cw: ****** assault and suicidal thoughts

I want to combust.
Not into the traditionally red flames.
Red is my mother’s color; because, it’s
the one that suits her the best.

But the reason why I hate it, is that in a deeper shade,
it is the same color that runs between her thighs
and stains the bedsheets we clean
when men decide that they’re more worthy.

I want my flames to be purple,
the same shade I have been fixed on since I was little.
Purple like the heroine I always dreamed of becoming,
and the edges of my vision when I

swallow the cleaning products,
count out the pills,
pull the belt tight around my neck,
grow so furious with myself that I wish I was just dead.

When I told my mother I wanted to die,
she screamed at me,
“How dare you think you’ve gone through so much,
when I’ve gone through so much worse!”

That is why
I want to explode
into flames
that dare to justify my own right to pain.

But purple is the same color
I see around my little sister’s face,
concern in her gaze
as she whispers, “I love you."

How could the world be so cruel?
Locking a man in our home,
a man who tries to take away every piece that makes us whole,
and forcing my little sister to witness me in such a state.

I can’t live up to being a
college student
daughter
big sister,

yet
I can’t bear forcing my little sister
to witness her big sister
lifeless in the room next to hers.

When I go out,
I want to combust into purple flames
because I’m so
terrified, furious, disappointed.

Unlike the men who built the college,
I want to die
without a trace,
and my ashes to disappear.

I guess
nothing would change after I die,
except there would be more
purple little bruises on my sister’s heart.

But would I become
greedy, disgusting, memorable
because I would
leave her?

Leave her like our father
who forgot our birthdays
or when it was his time for child custody,
but could never forget his favorite beer?

When my mother’s boyfriend tries to break into my room at night,
I beg the flames to take me.
I’m too tired, hungry, and weak
to believe I have a right to my own body anymore.

“Traitors,” I whisper to the flames,
hoping my emotions would be strong enough
to ignite myself
and disappear.

But the following morning,
my little sister would knock at my bedroom door,
greeting me with a sleepy smile,
and sitting on my bed to chat.

How could the world be so cruel
to my little sister by making me,
the girl who can’t even protect herself,
her protector?

“I missed you.”
She says, and I can’t help but laugh.
“I just saw you before you went to sleep.”
I reply.

Suddenly
the purple flames that I once called traitors
remind me they were with me the whole time,
burning resiliently.

My feet
are burned and bloodied
with the dirt
from which i clawed
my way out of.
Every word
to tumble from my lips
might choke
on the teeth
lining my throat,
but i will still
spit them out.
My arms
may be scarred
with the cuts
of all the thorns
i had to dig through,
and my heart
might be back
in the grave you buried me in,
but I will still
stand in front of you
more alive than
you will ever be.

Pieces of broken glass,
Scattered colors,
An orange ribbon,
And a fresh red rose.

In a dark world,
where the light comes from only
within me,
and none elsewhere.
I limp with swollen feet
and tired eyes.
Tired of the betrayal,
tired of the failure,
tired of the hate.
Amidst the blinding pain,
and the screaming angels,
I decide to fly.
                                                            ­-storm-

The liver
Is a mother
It takes in the bad stuff
of the body
    (the **** that no other *****
No other person wants)
Clean things up
Sometimes, the liver fails
But, it can grow new tissue too
Mother's are resilient
So, ya see,
"it is always something"

A CHRISMAS STORY – Part 1

In a time, past was Christmas eve,
A tense quietness spread throughout the house,
No one wanted attention not to dare even a mouse,
Dad snoring on the couch didn’t see our mother leave,

Dad came home two hours late,
Said, “He was drinking at the club with Casey and his son,
He left early, a little before eight,
What the hell he bellowed, I work hard just a little fun,”

Mother said the boys wanted to open just one present,
Dad starred, “every year the same, “NO”,
“We open them Christmas morning, all Santa had sent,”
Mother also was drinking, and said, “Why the hell no, and NO.”

Dad walked to the tree looking at the presents in disgust,
Mother said why are you always like this,
“Open all of them” he shrieked, “IF YOU MUST!”
Then he kicked and broke every toy, not even one did he miss,

The night before Christmas it was very quiet in our house,
Nothing was stirring, not even a mouse.



A CHRISTMAS STORY – PART 2

The two boys’ clothes were tattered,
Yes, their hair was long, had Nana brought a toy?
Grandma would fuss, but it hadn’t mattered,
Their smiling ***** faces shinned Christmas joy,

Early the boy walked the cold wood floor,
To the living room, lighting the old ceramic heater,
From the one-bedroom, the others poured out the door,
Warming hand and feet at their only heater,

Money was short dad said,
Gas went off at night,
The boys saw only the gifts instead,
And the shining Christmas light,

They played with the few new toys,
Having fun, the two boys,
Dad ask one for some water to drink,
The boy ran quickly to the kitchen sink,

His head swooned, what had this meant,
He gasped at what he eyed,
Back to his brother he went,
Pulling his shirt to show what he spied,

Two beautiful red bikes sat on the floor,
They turned around and dad leaned against the door,
Merry Christmas he said,
I sold my car but will ride the truck instead.

By Jim Kirk-Wiggins (c) 2019, All Rights Reserved
LiberiPress.com

They say, everything happens for a reason
Believed you to be everything, until I became the reason
A reason, with dreams of autumn season.

Fall if you must, to rise from the dust
Scathed but Strong, like a burning tong
Humming to self your warm song.

There is sun somewhere, look around
The light never leaves, even as darkness surrounds
Finding light is tough, but creating one makes you Profound
My reason in ME, thus I found.