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Ephemeral_OblivionPoems
When he comes home, I go into panic mode, The walls in my brain closing in, The bile in my throat rising, My teeth sweating in anticipation of what is to come When he comes home, I hope to god that I pass beneath the radar, Nothing more than a sigh on the breeze, Nothing more than a ripple in a pond Nothing for him to notice When he comes home, I make myself as small as I can, Hoping that he’ll ignore me like he has all these years, But knowing that it’s a futile attempt, Like trying to avoid the burning sun When he comes home, The nausea roils in my gut, Reminding me that I am nothing, That I will never be anything more than what he paints me to be When he comes home, I am reduced to “yes sir” and “no sir,” To eyes that are glued to the ceiling or floors, To fidgeting hands and twisting fingers To nothing more than a decoration to stand in the corner When he comes home, I try to retreat to my room, I try to give him the space that he seems to need, I try to leave him be and let him sleep, But nothing seems to work, and he yells all the same When he comes home, My home becomes nothing more than a battlefield, One that I cannot escape, One that there is no running from, One from which the injuries are only seen in the trauma that is left behind When he comes home, My life becomes nothing more than a play, A tragedy in which no one survives, A performance that I am supposed to know, But stage fright has taken over and the lines mean nothing to me now And I am frozen, hoping for the curtains to fall to cover my fear When he comes home, I quietly Exit Stage left.
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Jun 17, 2023
Jun 17, 2023 at 9:15 PM UTC
When He Comes Home
When he comes home, I go into panic mode, The walls in my brain closing in, The bile in my throat rising, My teeth sweating in anticipation of what is to come When he comes home, I hope to god that I pass beneath the radar, Nothing more than a sigh on the breeze, Nothing more than a ripple in a pond Nothing for him to notice When he comes home, I make myself as small as I can, Hoping that he’ll ignore me like he has all these years, But knowing that it’s a futile attempt, Like trying to avoid the burning sun When he comes home, The nausea roils in my gut, Reminding me that I am nothing, That I will never be anything more than what he paints me to be When he comes home, I am reduced to “yes sir” and “no sir,” To eyes that are glued to the ceiling or floors, To fidgeting hands and twisting fingers To nothing more than a decoration to stand in the corner When he comes home, I try to retreat to my room, I try to give him the space that he seems to need, I try to leave him be and let him sleep, But nothing seems to work, and he yells all the same When he comes home, My home becomes nothing more than a battlefield, One that I cannot escape, One that there is no running from, One from which the injuries are only seen in the trauma that is left behind When he comes home, My life becomes nothing more than a play, A tragedy in which no one survives, A performance that I am supposed to know, But stage fright has taken over and the lines mean nothing to me now And I am frozen, hoping for the curtains to fall to cover my fear When he comes home, I quietly Exit Stage left.
Trauma responses ****
#trauma#daddyissues#trigger#depression#anxiety#vent
Ephemeral_Oblivion
Written by
Ephemeral_Oblivion
23/F/Lost in Nowhere
Jun 17, 2023
Jun 17, 2023 at 9:15 PM UTC
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