After a while the past will come knocking on your door until you answer It’ll be yelling that it’s been ignored It’s been yelling that it wants to be recognized It’s crying for you, It’s crying with you. The fear of remembrance is stronger than hiding it in your suppressed subconscious thoughts.
You’re angry Why You feel like crying sometimes
But eventually, It’s going to make you jump into the fire so that all of yourself can be at peace.
If there's anything that serves as a guide If there's an instruction manual out there Titled "How to get through what you're feeling" Or "For Dummies- Life's a *****, it's not fair" I'd read it, I'd absorb every word, every phrase I'd apply it to myself, I'd help others facing the same I won't be frozen, I won't be struck speechless I hope I'm not playing an impossible game Tell me the lessons, I'll get through the tests Lend me blueprints, cryptographs, codes, a sign Don't leave me in the dust, paralyzed, numb Don't make me pretend like everything's fine.
I’m in the dream again: not the one I had while awake in the catacombs of St. Callixtus in Rome. Where the darkness was so impenetrable that it began to echo. To look like the mixture of colors that burst when you rub your eyes too hard for too long. Like the neuron rupture before death. To shape and morph and become liquid. Where the darkness cobbled itself into a physical form.
Not the dream where I kept seeing flits of my mother out of the corner of my eye. Behind every street corner. Every turn. Every tunnel. Reflected in the casts of the bodies in Pompeii. Mirrored in the waves of the Trevi Fountain.
I’m in the dream where the soil churned from the bottom to the top. where the hand outstretched from the grave. where my grandfather clawed his way out and returned to my grandmother﹘sopping wet, covered in thick mud, socks torn, skin sallow and jaundiced, spitting out the wire the embalmers put in his mouth, melting makeup, and ravenously hungry. And it’s been so long since he was hungry.
“He came back to me, Taylor,” my grandmother tells me. “He came back to me.” I don’t have the heart to tell her that he’s undead. I’m physically unable to spit out those words. And it’s a dream and it’s a dream and it’s a dream, but it just fits so perfectly. That he would come back to her. That death would not be a barrier. I can’t explain it. It just is. My grandmother is a shell without him. The body that’s missing the limb. The body that keeps score.
“You look like my daughter” The man says to me, As he’s ordering me a drink Looking my body up and down.
I laugh, Look away, Try to pretend he didn’t say that
Oh but don’t worry He made it a point to mention T H R E E M O R E T I M E S how my body Resembled his daughters, “Tight, perfect, the right kind”
Oof. Idk y’all Idk that I can do this. I walk away I dont make that money. Even though I know **** well, I fit his ****** up fantasies.
Not to mention I’m triggered, Thanks to my childhood trauma, By all of this conversation, But it doesn’t really matter Anyways. Just a product of my environment Just an object to fill The desires Of hungry eyes.
**** it Let me be An empty *** doll. Just take my intelligence with you please. Flowers for Algernon , And I’m wilting. I’m too aware of my place in society.
Why strive to peruse my education, When I know no one will hire me Because of my background? Why stay sober, When my ******* flashbacks Only stop when I’m drunk?
I hate my life. No I don’t like the job I have; But this **** ain’t easy.
And none of it is my fault. It isn’t. None of my trauma is my fault.
At least At the end of the day I have the comfort Of knowing, That I matter just as little as the next person. My life, In all of its glory, matters just as little as john f Kennedy’s I am nothing And we are nothing
The first time it happened I was 5 I was lured by candy as children are All I can remember is hands and pain And being told to not remember And I when I speak on it All I can hear is familial silence And stares that tell me to not speak up at all When CPS came knocking on the door I covered for him. My mom asked me why Why I didn’t tell her all these years My response was simple: I did the first time it happened It continued still, you were drunk after all I wasn’t the first he did it to And I’m sure I wasn’t the last It’s weird to tell people to not joke about ****** It’s weird to tell people my first experience was when I was five It’s weird to tell people I remember It’s weird to pretend I don’t
The second time it happened I was 15 With my first ever boyfriend I was out cold, and he did as he did I don’t remember much, but this He’s checked my pulse and he bragged For months I didn’t realize what happened I could not register what it was I told my mom, I could see she blamed me I could see trust wane in her rise I could tell she didn’t see it how it hurt me I was 15 and asleep He was 16 and awake And somehow I blame myself It’s weird to tell people I still love him It’s weird to tell people I forgave It’s weird having to tell people it wasn’t my fault And it’s weird losing friends over it
Third time it was with my boyfriend again I wasn’t asleep I wasn’t a child I was scared He held me still I said no but he didn’t know I was serious Tears slipped out of my eyes I froze in terror I cried for hours afterwards I knew what it was, he knew what it was I blame myself. I told him no. No. No. No. Now I flinch when someone touches the back of my head I am wounded It’s weird to tell people it happened again It’s weird I still love him after all of it It’s weird to forgive again It’s weird
They were hundreds of times between Of men touching what they weren’t supposed to Of I’m making comments about me Coercing me Making me a part of their perversions Of believing flirting is ticket for their ****** harassment Of making me instinctively hate men. Victim blaming Degrading Sexualizing I am yet a woman It’s weird to not be a woman It’s weird to be a talking point It’s weird to be silenced It’s weird.
God did not mean to give me a mouth. He meant to give me hands, eyes, a heart but not a mouth. When I speak something in me bleeds. When I- I speak, and my eyes fog over like glass. I can't see you standing there, I'm so sorry. Show me again, where did you put the bread?
I feel like a thing that needs to be forgiven.
I feel so fragile sometimes. I am trying to understand the weight of the evil inflicted upon me. It is heavy. I never understood that 'till now.
I wasn't meant to carry this weight, but I do. I wasn't meant to speak the way I so often will, but I do.
What can I say anymore? I can't write without bleeding. I can't speak without knowing it is a wound. How can I communicate without tearing something open? I'm afraid of shutting up and looking for my language. If I decide to leave behind every word that hurts me, would I have any words left? Will it **** the little bit of connection with people I have left?
Listen. I hope you forgive me for the little sadness I'll inspire in you. I am afraid, but don't pity me. I am blossoming and becoming something else. This, apotheosis, this becoming closer and closer to my own light. It is a process that requires allowing death. What must die must die. Allow grief.
I'll leave you with this: If you slept next to me, it would be much like sleeping with a letter under your pillow. Every night, every night...
*"Here I write to you a list of cruelties I am capable of. May you never forget: I have made the flower so that it may blossom, and I have made the lamb so that it may eat it. Blessed be the one willing to become. Here, the flower. Here, the lamb."