When was young, my first word was "Momma"
because I was always reaching out for someone who was never there.
Always a little bit too infatuated with her occupation
and her husband was always too in love with the bottle
maybe that's why my second word was "doggie" instead of "daddy"
because a dog brought me more emotional security-
spent too much time trying to drink away the long work hours
and not enough time trying not to break our spirits
like the empty miller lite bottles thrown at walls and faces-
When I was seven, I first discovered sex.
A man placed his hands where he shouldn't have
and then a year later a girl did the same thing
so by nine I was feeling the urge to fornicate with everything
because I thought that intimacy was normalcy
and I could give myself to anyone who would take me.
But I was nine, so no one would take me-
and I was terrified of any arms that tried to hold me,
and I thank someone, whoever is out there, for that everyday.
By thirteen the crosses I bared began crawling their way
out of my spine and into my lungs making it hard to speak
and then into the back of my mind so I couldn't think
no more denial, or lost memory, I saw it all so fucking clearly-
The hands that turned me futile tried to end my life once
but they used me as a host
tried to kill whatever was making me sad
a bottle of vicodin down the hatch to drown the memories
that I could never fucking get away from-
Darkness.
When I was fourteen my savior became poisoned by circumstance
the edge of the hands I used to grip when I was young
turned cold and the face I had grown to admire looked sickly.
These crosses I bared didn't win, but they didn't lose.
They continued demanding refuge
and the memories kept demanding to be heard
and the denial of my grandma having cancer grew stronger-
then he moved in.
And I'm not talking about grief, although the names sound similar.
I was weak.
Prone to the demons I had been hiding-
had to face the man that took away my sanity, my sexuality
every single fucking day.
So these razor blades became a paintbrush and my body the canvas
and every time I took it to my skin I would call it a masterpiece.
At some point, around the time my mom starting listening
she heard me crying out to the demons I spent my days fighting-
Around that same time my grandmother died.
So my weakness became strength and her strength withered
and she tried to drown her pain in a bottle of morphine.
9:25 am. "ring" "ring" "ring"
hello? mom? where are you? A mental hospital?
The words "I could've tried harder" keep repeating in my mind
and kept taunting and nagging at my skin
telling me to paint one more fucking time
to make something so beautiful out of all of this fucking mess-
So I picked up a pen again. Started writing.
I was about 17 when things started getting better,
met a boy who smiled at me like I was fucking God
and found hope in the curve of his spine and the whites of his eyes.
But I wasn't looking for an escape again
and I knew that's just what he would be.
Falling victim to the hands that have seen better days
and the eyes that only needed someone to say,
"I am here for you." something I didn't want to lose.
Now I'm almost 20 and these recollections feel just like stories-
the control they once had over my mind has diminished
somewhere between the bottle masking my pain
and the friends who listened when I spoke
I ended up seeing the sunshine for the very first time
and goddamn it was beautiful.