Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
May 2014
My life is a battleground
I’ve led thousands of recon missions to reclaim the parts of me that in my younger years of captivity beneath tyranny’s reign, were ripped from me by the velvet gloved steel palms of my father.
I have been trapped beneath crumbling buildings of my own deteriorating self image, railroaded and betrayed at every turn
There is difficulty in moving forward, when years of debris weigh heavy on your back
Not the wreckage of my life, only his, burdens bestowed, yet not belonging, I was convinced were mine.
I made attempts to be smaller to fit into the shape of what was expected, to abide by his will
Belief, blossomed that perhabs, if I was small enough I could escape their notice,
Shrinking, I've found, is impossible,  instead I grew. Unfolding like each arc of the universe, too myself, and what he made me, to escape discovery
My father fed into my problem and let me expand
He wrote his mistakes into my skin, sunk an arrow of shame deep into my heart, until the pain was too great to remove it, he kissed his sorrow into my forehead and told me everything would get better, though poison of his actions had set my blood, my thoughts

Playing favorites, professing conditional love, I was made to fight, as if I was not worthy enough oh my own.
Simultaneously his reassurances made life all the more difficult, while my brothers and I, struggled against one another in hopes of catching his attention...
His approval....
His love
the wounds I was given me made me wise, it's best to believe that suffering does not make you kind.
It offers only a mirror, to hold up beside your past self, a means of reflection.
I’ve learned that struggle is how nature strengthens us, to humble myself and rid pride from my existence in order to hone my edges
That the twisted way he loved, was the only way he knew how, the only way he was taught. It gives perspective, and no comfort.

He never delved into lessons of battle and strife, but the art of war was not lost on me.
I waged wars with my brothers, raised my resolve, fortified my defenses, barred doors and closed hatches, rained verbal airstrikes against them. Fighting back was never a question of strength, only desire, the strong pieces of me, that grew when no light could be found.
I have taught myself how to hold a gun to my enemies intellect, to cut skin with the blade of my tongue, brandish a knife to my own skin to cut out the destruction of a dysfunctional youth, I catch razors between my teeth as I fought off, as I continue to fight off the onslaught of my own self hatred that rolls over me like tidal waves, uprooting foundations.
I am a rock to break the rushing wall of water, I will rise again, my islands will drain themselves of the bitter taste of sea salt and blood

If you look in the debris of my youth, my heart will show you
The lands of my mind and my body will be mine again, I am the king of myself,
I will reign again.
My rebellion is one incapable of being quelled
I will fight myself until I can take back every part of me that I lost.
Nina Messina
Written by
Nina Messina  27/Non-binary/Pittsburgh
Please log in to view and add comments on poems