Do you think she’ll witness my downfall
When she goes to hell?
Do you think she’ll feel the anguish of empathy?
Do you think she’ll find a way to introspect
Instead of projecting?
That would cause her suffering.
I won’t be grouped in with fools
Who discharge ressentiment
With dreams of those who’ve wronged them
Suffering more than they have...
But I know it must discharge somewhere.
What constrains me?
The stunted superego
Suffocates the id
Holds it down and kicks it;
A child beaten
It doesn’t want to hurt its family
Until the day it’s realized
That it can’t.
And then, its spirit broken
Lays dormant, a pressure cooker
Tells itself it doesn’t want to rise
To cope with having fallen.
It stays silent and still long after left
Retreated so far into itself
That now it fails to recognize
The threat is gone –
The abuse goes on
Long beyond it’s ended.
She told me she loved my poetry,
That I inspired her to write
About her father.
I should have seen it coming then
It was no different from before -
I let myself be used again
I have no excuse.
I told myself I wanted all of her
But I never wanted her blame shifting
Her traumatic bonding
Her playing the victim
And it would be easier to cope with
If it actually hadn't.
It would've been easier
If I'd been the crazy one
Because then I might've had the power to fix it
If again I could go back to the time
When I clung to her lap
And she ran her fingers through my hair
And said, "Your head's really fucked up, isn't it?"
If I could go back to my "data acquisition"
And be okay when she refused to give me answers
When she refused to tell me what we were
Or if I meant a thing to her
So I couldn't hold her to expectations
Or have them
Because I meant nothing to her
But she couldn't tell me that until I tried to end it
She just let me say "I love you," and didn't say it back
(Except for the few times she slipped just to keep me trapped).
She told me that it was all in my head
And then that I wasn't imagining anything
In the same paragraph.
She told me she was "over this"
But wouldn't tell me what "this" was
When I was the one crushed under it.
She let me chase that conversation
And played with me
And told me, "You're just going to have to be confused then.
This is my straight forward response.
The truth is, I'm sorry but you will have to deal with it."
But I didn't want to deal with it.
I just had to.
And all I wanted was the truth
But I still don't have it
And I don't know how it can stare her in the face
And she can still deny it
I don't get how she can torture me for months
And not have the decency to say, "Yeah, I did it,"
So I can rest.
I don't get why I still need her validation
Why I still tried so desperately to get it
Why the army behind me isn't enough
But it has to have something to do with her saying,
"I am not your ex. I am nothing like your ex.
You need to be able to collect the data in front of you and dissociate from past trauma.
Every time I tried to defend myself from her actions
Until I stopped trying because I was too busy trying to analyze my own
Or, "You tell me all your thoughts,
I go through them with you
Confirming. Or. Denying."
Like she was the omniscient authority
The objective standard by which the validity of my feelings and perceptions were measured.
I think it's because
It'd be easier to cope with
If it hadn't actually happened,
So I convinced myself it wasn't happening
And I'm still struggling to believe it.
It'd be easier
If it was all in my head
Because then I'd have something to be certain of
(Even if it was only my uncertainty)
And I wouldn't have to admit to myself
That I was in love with a sociopath.
I wouldn't have to wonder
Whether or not she did it on purpose.
I wouldn't have to face the fact that I feel abused and broken
And like there's a hole in me I'm not sure how to fix
That I allowed to be drilled there.
punches, lies, smears, deceptions
and splatter onto the paper here on my table
heavy chunks of blood dark, fringed with greys
hate and sickness ooze from your pores
scenting the mix with sweet rot
I close my eyes
only to see yours
and you know, I just painted your soul
"I woke up."
And wished I was dead.
"I walked through the house."
Like a zombie.
"I kissed and hugged my mother."
And my body was in so much pain.
"I ate my breakfast."
And felt sick to my stomach.
"I grabbed my clothes and got dressed."
But I stared at my scars and cuts first.
"I started my schoolwork."
And wished I could disappear.
"I turned in assignments."
But I already knew what my grades would be.
"I ate lunch; I had a sandwich."
I didn't want to eat. Why do they make me?
"I went back and did more school."
And wished I wasn't alive; did I mention that already?
"I did my chores."
And thought of all the ways I could leave.
"I ate dinner."
Because they always make me eat.
"I did more school until ten."
Then collapsed into bed, not wanting to exist.
"I laid in my bed wide awake, thinking, until about two a.m."
I didn't want to sleep 'cause I don't like nightmares.
"I thought about life, conversations, etc."
Ways I could off myself, why I hate myself, etc.
"I finally fell asleep around two-fifteen."
The nightmares get worse and worse.
Please don't make me do it again.
I don't want to live another day.
Please don't make me live life.
"Then the day started again when I woke up at about five."
A thick fog of hyperventilated breath, microwaved dinners, and nail polish remover separates into two halves as my mother breaks through my bedroom. The creaking of the door always, without fail, pierces directly through my ears and into the part of my brain that knows how to be kind and pleasant
No mother, I didn't hear about the wreck on 288 today
No mother, I don't know if I can go grocery shopping tomorrow
No mother, I don't fucking care to be a part of this family
Every picture of a sad-looking, round-faced, blonde pigtailed child in any photo album collecting dust on a shelf in my house has "victim" written underneath like a description of a particularly memorable event, photographed to document such a milestone.
I never caught any fish.
I never won a trophy.
There was so much empty space.
Yes mother, I could've been a ballerina.
Yes mother, I would have enjoyed learning an instrument.
Yes mother, I wish none of this happened either.
I suppose you can't ask why someone is upset when their house burns down because they left an open flame too close to the curtain. It doesn't matter why everything you own has turned to ash, it just matters. When every birthday cake for every year seems like a post card from the future saying "wish you were here" it feels good to blow out the candles.
Yes mother, I am the curtains of the family.
No mother, I don't want to be.