimize anyone's experience with abuse
Except, of course, my own
Because making it smaller
Makes me feel more in control
Just as blaming myself used to do.

Granted, I have dealt with it
But now I remove myself from the situation when I discuss it
As if I am talking about someone else.
That way, I do not have to vividly see it in my mind.
That way, I don't have to explain
How I have to fall asleep to music
That way, I don't have to explain
How I can't have *** with the lights on
Or else I see his face.

When I say I am perfectly comfortable talking about it
I don't know if 'perfectly comfortable' reflects it as well as
I am just used to it
And I feel as though it is necessary to discuss.
I am not one to shy away from challenging topics.

While he made me stronger
Some days being strong is just too hard
And I give in to old habits
Or at least to the temptation of them.
I haven't bled from the result
Of a self-inflicted razor blade or kitchen knife
In nearly two years.
And my bulimia is better
Though I have only rid myself of that vice
Three months ago.

And yet,
Talking about my molestation seems
So routine, so standard
Which is scary
Because something that heinous should shock me more
But it doesn't.

Maybe it's because
He started an avalanche
When it came to boys using me for ***.
Maybe it's because
I share the same blood
As a child-molester.

It seems as though **** culture has permeated me for so long
That it's in my DNA
Woven strand by strand
So it doesn't scare me anymore.

It all comes down to perspective
And talking about my assault from a third person perspective
Keeps my battle scars under wraps
And my mind well guarded.

purple broken lantern lights
in the finger numbing cold of this cement cage
white buzzing lights in my face.

mental strain:
an annotated bibliography

my mother brings out the rawest form of me
I brush my hair in a soapy tub
we talk about *** , i'm on the verge of tears most the time
about not respecting yourself
being born with the consciousness of 7 dimensions
respecting yourself
some of my words come out in paradoxes that have yet to be resolved
i tell her how my aim is to **** in his mouth one day
she tells me i'm disgusting and we laugh at the ****** hanging up my nose
I brush my hair in a soapy tub
It's 30 degrees outside
We have to turn on the air con
occasionally there is applause
as we talk
about how the best way to make a contribution to this planet is to be yourself , she says she hopes she offered me that wisdom as a child
I brush my hair in a soapy tub
and say that it was mixed - be yourself but then smack ! Don't do that thing. It was confusing.
She says she wasn't conscious , she was confused
she couldn't do it now
like i don't eat meat
certain things fall away when you respect yourself.
My mother brings out the rawest form of me
I brush my hair in a soapy tub

You are a
     Fox in a beard
            With morals and
Values some may fear
Due to your honest , straight
Nature,
              But I can see more
Than that .
           I can see the hurt
Aspects in your eyes, that
Make you
              That much kinder –
      For out of pain,
Those, who choose –
Can birth and
Form much
Richness of character
And bear more of the elusive soul - rarely seen without the ego garb - but in this case , is slowly taking off the costume to reveal the secrets within.

---------------


Stretched out like a green mountain lion –
A tickling of pride and mocked nonchalance dance side by side in your Eyes accompanied by
The slight fiendish grin
That overcomes your
Face when you
Know I can’t resist
You anymore

daydreaming of *** and actually liking the idea of making deals like "you clean the dishes, i'll do the laundry and take out the trash"

You're like a beautiful poem, my dear
it's plain to see
it's plain to see
I'm now caught within your verse, I fear
I'm lost at sea
I can't be free

You've trapped me in your sonnet
each syllable draws me deep
like a lilting lullaby
that carries me to sleep

You've written this beautiful world, my dear
I've fallen in
I've let you win
but the story was never about me, I fear

I'm reading the lines meant for him