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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.
Alind Bokodi Mar 16
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.

— The End —