"Keep that up and you'll end up like your mother."

I couldn't understand this message.
This strange jumble invented by my relative.
Keep what up?
What was I doing?

Eating.
I was chomping on a dessert that my aunt had prepared tenderly.
I was at peace with the world
but my uncle's comment left me distraught.

End up like my mother?
That's all I've ever wanted.
My beautiful, kind, selfless, assertive mother.
She was clever as a fox and delicate and a pink pedal.
End up generous and strong?
Yes please!

Still,
This man watching me eat,
Says it as if it is something to avoid.
There wasn't a correlation that could be made in my mind.

Years later,
I revisited the scene,
Only to have my heart weep for that small girl.
That tiny, confused child quietly nibbling on her cake.

Her mother also eating the treat,
But a larger helping for a larger woman.
She had always been large,
But in my mind that meant more room
For love and passion and aspiration.

"Keep that up and you'll end up like your mother."

I did grow over time,
As most children do.
My pounds piled on
And my skin stretched to make room for the garden growing inside of me.
My body grew larger.
But so did my honesty, my beauty and love for the world.

Maybe I did keep up eating cake,
And maybe I did grow in size,
But to say that 'I'm just like my mother',
Is the best complement I could receive.

I am free
and joyous
and grateful
and kind
but I am not creating.
I cannot.

My eyes glued shut.
My lips sewed together.
My hands chopped off.
My body closed by the same monsters that slit my wrists and changed my name.

The storm has passed but the damage has not.
The demons won't release their claws around my throat nor the teeth that sink into my chest.

Ideas and images run at uncharted speeds,
racing and buzzing past every corner of my mind.
Where do I put them?
Where do they go?

I'm trying to find her again:
the girl who painted fairies & danced without socks & wrote stories about ghosts and mermaids.

Those pixies, bare feet and adventures are still floating.
Waiting to be spilled out onto a page, a canvas, a body; any surface worth noticing.  

The thoughts have been patient and kind for too long.
I fear they won't wait any longer.
They urge and itch to be set free, but without any luck, they melt.

They boil and drip into what can only be described as gone.  
I fear that once gone; they will forever be lost.

I am not inventing, I am not expressing.
I am simply wasting, hoping someone else might construct things for me.
I am not creating.

I am not a child,
I am not your child.
In fact, I am all grown up.

I am all grown up,
but I cannot forget my childhood
because of you.

I kiss girls,
not boys,
because I am afraid that they will hurt me,
(like the monster you are) like you did.

I cover up,
extra clothes,
because I rarely wore clothes as a child
and you would peer at me through
the crack in the bathroom wall.

I don't sing with the birds.
I don't hug my teddy bear.
I don't leave the house.
I am terrified you are out there,
hunting for me like I am your prey.

But I am not a child,
I am all grown up,
and I can beat you up.

I am not a child,
and I will not call you "My Daddy"
and I will not let you call me "Baby".

I am not a child,
and I will not let you touch me.
I am gold, I am radiant, I am light.
And you will not ruin that,
ever, ever, ever again.

I am a child in your eyes,
ever since I told you I sleep with my stuffed animals (mostly to keep me company).

I am a child in your eyes,
ever since you saw me bare-faced & naked (I don't like clothes).

I am a child in your eyes,
ever since you touched me in places even God Almighty wouldn't dare to look at.

I am a child in your eyes,
ever since I sang with the birds and played in the mud, losing my voice and getting my dainty dress and Mary Jane's as ***** as I can.

I am a child in your eyes,
ever since I asked you, timidly, if I could sleep with you because I was afraid of the monsters in my closet and the monsters in the walls.

I am a child in your eyes,
even if I am not a child, even if I am not your child.

I am a child in your eyes,
and you, the real monster, use that against me, especially when the town is asleep and the moon is hidden and my teddy bear is missing and I scream, "No, please, not tonight."

I was sitting beside my best friend,
catching up with friends I hadn't seen since they graduated
when you sat down,
uninvited.
It didn't take a genius to tell
my throat was already closing
at the sight of you.
It had been over a year and a half since
I had last seen your face,
yet here I sat,
less than three feet from my ******.
I received two texts immediately.
one:
"I'm sorry."
From my best friend, who knew everything.
two:
"Are you okay?"
From my other best friend, who knew nothing,
but felt like something was wrong.
Wrong.
Suddenly, everything about that night felt wrong.
I choked on every sentence as it forced its way out of my suddenly tightening throat,
pretending that you were not there.
You see, I've spent so much time
pretending you were not there
that I had begun to wonder if maybe,
you were just a nightmare.
Yet here I sat staring my old friends in the eyes,
more focused than anticipated.
They could tell.
You see, it's a small town,
I didn't need to tell everyone what you did for them to find out.
I thought I was doing well until you spoke to me.
The first words you had directly spoken to me in almost
two and a half years.
"I knew I'd see you here."
I blocked out the rest.
I'd like to block you out, too,
but it seems recurring dreams,
nightmares,
are supposed to teach you something.
I'd like this to make sense,
but the only things I ever learned from you
was to never let my guard down again.
To not love that deeply,
deeply enough that I feel forced to do anything
to prove my love.
I learned I should never have to prove my love.
I should never have loved you.

When you sat across from me and spoke my way,
I couldn't help but think I'd never thought I was going to see you again.
I couldn't help but remember every sleepless night,
such as right now,
where I can't help lie awake in fear you somehow know
just what I am doing,
when I have had you blocked on facebook for three years.
But it's a small town.
Word travels, secrets are never truly safe.
Hushed confessions hop eardrum to eardrum
until they're nothing more than a subtle gasp.

When I finally pulled away from the restaurant,
I drove in so many circles that I got lost--
there are only five roads downtown.
When you finally pull away,
maybe I'll sleep for once--
there is only one of you,
and I wish there were
none.

There is a constant storm in my mind
a heavy rainfall, drowning every thought
that could break the blanket of clouds
I haven't seen the sun in months
I'm forgetting what it feels like
all i know is the rain
and grey skies
and grey thoughts
and a grey self
the whole world is muted
and the thunder crashes at night
when I can't sleep
and there is so much lightning
I'm blinded and terrified
more rain, more hail
more damnable
stormy
self

i feel guilty
wanting to die
but
*i can't stop
i can't stop
i can't stop

It's easy to preach self love
And self acceptance
Until you're ļaying awake at night
Weeping sorrow and anger
At the bones that hold you
And the skin that binds you
And every crack and blister
That your pale shivering body owns
It's easy to talk about self love
When there are at least some things
That can be seen
As worth loving.

goosebumps.
like the ones you give me.
like the only things you left as proof
that we were real.
goosebumps.
the ones I got when you stroked my side with your thumb
and it tickled
but I didn't tell you because I was afraid you'd stop.
goosebumps.
the ones I got when you raised your voice
and threw plates across the room just to watch them shatter
like my father used to.
goosebumps.
the ones you gave me
when we'd sit in front of the fireplace
with our blankets and hot chocolate
on cold winter nights,
taking turns exchanging ghost stories.
goosebumps.
the ones I got when I found out you'd become
one of the ghosts from the stories we told.
goosebumps.
the ones I got when we lowered you into the ground
because it had become too hard for you to breathe air anymore.
goosebumps.
the ones I got from the whispers saying I could've saved you
but didn't.
goosebumps.
the ones I get when i feel you touch my arm
when I sit in front of the fireplace alone (like I did during fights)
and whisper, "I'm sorry," in my ear
in the middle of the night (like you used to after fights),
pretending it's your arm around me
instead of your favorite blanket.
goosebumps.
the only things that remind me I'm real.