The ground is damp
Lets light a lamp
Put away the stuffs
And build a camp
There is the lake
Lets hurry and make
The camp fire light
To bright up the night
It seems too dark
I hear the dog bark
Over there in that park
Opposite that is a house
The haunted wretched
All withered and patched
But that's far from here
An unusual atmosphere
We observe the surround
Laying low to the ground
Nothing happened scary
Except the mist appeared in a hurry
And dang at 3a.m
We heard awful cries
Loud fights
****** sights, yet
All gone by the morning light
No more camps for me
I don't want to be
The next victim of phasmophobia...

©sim

Hello,
I am dismantled.
Laying here on the floor.

You thought you broke my body,
But you broke so much more.

It wasn't just me,
It was the life that we had.

Goodbye, familiar and secure.
Goodbye, dreams in my head.

Hello,
I am dismantled.
Laying here on the floor.

I pick the pieces up,
But they don't fit together anymore.

I want to move on,
But I'm scattered apart.

There's no faith in who I am.
There's no trust in my heart.

Hello,
I am dismantled.
Laying here on the floor.

I keep saying, Hello?
But you left out the door.

You hadn't understood,
How the abuse was like before.

And the abandonment was the same.
It's trauma for me on the floor.

Hey, I'm pretty broken here.
Picking myself up once more.

Oh brave heart, end this cycle.
I can't be a victim anymore.

They call us survivors

I call us leftovers

They tell us we're heroes and deserve better than the hand life dealt us.

They use us as examples of inspiration and make shiny metaphors out of our trauma.

But.

But they never look at you long enough to see that you flinch when they reach, with greedy hands, towards you because to look at you too long would mean seeing the hand wrapped around your throat.

They are never around long enough to know that panic sets in while you shower and scrub at your skin until it's raw and bruised.

Sticking around would mean knowing that you were touched by Poison Ivy and they've heard it's contagious!

They don't watch when you're seventeen and crying into his shoulder, asking him to tell you he loves you, just so you can sleep because that would mean that maybe..you aren't that heroic afterall.

If they got too close they would see that you aren't surviving so much as submitting to being alive.

They sit on the edge of their seats gobbling up details about your so-called courageous story, eating up the nitty-gritty details because they know it will end in some form of you rises from the ashes.

But YOU didn't know that you'd be rising from the ashes when he was lighting his match.

When you tell them, you're still in therapy learning to breathe and count to ten, they have to realize bandaids don't fix gaping wounds, so they stop listening, notice the crows feet and crooked teeth,  and turn away because suddenly...you look like a victim