2024, hm that came fast. I don’t remember anything. I still feel like I’m dreaming, it’s very eerie giving birth to a life for 2 years to not feel real, of course a part of me is mom, my daughter has everything she needs and she is my top priority, above myself. I traded, 2 years ago, I was in the middle of drowning, I still am, I had just left my mom’s house running away from home, thinking he was my sanctuary. Moved into this house thinking I was welcomed, I am so stubborn and gullible, I think that’s the trauma child in me begging for safety. I can withstand any abuse and think it’s a form of love and know it’s abuse. Family. Family is a stupid thing. Blood is *****. But the love for my daughter is the purest form, I will never let her hurt like I did. I beg that the love I have with her father is real, and the old-fashioned tyrant of a Jehovah witness mother in law whose values and reality completely disobey the values of her religion ends and a peace washes over this house. The strength to become a mother comes within the strength of your will to become the best version of yourself for yourself, for that inner child. I’m healing my childhood with my daughters giving her everything I never did, my partner on the other hand grew up shielded from family and culture never experiencing holidays, or birthdays. I grew up being abused at my birthday parties but hey at least I had a party. Trauma is not biased. It doesn’t care who you are or where you come from. It’s ******. As result of his upbringing along with being the youngest of two brothers with a 20 year age difference those brothers had addictions, he was kept in the room most of the time in front of a tv trying being told to increase the volume on the tv to mutter out the yelling. I on the other hand used to take care of all my cousins while the yelling happened I was the protector my partner was the protected. His father passed when he was young so that idol and influence was only left to those brothers, raising my own brother I know what a lack of a male role model does to the prepubescent brain of a 11 year old boy. Trauma, it’s ******. The dynamic of the household is everyone to themselves and its very toxic, it’s sad, my caring personality put me here cause I see that they need to be saved, the trials that my spouse has put me through has made me want to give up on this till this day, I have my doubts if he has actually changed. Some people say people don’t change and I hope that this new chapter is growth and actual progress. I want it to be genuine, at the end of the day I want to be with a person I can fully be myself with and vice versa. The trust issues are there, but ******* I have issues, I feel like I’m crazy sometimes, I don’t understand how simple my requests for life can be, for them to prove to be so **** difficult, how can I read back on a poem from 2 years ago and still feel the same way? It’s eerie. If you got to this sentence, then you’ll be intrigued by the next update. I can only write so much.

i ask you to repent, for me
come clean, for me
and tell your dad,
no, i wasn’t 18

i was
mature for my age

I’ve begun “The Wasting” once more.

That ragged uncovering of bones and peaks and ridges that crop up along my spine and shoulders.

My scapulas revealing themselves like the bed of a lake as the waters recede.

Indents beside and under my kneecaps, hollows that match the ones slowly sinking themselves back into my cheeks.

And the hipbones…the things I truly crave to see through the paper thin layer of my skin…

Those…I’d starve myself to waifish proportions just to graze my hands along the mountaintops of those things, those sharp little things.

I lose my hair and my colour and my shine just to dig my fingers into the hardness of my breastbone, just to know that my jawbone is an overhang, just to plunge headfirst into the thrill of being thin.

“The Wasting” and I are friends, and I want to drown in her.

I will never be the same again.
But truly who ever was I?
The foundation never formed,
All there ever was – is mourning.
Died then revived.
Died and revived once again.
Continuously digging myself up from the grave.
A wraith amongst the dead,
I cannot rest because I have never truly lived.

Necromancy upon my soul,
A constant yearning to finally be whole.
A body covered in dirt and scars.
Yet I am determined to make it beautiful.
A heart full of spite, yet bursting with love.
An incautious desire to one day be enough.
I refuse to rest until I experience what real, safe human touch feels like.

Place a hand upon my sulphuric body.
I was once so afraid but now I am begging.
Please take it away, please tell me I am not *****.
I suppressed it all but now I'm overflowing.
I care not who you are, please just love me.
Lay me down amongst the green.
Put all your limbs on top of me.
Make imprints upon this rotten flesh,
until I can finally feel clean.

A body barren and hollow,
A body that only knows shame.
My bones are coated in it,
Words spewing it,
Tears pouring with it.
All I am is shame.

She used to smile so innocently when she was young.
With a laugh like a howling winds great bellow.
She would fantasise about her first love, I let her down.
Now I am screaming, snarling, spitting.
Resenting a world that I was foolish to trust.

Drive a stake through my heart,
I ask of you to wish me peaceful rest.
Hopefully this time I will not rise again.

Banished.

he leaned over, breath hot against cool skin

and it didn't feel like fire, but it felt like a burn. and i closed my eyes, rapid moving things

nudging for an escape,

and thought i could hear heartbeats flooding my lungs

but from where wept, it sounded like anger.

and from where i heaved, it sounded like ripping flesh, like the slow drag of a zipper and the whip of an unfastening belt.

i could draw out the shape of him

without staring, without studying. he wanted me to remember.

& i remembered

It felt like fire then, and it burned like a flame and i opened my eyes, and kept them steady.

while, the train shook the house.

while these bones were cement things, laid out beside me.

don't cry, don't cry, my, darling, don't cry.

and for the most fragile moment,

swore his hands wound around my flesh, were there to mend me, not break me.

and for the briefest moment, i swore this was more than just

a broken body tapered to the mattress like a stain.

it wasnt raining, but it felt like it.

wait wait

the train is too loud and i feel like im being ****** right underneath

Wait

Like all flesh rubbed raw,

Everything stays a shade of pink

the quick decision
that leaves lives filled with grief.

the quick ending
of a life that should have lasted longer.

suicide is not an option
but to those of us
it's the only answer.

i started this poem
when i was
nearly 23
i'm 24 now
almost 25
but i still feel
like a child.

19
trying drugs,
loving the man
who would **** me.
and i'd forgive him
take him back into my arms
let him touch me anywhere
just to feel something.
afterward
he smokes
and smokes
and smokes
apologizing
through a haze
of drugs and
shame. he spoke
useless fragile
words and i drank
them up eagerly.
they tasted like
whiskey,
valerian,
and ice.

when i'm 20
i find a therapist.
no more drugs;
still loving him.
i slide a new slate
across the kitchen
table just for him.
but it's cracking
as his fingers
pick it up,
shattering in
place. he moves
from stone
to skin. rips
and tears
until i'm
finally
split
too.

21
still in therapy,
i tell him
it's okay
that he
cheated
because
it was
all
about
the drugs:
not me.
but when i
tell him how
much it hurts
he says
maybe you
should work on that
in therapy.
i lean into
his side
but being
near him
never quite
feels the
same and
i ache for
comforting
sin.

i'm 22 when i find out
that being pressured
into *** after
saying no twice
isn't consensual
and he's not
round anymore
but at night
i hold my breath
terrified that he'll
appear. in my
dreams there
are flash
backs lying
in wait, even
though i've
begged for
some dream
less sleep.

when i'm 23
my third or fourth
therapist
tells me
she's sorry that
i had to go through
it all. and she listens
as i fade away and keeps
listening until i
can feel the earth
at my feet
once more.
she's a good
sort. i'm sad
when she
moves.

24 creeps
upon me
like a scratchy
sweater. i want to
shrug it off of my
shoulders, but it's
too cold. i'm no
longer the things
that happened
to me in that
darkening room,
and at twilight
most nights
i no longer find
myself thinking of
him.

i feel so old.
my bones always
hurt, the cat's food
is so expensive, and
i always have chicken
in the freezer. but
i can't bring myself
to eat. the medications
keep the ache at bay
but i feel it waiting.
at least my cat always
purrs when i feed him.
makes me feel
a little
loved.

my chance to grow
got pushed back a
few years
and i probably grew
anyways, unknowingly
pushing back against
invisible walls waiting
for one to finally give.

i hate that i'm here
trapped in adolescence
i hate that i'm still
writing about him
about what happened
and how much it still
hurts me.

maybe when i'm 25
i'll try to edit
this poem.

There can be no absolution
for the things I’ve done

yet you do not talk of revenge or retribution

you forgive, too easily
(or maybe I believe, too easily)

lulled into a false sense of security

maybe I will pay one day
offer a vial of my blood to a faceless God

break my bones down
until they are a pile of dust

dust that you can scatter, like ashes
pretending I was good once, kind, considerate

a girl a million miles away for the one
wielding the knife over your best friend’s heart

yes, there were mitigating circumstances
but very few victims actually **** their ******

I mean, that’s wrong. They all should, really,
and get away with it.

because people like that have given up
their right to live

**** is ****** in a way,
except you wake up…

to **** these animals is self defence,
reclaiming, asserting yourself that
you will NOT be a ******* victim

that there can be only one survivor in this
and that’s you

i wait for you on my crumbling precipice
and no, roaring waves heed not my call below
slow, i retrace my steps away from the  edge
but oh the ledge, its comfort calls
i wait for you, my dear, my love
to part the crowded sea, to relieve me
of the gray flag i hold that i wish to relinquish
this is not what i want, but who i am might be incongruent
with the life i imagined, golden sun and rain abhorrent