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I often speak
of the holy:
the high and mighty
the hands that guide me-
because that stuff never leaves you
when your oldest memory
is writing stolen stories in the back pews
(next to you)
of the church that ****** me to Hell
just for living; for loving; for breathing.
And
I often speak
of the ink
under my skin-
how it beats
with the blood
of my veins
how it rots
the valleys of my brain
how it festers
in the edges of my eyes
(Besides,
I’ve always thought
leaky faucet eyes and flatlines
were better fitting for me anyway).
And with calligraphy nibs
for teeth
and nails-
the points beg
for the weight
of the word
and the worlds
I could make.
So don’t mind
the blushing lines
on my wrists
& stomach
& sides-
that’s just me scratching the surface.

And
I often speak of
the hell I faced
in the soft heaven of my bed,
and how you Holy Figures watched
and waited
with blind and prying eyes
for the answer to come to you
on a rusting silver platter.
And yet,
when I served the cause
to this wretched effect
bloodied and blessed as it was-
wrapped pretty and proper
in a note I wrote in deranged worry;
you wept,
painting me a monster
with the ink from
my own ****** letters.
So,
cast from above
like One before-
a glistening gold halo
turned to petty pyrite
(how fitting,
for a follower turned fool).

So,
I ask
your Heavens now:
when I came to you
with prayers
and pleads
heavy on my tired tongue
in the pews of your Holy House
made Hell,
did you ever think to hesitate
before you began
to point your jagged fingers
and other weapons of war
at the silent space
between the lines of my letters
(that weren’t even there)?
Or did you hate being wrong so much,
six years of ignorance
was the price
you were willing to pay?
Was it worth it,
my Holy Roots?
Actually a slam poem I wrote a while back! I was raised Catholic, and of course, being gay/trans doesn't mix well with Catholicism. Tale as old as time. And because there's no real guidebook for raising neurodivergent queer Little **** (TM) with a penchant for getting into things I had no right to be in; they didn't know how best to help me. So, they didn't. Leaving me to my own devices so I could sort **** out for myself, in hindsight, wasn't the best idea, but it was better than the times where they tried to help but actually ended up making things worse. They try, though. And at the end of the day, it's all I can really ask for.
Koda Mueller Jan 18
Our relationship is always a closed and locked up door
No matter how hard I try, our relationship stays like it's always been before
No matter what I do, no matter how easy or rough
For some ******* reason, it never seems to be enough

I try my hardest to make him proud
Yet he never seems to listen despite me screaming so loud
I wish he'd look my way and want to see me
I want things to be normal, a happy family

What must I do to get his love
Must I call for a miracle sent from above?
I already lost a mother and now I'm losing a father
All I ever wanted was to be treated like a daughter
Been struggling with some things lately, mainly my heaping pile of daddy issues. Haven't been the best lately so I decided to word ***** my thoughts down
Kody Frazier Dec 2024
Picture frame on my wall
Heart surgery, age of three
Scar that the doctors cut
Cover wounds that they can’t see
Crime scene of beer bottles
Your memories are doing time
Your ex-wife, a four-time convict
Your only child, your only crime
My first steps were on eggshells
Eggshells like bombs in a field
Locked me in my moon-lit room
A closed door, my only shield
So tell me again how everyone ruined your life
How my mom was such a reckless *****
Carry me to my creaking bed
I’ll here your sobbing through the closed door
Sleep doesn’t come easy
Not through my muffled screams
Did you sleep soundly, at peace finally
Or do you see me in your dreams?
My memories are mysteries
Those I trust then can’t be true
You were supposed to protect me from others
Instead, I protected others from you
Perception heals what time could not
Time writes stories on your face
Stories of you slamming doors
Doors I have left unlocked, just in case
Cloudisse Nov 2024
These are two words which are completely foreign to me.

What is a mother? What is a father? How do they both act? I have not only been deprived of their significant meanings and experiences, but defiled also.

I am plagued with Mommy issues, Daddy issues. Anything at all relevant to something paternal, forcefully and painfully stirs something inside me.

I wish to squirm and break away from such a topic. It hurts.

Envy? Yes. But I know it is futile to wish and be other children with healthy families.

Everything Is Worldly.
Ivy Vivian Smith Oct 2024
Daughter of Shadows
In the quiet of my room,  
I search for love’s embrace,  
But echoes of his absence  
Leave an empty space.
I watch the world around me,  
See fathers hold their girls,  
But I’m trapped in memories  
Of a life that twirls and swirls.
He promised me forever,  
But forever slipped away,  
Now I’m left with questions  
That haunt me every day.
I wear a smile like Armor,  
But inside I feel so small,  
Yearning for affection  
That never came at all.
In moments when I’m broken,  
I seek a way to cope,  
Turning pain into a canvas,  
Searching for a thread of hope.
The blade whispers softly,  
“Here’s a way to feel,”  
A moment of control,  
A temporary seal.

But each mark tells a story,  
Of love that went astray,  
A reflection of my heartache,  
A price I have to pay.
I crave the validation,  
The love I never knew,  
Hoping in the silence  
To find a path that’s true.
Yet still I rise each morning,  
With shadows in my mind,  
Knowing that I’m stronger,  
With each step, I will find.
So here’s to all the daughters,  
Lost in shadows of the past,  
We’ll weave our own narratives,  
And find a love that lasts.
A poem that explores the emotions of daddy issues, this poem explains struggles of a girl dealing with feelings related to her father and how that impacts her emotions and choices. Turning to $elf h@rm for feels of reassurance
Maimoona Tahir Oct 2024
My eyes are like my fathers,
So is my heart,
No matter how much I try to undo myself,
or pick me apart,
He is a piece of me,
My bitter half.
Apeksha Ranjan Oct 2024
My parents use to
Beat me and scold me
Just so, that next day
They can shower their love.

My father use to
Hit me and tell me how useless I'm
Just so, that next day
He could say how much he cares about me.

My mother use to tell me
How much she regret for having me
Just so, that next day
We can share our feeling and gossip about other.

They use to tell me
That they hate me the most
Just so, that next day
They can fulfill my wish.

Now I got use to of these
I chased the people who hurt me
Just so, that next day
They could protect me

Coz every thing happens in the same manner
I did all this
Just so, that next day
Everything could be better.
Maimoona Tahir Sep 2024
Like a concept she felt known but not heard,
Her desires were just a replica of her mother's,
Like wise her mother Will she mourn over them too?
the demise of her desire,
The deceased desire to live,
To create,
To be known and heard,
And to be aware,
To be completely infatuated with something more than an idea,
To be infatuated with reality,
Hitherto,
she had learned 4 walls is all there is to this life.
is Sep 2023
In a bedroom in small-town Pennsylvania,
you’ll find an unmade bed,
a pile of clothes on the floor—
clean but not folded,
open drawers and dusty shelves,
a desk in the corner of the room
with pictures laid across it.

When I caught my first fish at six.
I held it at arm’s length by the fishing line
to avoid the slimy scales,
a frown on my face from being forced
to sit silently in the cold.

When my family went to Marco Island,
my sister and I, sifting sand for the best seashells
in our matching swimsuits and hats.
Mom and dad’s fights forgotten in our fun.

High school graduation
posing with my best friend since first grade,
diplomas in one hand and an extra cap held between us
because not everyone survived all four years.

Move-in day at college,
sitting on my raised bed with a grey comforter
and two decorative pillows the color of cotton candy.
Sweat on my brow from southern humidity
and moving furniture without the help of a father.

The pictures are merely snapshots
that lack the full story.

How I learned what it meant for love to fall apart
when I was eight years old.
My sister warned me before it happened,
told me what a divorce was.
I mistook her for joking until they called us upstairs.
Dad cried when they told us, but mom held her tears
until the day he left. The sounds of her cries
escaping from behind a closed door.
“This doesn’t mean we don’t love each other.”
But that’s exactly what it meant.

How I was taught by my father that love is conditional,
and I repeatedly needed to prove myself
through good grades and unquestioning obedience.
Forced to stay home to spend time with the family,
sitting wordlessly on the couch while he watched TV.
Made guilty for wanting to spend time with friends
because that somehow meant that I was a bad daughter.
It’s funny—I never asked myself if he was a good father.

If you look harder at the bedroom,
you’ll find journals filled with bitter words,
screws from disassembled pencil sharpeners, loose razors, and Aquaphor,
food wrappers stuffed in hidden places,
a closet brimming with junk and pairs of shoes,
evidence of a story untold. Until you.
When he comes home, I go into panic mode,
The walls in my brain closing in,
The bile in my throat rising,
My teeth sweating in anticipation of what is to come

When he comes home,
I hope to god that I pass beneath the radar,
Nothing more than a sigh on the breeze,
Nothing more than a ripple in a pond
Nothing for him to notice

When he comes home, I make myself as small as I can,
Hoping that he’ll ignore me like he has all these years,
But knowing that it’s a futile attempt,
Like trying to avoid the burning sun

When he comes home,
The nausea roils in my gut,
Reminding me that I am nothing,
That I will never be anything more than what he paints me to be

When he comes home,
I am reduced to “yes sir” and “no sir,”
To eyes that are glued to the ceiling or floors,
To fidgeting hands and twisting fingers
To nothing more than a decoration to stand in the corner

When he comes home,
I try to retreat to my room,
I try to give him the space that he seems to need,
I try to leave him be and let him sleep,
But nothing seems to work, and he yells all the same

When he comes home,
My home becomes nothing more than a battlefield,
One that I cannot escape,
One that there is no running from,
One from which the injuries are only seen in the trauma that is left behind

When he comes home,
My life becomes nothing more than a play,
A tragedy in which no one survives,
A performance that I am supposed to know,
But stage fright has taken over and the lines mean nothing to me now
And I am frozen, hoping for the curtains to fall to cover my fear

When he comes home,
I quietly
Exit
Stage left.
Trauma responses ****
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