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stained glass windows in my mind,
the light shines through & it all rewinds.
once more crying tears of yesteryear,
why must you have this power?
your voice remains in the back of my mind
even after all this time:
questioning reality.
have I really been hurt at all?
could i possibly be mistaken?
but then I remember I was just a child:
in need of love,
seeking comfort.
and where were you?
too inebriated to have a clue.
anger is not a sin,
let out what is within.
you can cry & scream & yell,
you can wish they’d just go to hell
it is okay to feel this way,
& someday you will be okay.
- on feeling anger toward your abuser and using these feelings as a healing tool
for my first act,
my mind is drawn and quartered.

for my second act,
my body is crushed with heavy stones.

for my third act: i must sew my mouth shut
when all i want to do is rip my throat open from the force of my scream.

the pain of the needle grounds me
though it is not sterile, it is all i have.
my monstrous blood swiftly stains the thread, the stage,
and, less importantly, my clothes.
"my mother never taught me to sew," i say with a smile,
"but she did tell me that i talk too much."

when i am finished, i bow with a flourish,
to scattered applause.

the crowd has quickly become bored.
they have seen this tired performance before,
they crave something new.
they demand entertainment.

so, i will give them the show they want;
for my final act, i will disappear.
Scene one, Childhood

I never really learned to emotionally regulate,
Taking clues from Nickelodeon more than parents who set good examples,
Screaming fights and bruises and broken glass
Too much drinking, the smell of cigarettes
Moms broken bones
Make yourself small, make yourself gone
They may not notice you.

We played family a lot, curtaining blankets over a bunk bed to block the outside, and in family, I always took care of my babies.

Scene two, 18

I never really learned to emotionally regulate, taking clues from the friends around me more than parents who set any example.
A false father leaving, a mom losing her cash cow
The smell of Arbor Mist and ***** still makes me sick, mom’s incoherent fists still make contact in my sleep, I still wouldn’t have given her the keys.

We don’t play anymore. We’re mostly estranged. But we work. And in family, I always took care of my babies.

Scene three, 28

I’m trying to learn to emotionally regulate, the slideshow of couches and faces of therapists trying to set an example.
A son born to trauma, a marriage of consequence, I’m still learning to love myself, please, the sound of yelling still makes me sick,
I don’t know how to do this.

We are grown now, we are mostly put together. And now we live. But this is my family, and I will always take care of my babies
This is meant to be a spoken word poem, it’s a little messy. It’s been a while
Nicx Aug 14
I'm walking to therapy
The sun is hot on my black clothing
I feel calm as i let my mind wander
I wonder what I'll talk about today
I could discuss my relationship
Since its been a bit rocky lately
Or I could talk about harder stuff
Like you
I could talk about you

Just the thought dries my lungs out
Takes my breath away from me again
You're always doing that
The buildings around me feel taller now
More suffocating, closing in around me
And the office, I can see is just 2 blocks down,
Suddenly stretches like a band
Pulling further away from me
With a tension that makes me dizzy
Its like im walking down a tunnel and
The soles of my shoes feel like boulders
Weighing me down, throwing off my balance
I don't want to get there now
I no longer feel real
Thoughts of you change everything
I don't want to talk about you
And that's exactly why I need to
Tawana Jul 2020
What’s wrong with me? That’s a question I pose to myself every day.
Because the way I feel just isn’t right.
Because when I look in the mirror I see another person inside me.
She is me, I am her, but we are not us.
She’s always been there since I was a little girl.
She’s all the 'bad' parts of me I tell myself, but I know that’s not true because in many ways we are equals.
She hurts when I hurt and cries when I cry.
But unlike me, she can recover from the pain as quickly as she felt it.
She likes to whisper lies to me when we’re alone because no one hates us more than her.
She told me that I’m the reason we are what we are.
But when will she see that I am her, she is me, and we are one.
This poem is about my struggles with mental health. I have had learning difficulties and behavioural issues since I was a kid. Recently I was diagnosed with depression, PTSD, anxiety and OCD to add to the list. I just wanted to put what I feel almost everyday into words.
Leah Carr Jul 29
I'm hurting
I'm really hurting
But it's been like that for years now

I'm hurting
I'm really hurting
But I've run out of tears now

I'm hurting
I'm really hurting
But I'm "getting the right help" now

I'm hurting
I'm really hurting
But they're tied of hearing that now

So I'm hurting
I'm really hurting
But I do it quietly now

I'm hurting
I'm really hurting
But I choose to stay unnoticed now

I'm hurting
I'm really hurting
But I keep it to myself now

Because I'm hurting
I'm really hurting
But nobody wants to see it now
Leah Carr Jul 29
Did you know,
the deepest kind of burns
don't hurt
because they burn away the nerve endings
that allow you to feel it

Maybe that's why I can't
feel the pain
when I reached the age of reason I hit the ground,
the thought flits across compact
mirror smudged from years
of overuse & abandon,
left behind in purse bottoms and backpacks every time I switch up my style & move on

to something: new/ fresh / else.  
a glance into glass & I'm transported...
a babe on white lambskin,
a baby blanket never wholly recalled.
a down-to-the-wire tally
added to the roster, unexpectedly
a prodigal emotional prodigy, ostracized
alongside destined veracity: as in their
absolute devotion to                                     TRUTH!
a time skip, a box-out, a blackout, a kindness.
a comfort over the desk chair where homework completes itself
after a thousand "mixtape playlists" limewire manically
alphabetized, rearranged & revised until dawn.
another decade maneuvering 'round roadblocks,
a manipulation, a deadening, a defeat,
an Assistant Mother still only a child self.

....yet here I am, a spectacle,  
an accident, a miracle.
a smashing, a childhood survived, a light on an island out at sea.

can I trust myself? to go into myself? by myself?
when I lift the stretch of lambskin from an atticked brown box,
a painted porcelain plate hits the ground,
cptsd is a *****.
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