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ivan Mar 16
the stars in my hands cut me
as i held them tight
it seemed that all was right

besides the pain
i held them with all my might.

let them go.
they only hurt you.

your hands held enough.

you don’t need to carry them
you don’t have to carry them

they did nothing but to mark you

with patterns that tell a story
a story that you may not like to remember
the past that held your neck
so tight your breath couldn’t last

in the end,
the stars were always yours.
life is like a constellation.
I grew up in the shadow of my mother’s cries,
a symphony of pain echoing through thin walls.
My father’s rage was a storm I could not calm,
locked away in my room, a prisoner of helplessness.

I trained my ears to listen for the silence,
for the absence of that horrible sound meant safety.
In the sweltering heat of summer,
I turned off the fan, closed the window,
sacrificing comfort to keep my vigil.

The stillness was my shield,
my ears scanning, always scanning,
for the sound that shattered peace.

I wondered, if my mother had been different—
empowered, independent, unyielding—
would she have escaped the blows?
Would I have been spared the scars of witnessing?

But no, her submissiveness was not the crime.
The fault lay in the hands that struck,
in the heart that chose cruelty over love.

And yet, I confess, I dream of a submissive wife.
Not to dominate, not to harm,
but to prove, to myself and to the world,
that gentleness deserves tenderness,
that softness is not a weakness to exploit.

I will love her properly, care for her deeply,
respect her fully, treasure her words like a melody,
and hold her thoughts as close as my heartbeat.
I will be kind without condition.

For if I do not, it would be as if I blamed my mother
for the sins of my father.
And that, I cannot bear.

Yes, I celebrate the empowered, the independent,
the women who rise, unbroken, against the tide.
But let us not forget:
a submissive woman is not a flawed woman.

She, too, deserves love, care, and kindness.
She, too, deserves to be safe,
to have her voice respected,
her opinions valued,
and her dignity upheld.

For the fault of abuse lies not in the victim,
but in the hands that wield it.
And in my hands, I vow to hold only gentleness,
to break the cycle,
to honor my mother’s tears
by creating a world where no one has to cry.
In Defense of Gentleness
This poem explores the trauma of witnessing abuse and the desire to break cycles of harm. The term 'submissive' is used not to endorse traditional gender roles or power imbalances, but to reflect a personal commitment to treating gentleness and softness with the love, respect, and kindness they deserve. It is a call to honor the dignity of all individuals, regardless of their nature or behavior, and to hold abusers accountable for their actions.
love is like a wild fire.

not in the way that it spreads and is warm making you so enamoured in someone

no

love is like the stinging heat of the blaze surrounding my home

attacking

unforgiving

love is the flames of heated passion that devour and encapsulate entire families in destruction

love takes everything you hold dear

everyone

and tears them to shreds.

love is not kind to everyone.

love sometimes looks like hatred.
Meliah Mar 25
I go back to the darkness
To exist with the pieces of her that remain there.
Fragments of laughter, echoes of childhood
Flicker between the shadows

I would walk back into hell
If it meant all of her could escape
If I could gather her shards
I'd use my own blood as the glue

If the pain I failed to protect her from could be my own
I'd sink into the pool gladly
And let the poison drown me

Would I lose myself? Yes
But she would be free.
If only I could heal your wounds and take them as my own. I love you. I hope you're doing okay.
evangline Mar 15
It’s not easy to move on,
from the last 12 years.
It’s not easy to erase them,
the memories you imprinted on me.

I know you’re a better man now,
but does that make up for everything?

I can’t forget the nights
I was sobbing in my room,
all alone, with no one to turn to.
I can’t forget the sound of your voice,
as it echoed through my room—
so loud, I put my hands over my ears,
yet I still heard it, loud and true.

I can’t forget the sound of broken dishes,
as you threw them across the room.
The sound of my favorite mirror shattering,
as you punched through it,
and turned your hand—and my heart—
red and blue.

I can’t forget the late-night hospital visits,
the stitches, the injections,
the crying and screaming—
all because you wanted that **** high,
the one you got from your bottles,
the one you wanted so much more than me.

I say that I have forgiven you,
although in my heart, that’s far from the truth.
I don’t know if I’ll ever even be able to,
not after you made my best years
so nightmarish,
that I shudder when I think of them.
I shudder when I think of you.
I wonder if you shudder too.
The story of a young girl who saw too much and learned the feeling of hatred much too soon.
Shelly Mar 14
You are my safe place
The shadows that hunt me
You are my safe place
The screams from pain
You are my safe place
The terrors in my sleep
You are my safe place
The voices that doubt me
You are my safe place
The blood from the past
You are my safe place
The forbidden hands on my skin
You are my safe place
The wicked tougues slander my name
You are my safe place
The victim from abuse
You are my safe place
The darkness that draws me in
You are my safe place

- Shelly Ramos
they are disgusted by my blood
yet they yearn to see me bleed
they listen to my screams
and watch as im torn by the seams
i lie awake in bed
thoughts slicing through my head
less than
more than
i am no more than
a silly naiive little girl
trapped in this body
on display to the world.
a basket case
lost in haze
im really tired of people not knowing whether to hurt me or pick me up.
im drowning in a sea of emotions i dont really feel
is any of this real
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