Do me a favor,
And pick up the gun,
Killing what used to be your son,
That's now a memory instead.

Do me a favor,
And pick up the knife,
Killing what used to be a life,
(be happy, he could take it on his own)

Do me a favor,
And give me the pills,
Every single one that kills
The mistake you made
When you were 21,
The 14 years old accident,
You wanted gone.

I never knew touching like that was a thing
It felt disgusting
It still does
I still remember it way too clearly
I was 5
It still haunts the f**k out of me
Never had the courage to tell anyone abt it
But I can still feel his hands on me
Touching me
But I couldn't do anything
I was helpless
still am
Didn't know anything abt it
Didn't know how to react
After all this I live in the same house
Acting like i don't remember it
While I feel his hand all over me every  second

He inherited the tightly folded linens,
starched corners, brittle creases,
bleached until they could no longer recall
every harsh argument around the table
that held them.
Every hem had been stitched shut with silence.
Every stain scrubbed until the blood
resembled rust
and flaked away.
I run my fingers along the monogram,
stitched by hands that had swallowed their own fire,
and marvel at the paradox;
how simmering anger can still
make something so delicate.
She embroidered flowers
no one ever named,
roots turned sharp by willful ignorance.
white thread
on white cotton
"elegant" defiance.
You had to tilt it toward the sun
just to see the blooms.
He told me how on Sundays
she laid it on the table,
a weekly treaty,
a wound she dared anyone to set a plate on.
They never noticed, too busy carving the meat.
The white flag was already folded.
The surrender came with matching napkins.
Now he keeps it in a box
lined with cedar
and the scream he keeps folded beneath it.
I tell him:
use them
or burn them,
but never pretend they were clean.

I want to break the cycle of abuse
that I was subjected to
I don't want to be feared
I don't want to be known
by my footsteps
I don't want to scream at the slightest mishap
I don't want to beat people
or push them down
or place their worth on grades
I want to be loving and kind
I want to be loved
and be a safe place to talk
I want to give comfort instead of pain
I want to put value on effort
not a letter grade
kids might not be for me
but if they are
in the future
I don't want to continue the
cycle of abuse
I will break the cycle
when/if the time comes

My family and friends sing your praises.
They never see how your fist raises.
Your quiet and well behaved with visitors.
But loud and violent with me, one of your prisoners.

You could be a professional actor.
They don't even suspect how you attack her.
Wish you weren't so hidden and smart.
Maybe they'd see the pain you impart.

My teary eyes and silent pleas.
Just don't seem to make you agree.
My suffering is present.
But to you all ideas of it are pleasant.

I wish I could cry harder now.
The past pain seemed only the starter, ow.
The shadows on your face they are getting darker.
God please send me a knight in shining armor.

when did i lose my wings of girlhood
my cherub face grown sharp the visage of my mother
when did i lose my halo of girlhood
soft botticelli blonde of youth grown dark
when did i lose my robe of girlhood
the hair growing from me in itchy patches resembling man
is that when you stopped loving me?
no longer the babe, the little child of sun
jumping into daddy’s lap
does my reflection scare you?
the face of the monster, the *****
the wicked woman who tainted your heart
dark changeling taken form of nightmare
who haunts you, seeping guilt
the confines of marriage you broke
and left me to rot, a house of horrors and nicotine
of cat **** and suicide letters
a big green basket, plastic, decorative holes in the side
the pill bottles i count: 1, 2, 3, 50!
proud i can count that high
and mother says, “take this one”
like candy on my small tongue
my icarus moment of floating, feeling bumps on popcorn ceiling
falling back
down
down
down
until i am 17, looking in the mirror
my prozac a taunting smile, knowing my throat will close from a fear i can’t remember
the choking struggle of getting better
mothers eyes stare back at me, her ghost a reflection of my heartache
and i realize i was never floating
and we both share the guilt