At one point I called you father, and meant it.
You were not my father by blood, simply by marriage.
I had longed for a father figure for as long as I could remember,
A man who would love and raise me as his own.
The good memories were brief snippets of happier times,
While the bad were vivid, distinct memories that lasted for what felt like hours.
A nightmare that I could never escape from,
They were engrained in my memory like the words to my favorite song.
I wish I could forget all the difficult memories and focus on the good times that we had together.
What little they were, anyways.
I wish I could forgive, the way my five year old self did,
Oh, the love and admiration she had for you.
Now all that was left was anger and a bitter resentment.
The anger and confusion that came with the abuse that you perpetuated.
I would never call you Father again, if I ever saw you
I would look at you in disgust and pity,
For you will never know true, selfless, love.
And for that, I feel sorry for you.

~sdr

where were you when the tree branches
were scraping against my window
when i was staring at the cul-de-sac
clutching the landline to my chest
one time i thought i saw a bear
in the woods across from the bus stop
but it turned out to be a pile of brush
you know i still see things in the dark
the other night i woke up from a bad dream
and saw teeth that weren’t there
i managed to blink them away but
there are some things that i can’t
like the shadow in the doorway that visits
every night and the open hand i am doing
everything not to grab
it pretends that it needs me but really
all i needed was yours

sometimes i wonder about the kind of girl i would have grown up to be if my trauma had never ceased to exist.

if i had never spent decades of my youth trying to mold my imperfections to the male gazes' views on what it meant to be a lady. 

would i still have lived in the sin that led me to the wages of death or would i have lived freely with the spirit of the holy that showered me with serenity?

would i still have fought so hard for the freedom and solace that had never belonged to the violence of the patriarchy or would i have sat crossed legged in a chair like the woman my ancestors would have rendered me to be?

would i still have let the boys that masqueraded as men, see the forbidden depths of my God given body or would i have clothed myself with competence and capability? if my trauma had never ceased to exist, would this version of me just live to be seen as an example of who i never wanted to be?

I am not going to tell you
what happened to me.

Because it will only
break your heart.

You might blame yourself.

And mother,
that would be a shame.

A man did this,
with his own two hands.

A society missed this,
with its averted gaze.

Genetics did this,
to us doe-eyed
and aesthetic.

You are not to blame.
I am not to blame.
We, women, are not to blame

I don’t have to be ****** to tell you about the night
with the bed. I can be elegant; tell you about seed
and rag, the kind of heartbeat you can hear from
across the room, or the rise and fall of the chest
that you watch to make sure you’re alone. To make
sure you’re safe, now, that the only person awake
is you and the moon. I don’t have to tell you about
the night with the bed at all. I can tell you about the
day before, or the day after, with the car and the bus
and the sunglasses. I can tell you about Pepsi and
Target and Christmas and the way a hand you love
can sting so much. I don’t have to be ****** to tell
you about that night, but I know you want me to be.
You want to hear about the knife that split me open
and what leaked out after, who cleaned the sheets,
if they ever got cleaned. You want to know about
the plane. It departed at 3:14. I’m not sure I ever
got off, but you’re welcome to take the seat next
to me. I’ll tell you about the knife. The night with
the bed. The seed, the rag, the moon. I’ll be as
****** as you want if you promise to hold my hand.
At least until the plane lands.

9/23/21

Polarities
Possessing the mind
Stealing possibilities
If I am This
Then there is bound to be That

A perfectionist
Will find their enemy
In one who makes mountains
Out of molehills
And therefore renders themselves
Incapable

A person bound to their suffering
Suffers further
When they see others in their joy

A dislike of one thing
Pulls toward it one
Who likes that same thing
Ātman
Feeds on opposition

To free oneself
Starts from within
Diving into the divine
That which is limitless

Freedom is here
Connection
Is always an option
So long as one recognizes
Their own mortal, mental positions
And instead lends their mind
To curiosity

Here,
Love triumphs
And we all ascend.

Fear
Curiosity
Which path shall I take
Opportunity endless

First step
Awareness
Body tirelessly communicates
Will I listen?

Two
Listen
What messages does it relay?
How do the past and present inform them?

Three
Decide
Which benefits me?
The bigger, timeless Me

There is hope in understanding
My neurology
and engaging joyfully
in its plasticity