20/FTM/Indiana funny it is, to be so unsure of your place in the world
to know exactly who you are
to know what you want to do, where to go
but know that, a place where you fit in
just doesn't exist 0 followers / 492 words
Don't tell broken girls they're not allowed to hate their mothers Don't tell broken girls they're not allowed to hate their mothers because their mothers “love them” Because they “support them” Because they “take care of them” Because no amount of money spent on groceries or school clothes or book fees proves a mother’s love Don't tell broken girls they're not allowed to hate their mothers especially if their mothers are the ones who broke them Because some of their mothers say “I love you” Some of their mothers say “I support you” Some of their mothers say “You need to eat less” when they’re already starving Some of their mothers say “I love you” Some of their mothers say ”You need to lose weight” when they can’t afford to lose another ounce Some of their mothers say “I love you” Some of their mothers hit them And kiss them good night in the same hour Because they believe that genetic connections should give them that power And that you should let them.. Some of their mothers say “I love you” “I hate you” “You're a liar” “I love you” “You make my life a living ****” And let me tell you the truth in that Some of these broken girls have scars on their minds Their skin Their hearts To thank their mothers for And still they never ask for more Than the love they’re meant to receive from their mothers Don’t call them ungrateful, unloving When they stop coming up with excuses for the black eyes and bruises Discussions with doctors about the mystery concussions and words heard that are so deeply rooted in these girls minds And you’ll come to find Some of their mothers don’t even change by choice They ‘change’ after years of “family counselling” and hopeless calls to Child Protective Services Where they tell you the only reason you have to be nervous is “If you're lying” When really those broken girls are just trying to keep themselves safe after this so obviously ignorant woman leaves them there alone With the mother that “loves them” But also believes her maternal status puts her above them When a broken girl says she hates her mother She’s lying but she wishes she wasn’t She’s just angry and hurt So she doesn’t need another voice telling her That her mother’s words mean more than her actions Their mothers may say that they love them But if they do not show it The words “I love you” mean nothing
The Polite Victim When I tell someone I’m a **** survivor They wanna know how long ago it happened Like the trauma or the pain is like some kind of sidewalk paint on the outside of our bodies that after time gets washed away by our own tears Or maybe the rain When I respond that I was five They say “ no, I mean, you know, the last time” Even though they don't really need to know that's the only trauma right now I'm willing to let go because these days it's all about how much skin you show I step below my thirst for the end of ignorance Satisfy their interests And choose to be the polite victim But then they expect me to be willing to try and understand him when I’d rather cut off Every limb Like they expect me to be fine because I've had “all this time” to “get over it” But just like physical wounds, wounds like these never heal completely There’s always a scar left behind to reveal And if you peel back my metaphorical layers You’ll see that scar I understand that To most people out there that's all we are is a body But I am not a body, I have a body A body that's meant to protect my soul, a body that he almost stole...from me But you cannot have a body and be a body at the same time what a random thought Have you ever noticed how every slam poet says ‘body’ the same way Because deep down we all feel the same way about it We spit it out like it's some kind of disgusting Like it betrays us, like the word itself betrays us But really it doesn't Not any more than a car does when it slides on black ice It’s not the car’s fault, it’s the environment its exposed to And possibly our fault too for not recognizing it’s limits But I, for once, will not give it that power, I am done converting my hatred for my body Into hatred for myself
It was the night of the harvest moon and all around gleams of light snaked their way through the autumn leaves painting the ground with the colors of the sunset and setting the forest on fire Up above the sky was cloudless the stars were scintillating and every place you set your eyes you couldn’t help but admire such a comely scene Never again would you see a more exquisite sight in nature beauty in its purest form The world revealed its deepest secrets that night told a story that only the luckiest people would ever apprehend The crisp fall breeze spoke in awe of the wise as it carried the sweet scent of baby’s breath through the boney trees Then came the turn of the stream who murmured on the words of renewal and healing And the stars whispered the words of our ancestors “ We are one with all that has been and we are one with all that will be.”
She loved the water, but not as much as the water loved her. Reaching for her, struggling for embrace each time she set foot on it’s shores. The lake was vast and held beauty and life of all kinds, but it wanted nothing more than this girl. The girl who marveled at the water’s beauty even when the wind was stinging and harsh and no others would venture away from their homes on such a day. The lake left her gifts. It collected the wastes and trash that others had abandoned at it’s soft edges and transformed it into treasures of all sorts. Broken bottles, once with jagged edges, were now jewels of the water’s making. Gifts for the girl, they were strewn about the sand. Each time the girl followed the shore the waves would reach for her feet longingly. The girl would giggle and bound away from the approaching wave, afraid to wet her shoes on such a cold day. As moments passed the girl would venture on, drifting nearer to the water, searching for treasures along the edge of the sand. Each time she did, the lake would reach for her. Again she would giggle. They played this game each time the girl came to visit the lake. The lake loved the way the girl’s laughter rode on the wind, but as time went by the lake grew more and more blue. Not in colour, but in spirit. Reaching for something it loved dearly without embrace. Only summer brought hope that the girl would venture away from the shore. The lake understood, but oh how the it longed for the coming of summer warmth.
This was inspired by a friend who enjoyed dragging me to the beach in the midst of winter.
You know what I have noticed? People get tired really quickly when you try to talk about your pain Like...Why are you crying? “It doesn't help anything” “It doesn't make me want help you I can't help you” ((I won't help you)) is what they mean to say Crying doesn't solve problems no..But I don't do it for you Maybe I cry because it makes me feel better Better to open the gates and let the water leak through a little everyday Instead of waiting to to be so full I overflow all at once Maybe I’m just done trying to pretend I am strong Is that so wrong? To be a little vulnerable? To let myself be a little weak..sometimes It is not my job to secure your comfort when I am in pain When I am in need of protecting When the rain is collecting in wells above me no longer calming Saying. to me Beneath its breath Care for Not yourself but for the ones who deem you unworthy of caring for You are the reason The reason for the storm When did the rain become my enemy? Spouting such lies as it cries above me In song I like the melody But the lyrics seem wrong At some point I have to see That it is my twisted reality That distorts all around me What the rain is really saying, And it gives really good advice If I just let myself hear it, Is Care for yourself, and Not for those who deem you unworthy of caring for You are the reason The reason for the storm
This is an old poem I wrote forever ago when i was frustrated by always having to pretend I was perfectly happy and somehow linked that with my love, and others' disdain, for the rain.