Scene one, Childhood
I never really learned to emotionally regulate,
Taking clues from Nickelodeon more than parents who set good examples,
Screaming fights and bruises and broken glass
Too much drinking, the smell of cigarettes
Moms broken bones
Make yourself small, make yourself gone
They may not notice you.
We played family a lot, curtaining blankets over a bunk bed to block the outside, and in family, I always took care of my babies.
Scene two, 18
I never really learned to emotionally regulate, taking clues from the friends around me more than parents who set any example.
A false father leaving, a mom losing her cash cow
The smell of Arbor Mist and ***** still makes me sick, mom’s incoherent fists still make contact in my sleep, I still wouldn’t have given her the keys.
We don’t play anymore. We’re mostly estranged. But we work. And in family, I always took care of my babies.
Scene three, 28
I’m trying to learn to emotionally regulate, the slideshow of couches and faces of therapists trying to set an example.
A son born to trauma, a marriage of consequence, I’m still learning to love myself, please, the sound of yelling still makes me sick,
I don’t know how to do this.
We are grown now, we are mostly put together. And now we live. But this is my family, and I will always take care of my babies
Sep 21, 2022
Sep 21, 2022 at 10:47 PM UTC
Scene one, Childhood
I never really learned to emotionally regulate,
Taking clues from Nickelodeon more than parents who set good examples,
Screaming fights and bruises and broken glass
Too much drinking, the smell of cigarettes
Moms broken bones
Make yourself small, make yourself gone
They may not notice you.
We played family a lot, curtaining blankets over a bunk bed to block the outside, and in family, I always took care of my babies.
Scene two, 18
I never really learned to emotionally regulate, taking clues from the friends around me more than parents who set any example.
A false father leaving, a mom losing her cash cow
The smell of Arbor Mist and ***** still makes me sick, mom’s incoherent fists still make contact in my sleep, I still wouldn’t have given her the keys.
We don’t play anymore. We’re mostly estranged. But we work. And in family, I always took care of my babies.
Scene three, 28
I’m trying to learn to emotionally regulate, the slideshow of couches and faces of therapists trying to set an example.
A son born to trauma, a marriage of consequence, I’m still learning to love myself, please, the sound of yelling still makes me sick,
I don’t know how to do this.
We are grown now, we are mostly put together. And now we live. But this is my family, and I will always take care of my babies
This is meant to be a spoken word poem, it’s a little messy. It’s been a while
