The winter falls as fast as hailstones. White wonderlands crossing every horizon, except from my bedroom window. Then she comes, in a fearful mood, mitigated by what, I am uncertain. Maybe I did something, maybe I did nothing. As a child I am almost certain it is my fault.

            A hand crashes forcefully against my face. Then again and again as I am restrained by the collar of my shirt. I can hear it stretching to its limits and tearing. I can hear this because I have stopped listening to her. Which makes her even angrier.

            I disappear. Why bother existing at all? There is a dull sensation of pain, but it is nothing. When she is done I come back. This is how I remember it. Although, I am certain this is wrong. I am just covering up the horrible stuff with some form of acrobatic escapism.

            When the fury ends and she is physically and emotionally spent, I am sent to my room. It is a safe prison, a place where I cannot confess my shame and hers to anyone. She is safe from the prying eyes of DCFs and I am safe from her.

            Ten to thirty feet away from window I watch the world go on without me. There is a painful longing. My neighbors enjoy the day unsullied by my darkness. I wonder how bad I must be. I cry and wish to die. This is a fact unclouded by time or wishful thinking.

            I read the bible. I sneak a real book and read it. The book is wedged between my bed and the wall. I conceal half of it in the covers as I read the other half, adjusting it carefully and as quietly as possible. When I can’t read I sleep. I sleep so much that I get tired, then I sleep some more. I work as far ahead in my assignments as I can. Thank goodness the teacher is predictable.

            I think, I breathe, I live, but it feels like death. When my sentence is over I am free for a week or so. Then she is angry again. Whatever, back into my cell as I watch the world change. Winter is in its full bloom. Sometimes, I **** in a cup because I am only allowed a certain amount of bathroom visits.

I sit. I think. I sleep. I dream.

I am not even safe in my own dreams. In every dream I am pursued. A monster in space, Freddy Krueger, or just her. I run but spikes start sprouting from the ground, and every step sends spasms of sharp pain through my feet. I can fly but only so far and so high. Electric wires act like rubber bands and sling me painfully back to the spike filled earth. There is no freedom.

            I am out for a day. Then back in again. Sad songs repeat themselves on my cassette player. This only perpetuates and deepens my agony. The children laugh and play slinging snowballs dangerously fast at each other’s face. Why am I the freak? Why can’t I be free?

            The violence subsides. Now there are only harsh, well extremely harsh words, hundreds of sentences to writes, and longer confinements. I come and go so fast that it feels like I spend more time in my room then I have ever spent anywhere else.

            Summer comes, and thank goodness she has to work. I have some free time. However, summer passes and the spring brings with it the same dullness. Now, I am back to winter. My life has become a sad echo. The kids can see that I am weak. Of course I am weak. I must be weak, because I can’t handle what must be normal.

            The snow comes, so deep, white, pure, and humbling. I watch it for days.  No one goes outside. My room becomes a strange universe with me at the center spinning but never moving. I never leave this room, except for meals and the occasional ****. There is something building up inside. I open the window. Then I slam it just as quickly. I open it again feeling the full frosty force of Mother Nature. What a glorious breeze. I shiver with pleasure and with the coldness of it all.

            In the past I have tried to **** myself, but I can’t seem to die. God won’t let me go, and neither will she. So, the window comes open again. I am overcome with another impulse. With no shirt or shoes I jump out the window. It is only a two foot drop. My feet bury themselves in the cold snow. I run around as long as I can stand it, till my feet ache with the pain of cold, then pull myself back in.

            The next day I do it again. I run about a block or so and return. It feels amazing. My mind can barely take in the magnificence of it all. I hope that winter will last forever. The pain and pleasure of it all excites me. My feet go from warm to frosted then I focus on the sensation of them warming up again slowly. It is like they go from alive to dead then come back alive again.

            There it is. The grand pleasure of a small release. No fairytales or dragons. I come and go as I please. No one is outside but me. Me reveling in the cold; me dancing like a madman. I do not get sick. The beast never catches me. She is defied without pain. My dreams don’t change. The world doesn’t get that much better.

            Then when the snow fades and children, come back out to play I am trapped again.But, but this minor pleasure remains. For a bit I came and went as I pleased, free to freeze or not.

I am a terrible human being. **** storming, anger machine that spits hateful things in poetry.
My memory is a landfill, of abuses, and poorly remembered happier times. I struggle to find the truth behind my anger, sadness, and regret. Is it what I remember, forget, or can’t forget that has ****** me up? Her face causes the familiar rage to rise. Voice spewing lies, or what I think is lies. I spent most of my life trying to figure out how it was my fault. I am still trying to figure how it might be my fault. Hyper kid, tired and lonely mother, the formula does not mix. I cannot calculate the value of her violence minus what I did to deserve it. Did I earn it? People aren’t all bad? I can remember going to the movies a couple of times, traveling and listening to music, holidays and presents, but in the present all that is shaded. I am jaded by being locked in an unlocked room, cut off in solitary confinement, because she got busted for the violence. I remember how she had to know what I told the counselor. So I stopped telling them anything.
A smart man knows that human memory is not perfect, so I keep trying to figure out how I deserved to get hit, why I deserved to be isolated, verbally degraded. Part of it had to be my fault, cause people just don’t lash out. I struggle to find out what it was all about because I am scared. If I can’t figure out the reason, if there was no good reason, could I become her?

There is a little kid crying in the corner begging to die.
I know his face and the reasons why he tries to commit suicide.
Little boy struggling to breathe through the sobs and tears
Wants to forget the proceeding years wants to ignore the fear
Wants to deny the lies he hears from his angry mom who is
Screaming violence in his face ripping security from this place.
I want to tell him that this will pass cause I know it will;
Say that there is something better coming, but that’s not how I feel.
I want to cradle him in the comfort of a calm future,
Rock him in a chair of certainty till he slumbers knowing for sure
The world will not continue to hurt him, that people will love him,
But I know that those tragic trends will happen again and again.
Lovers will leave, deceive, while family and friends fade too fast.
Poetry will help, but he will still wear the scars of the past
Knowing that strangers are safer than those human traitors,
Who promise hope, who hide behind friendly gestures.
I want to help that little boy, but he is me and I cannot break free
Of the shadow he casts.

I do not trust a happy day
My mind recalls past patterns
And each time hope has come my way
Peeking past life’s parted veil
Singing songs of sweet tomorrows
The weeks that come are always hell
As are the all the years that follow

I do not trust a lover’s promise
For they can be given so easily
I have seen certain hearts shattered
When loving to carefree and happily
I know one cannot pledge eternity
Anything can be broken even the best family

I do not trust a possessor’s passion
Cause in pursuing owner’s pleasures
I have found all things are only passing
For the taking, to give, in the asking
We all tire of the new toy
Sweet things can rot away
Adding one more item to your pile
Won’t save you from your final fate

There is a far darker day ******* me
The shadows tight on my trail
Night will fall sooner than expected
So even when I smile, I do not trust myself
Moods will change, ebbing and flowing
With the winds that keep my armor
Flapping up and down so my scars are showing

The good is just a phase
Then again I could say the same thing
About the bad days coming
Neither are permanent
Only one thing is inevitable

Two doors down
from a bar
two people,
strangers to me,
sit in a doorway
up on sixth street;
Wearing winter caps,
winter coats,
even though,
I’m sure they know
it isn’t winter yet,
but it’s so cold.
They have each other
as they sit in separate chairs
leaning together.
I wanted to give them
a dollar or some food
but they are sleeping
and I know how hard
it is to get good sleep
in this life.

If I told you they
were children
would you care?

If I told you
they were women
would you care?

If I told you they
were white men
again would
you care?

If I told you
they were black
brown skin
would it matter
At all?    

If I told you
at one time
over fifteen years ago
I slept on a couch
in a hallway
in a building
with cracked
and shattered glass
windows that
let cold winds in.
Cuddling next
to my oldest friend
one head poking out
at each end
from under the thick
sleeping bag I had.
Fully loaded for winter,
except between us
we only had one ski mask
and one pair of gloves,
so we switched off and on.

If I told you what was wrong
so you could find what’s right
how our lives our deeply intertwined
and that this soap box is yours
as much as it is mine?

Would you take the time to see
and help the myriad of yous and mes
that are still suffering,
no matter what they look like?

It is the soul of the night that devours me. Hours spent in silence frightens, enlightens, and bores me. Nature spins in all her soft cool glory. Little pools of water lit by lamplights. Cold fences swing in and out in time to the shifting masses of shift workers. Trucks come and go at random intervals. I am tired, so deep in the fatigue that I require crippling amounts of caffeine. I am a stimulant fiend. Barely functioning as me, more like a specter of me. I watch the world from my comfy shack, letting it spin me back. Dipping in the solace of solitude, I search the universe for truth. Eyes cast everywhere, mind running wild, I ask the night for answers. Its silence says, find it yourself.

They look and see
The quiet surface of me,
Slight waves of personality.

They don't know what I hide
How strong my tide.
The depth of my sea,
They simply cannot see.

They will never be
able to swim to my depths,
or reach my upmost steps
Couldn't possibly stay afloat when I've wept.

To see what lives in the deep darkness of me,
There is not enough breath to explore beneath chest.

I am a labyrinth.. I confess.

The beatings were never super brutal. They were just the rough thud of her working out her frustration. The real pain came when I resisted or when I expected something better. The moment I forgot who and where I was she would remind with the belt, a ***, a boot, a wooden paddle, the broom handle, or whatever implement. The only way I could come out a winner was to illustrate my anguish. I tried being strong but the stronger I was the more enraged she became. So, instead I gave her a way to feel more powerful, enough whines, whimpers, and tears to satisfy her rage but leave me less scarred then I might have been.