The incessant twang of complexity against my ribs
Accompanies the unwanted phantom touch on my hips
But the gentle caress of healing only barely brushes my lips
This is a beginning, but it feels like an ending with no postscripts

The things I used to find comfort in are futile
Against the battering of emptiness against my chest; it's brutal
But physically, I'm intact. Selfishly, I'd feel better if it was gruesome
However, only my mind is in disarray, if I'm being truthful

Do you know what it feels like?
Sometimes it feels dreamlike
More aptly nightmarish, but lifelike
A distant reality, objective, almost businesslike

It feels like a sordid, shameful affair
Although I played no part in the cause of my despair
I am the one who has to deal with it, so I send up a prayer
My soul hopes for speedy repairs

warning: ****** assault, domestic violence

Before:
Daddy yells at momma.
He’s upset that after she made me,
she’s too tired to be with him.

I step into the kitchen
where my pieces of DNA were fighting.
I had just started going to school,
and I was too young to realize:

kids really are helpless
in situations like these.
He shoves momma’s clothes off
so quickly;

I was paralyzed.
I couldn’t move.
I didn’t know
what was going on.

My momma screams in retaliation,
“You *******! She’s right there!”
I’ll never forget the cruel glint in his eyes.
“She won’t remember.”


Then:
As a thirteen-year-old,
I was braced for war.
Momma told me:

“Remember the pain
I went through?
Your father…
Make him pay!”

You’re right,
momma.
I know what you went through.
I’m sorry I am still part of him.

Empty bottles litter the floor
just like the pictures of bodies
in my history textbook.
I stand from amongst them,

glaring at him
as he snores on the couch.
At the time, I didn’t understand why
dad would pass out so quickly sometimes.

Carefully,
I step over the bottles,
making my way over to the sleeping beast.
I’m scared he’ll wake up.

Ah! Just like in my favorite books,
the villain’s neck is wide open!
I reach my hand out,
clutching my pretend dagger—

I **** him!
With elation, I suddenly feel
the curse that tied me to him
leave.

The steady rise and fall of his stomach
brings my spirits back to reality.
Disgust twists across my face,
and I deliver a punch to his beer belly.

He sputters,
standing on his feet in a rage.
“You—
You’ll never understand what I went through!”

My instinct is to run and hide,
but I instead stand proudly,
puffing out my chest.
“I wish you were never my dad!”

I smile to myself,
giddy in hopes that
momma would stop crying
and be proud of me.

He looks hurt by it.
I’m happy!
He never comforted us!
I throw out a few curse words to try to scare him.

That only makes him angry.
“Get over ‘ere,” he says through gritted teeth.
He grabs me by the waist of my pants.
My momma is worth whatever he does to me!

After:
Preparing to graduate from college
with high honors
and a position at my dream job,
I should be happy.

Yet I can't help but realize
it has been a decade since I’ve spoken to my dad.
Mom is with a new man.
He touches me in ways dad never did.

If I was thirteen,
I’d find the ten year anniversary as a reason to celebrate.
“That much closer to removing his curse!”
I would think.

I’m even more disgusted by my mom
spending all of her time with her boyfriend
than I ever did when
dad brought women over.

If the curse is supposed to be disappearing, then
why do I feel just as empty
as I did
before?

You tried to touch me,
and I said no.
You still tried and I pushed you away
asking…. no, telling you to leave me alone.
But still, you grabbed me,
like an object that belonged to you.
And when I still said no,
you acted like that was your cue
to grab me again
and do what you do.
You were my best friend
and now I ******* hate you!
I still blame myself for what you did to me.
How is that fair?
It’s been 4 years and I think about it daily.
While you don’t even care.
You ruined high school for me.
I had to see you every day in band.
But I still blame myself,
for not putting you on the stand.

I won't say "no" twice.

if you didn't listen
the first time,

then I have no reason
to believe that you'll
listen to the second.

and you cannot
complain that you
were not warned
before I scorched
every inch of
your skin.

that one "no"
was your warning.

you won't feel
those warm breaths
you expected to feel
against your neck.

you will feel pain,
because I will
breathe fire.

I will watch
as your life
goes up in flames

and I will smile
the same sadistic smile
that you thought you
would have right now.

the tables have turned.
now, you are the person
coated in fear and gasoline

and I am the person
holding the matches.

I'm mad at you
and I don't want
to be mad at you.

but at the same time,
I'm not mad enough.
I should be angrier.

there have always been
gaps in my memory,
places where my trauma
nibbled away until the
memories were useless.

you knew this.

I have spent years of
my life trying to recover,
trying to patch up
the holes in my memory.

I lost my entire childhood.
I spent all of it trying to
remember what my brain
wanted me to forget.

I have cried and hurt
and panicked and once,
I even tried to give up.

for most of my life,
I have hated myself
and harmed myself.

you knew this.

you knew how badly
this ****** up my life.

you even tried comforting me,
giving me brotherly speeches
and advice that I took to heart.

I trusted you.
for all of these years,
I have trusted you.

the memories came back.
I haven't slept in six days.
I am being slowly destroyed
by my own mind, and
I don't know how to stop it.

you were there that night.
I ran to your room and
I banged on the door
and you opened it,
and I told you everything.

you were the voice
in the bathroom with me,
helping me undress
and assessing my injuries.

you knew what happened,
and you said nothing.

I know you were young,
and I know that this has
traumatized both of us.

but you were old enough
to remember everything.

you remember the
blood stains and the
fear in my eyes and
how I barely knew what
had happened to me.

I understand why you
didn't say anything
on that night all of
those years ago,

but why didn't you
say anything when
I was older and you saw
how it shattered me?

I almost killed myself
trying to remember
what you already knew.

this is my body.
that was my trauma.
those were my memories.

you knew this whole time.
you knew everything.
you ******* knew,
and you said nothing.

why did you say nothing?
why didn't you tell me?

I just need to know.
why didn't you tell me?

why did you keep this
locked inside of your brain
while mine desperately
searched to find it?

how could you?
I trusted you.

and this whole time,
you already knew.

"you're alright."
"it's just a panic attack."
"he's not here."

no, you don't understand.
he is here.
he never left.

he’s not in between my legs,
but he’s still invading my mind.

I don't feel like
myself anymore.

I'm not myself anymore,
not fully.

he's still inside of me.
he never left.

Let's be clear,
Compassion is not a kind of currency.
****** favors are not a type of contract.
The pictures he received were not consent.
My outfit is not an open invitation,
And there's no justification for what he did.

when I was asked to talk
about my trauma,
I opened up again and
let the words spill out.

I didn't tell them how
badly it burns when
they come back up.

I talked about depression,
about feeling alone,
about attempting suicide.
I talked about deaths
and pain and everything
that I have witnessed.

and then I began to
talk about my assault,
and the men who still
haunt my dreams.

I started by saying,
"the first time I was *****..."

I paused there.

I realized I said
"the first time"

meaning there was
more than one time.

there was more than
one hospital visit,
more than one police report,
more than one court case
that went nowhere.

there is more than one
****** still walking free,
living his life and not caring
that he ended mine.

I said it so ******* casually,
the same way you'd make
small talk about the weather.

I said it like it was normal.

I suddenly felt nauseous.
I needed to spit out more
than just my words.

I spent the next hour
hunched over a toilet bowl.
I think that my body was
trying to ***** the memories
out of my system.

I said it like it was normal.

I said it like it was
an everyday occurrence,
like it's something
you hear about daily
and no one bats an eye.

I said it like it was normal.

I felt so sick, like
I had been poisoned.
I climbed into bed and
didn't get up for days.

I said it like it
was ******* normal,

and the worst part was
when I realized it is.

my therapist told me that I should
try to imagine my mental illness
in the form of a person.

she said that sometimes
it's easier to fight these things
when they aren't invisible.

she said that maybe
doing this would help me to
remember that I am not crazy,
and that a mental illness is
just as real as a physical one.

she's told me over and over
about the chemicals in my brain,
and how my ****** literally
changed the way that I function.

she told me that he put
my body into a chronic state
of fight-or-flight mode.

she made sure
to use the word "chronic"
and not "permanent."

she makes sure
to remind me that
recovery is possible.

but when I try to picture
my mental illness
in the form of a person,
it has his face.

all of my demons
have his face.