Throughout the day,
He sleeps in the coffin,
But as the evening arrives,
He wakes up,
With his cunning bright eyes,
And with a spooky smile...
He gets ready in a black dress,
To hunt his prey in the midnight,
As the night gets darker,
He goes out to show his horrible might...

After finding his prey,
He smiles in a killer way,
Raising his hands above in a mystery,
As it's a sign of his victory,
Capturing his prey within him,
One who's lying below is his victim,
For him, victim's blood is as sweet as meringue,
That's why, he's ******* , ******* by his long canine fangs...

if you are capable of painful silence,
you are capable of painful relief.

Bombs, bombs away!
The crowned prince of Gotham has come to play.
Will you stand by his side?
Or whimper, run and hide?
With nowhere to turn to
And no one to plead to,
Habits die hard.
Though you are scarred,
With the familiar sting of bruises and cuts that still ache,
Nothing hurts more than heartache.
That is why you’ll look at his face and accept his hand,
Because no one will ever understand,
Just how much his sinister grin and laugh
Makes you feel like he’s your better half.
This is your finale, hold your breath,
And accept how he pushes you towards your death.

This isn't my body. She stripped me of that right when she touched me.
This vessel I possess is proof that maternity can cruelly switch to molestation, and how disheartening the world can become once you meet its evils.
Brutality in the act is only half of it though, the rest is trying to cope with the loss of your own skin.
Not a body, just a brain weighed down by pounds of flesh that became property to an abuser six years ago.
I rarely feel human anymore, and that's if I ever did to begin with.
I am a thing. A thing designed to make other people happy, even if my own health, mental or physical, is compromised in the process.
The process, an activity ranging from starvation to downright ****** abuse. I used to starve sometimes for this woman just so I'd be praised, just so I'd feel worthy of living.
Losing sleep, losing my ******* mind, all for her to facetiously downplay the traumas she consistently constructed.
Carefully orchestrated, a symphony of horrors frequent to my mind, my body.. She stole my own life from me.
A part of me remains within her, and that sadly,
is what hurts the most.

my mother left,
and my father didn't want
the burden of replacing her.

and the man I met
when I was much younger
had those big brown eyes
and a Ted Bundy soul,
the perfect subject of
a true crime novel.

the pores on his skin held
flagpoles with red flags
masked beneath white fabric.

he was evil hidden behind
picket fences painted white.

he had pearly white teeth
and unsuspecting white skin
and a fancy white car
parked in the driveway
of his nice suburban house
with white shutters.

he was a clean, pure man
with no scuff marks visible
on his polished reputation.

he was so white
that no one could believe
there was such darkness
inside of him.

he replaced my father,
but not in the same way.



and my dyed hair and
tattooed skin and
teenage recklessness

****** piercings
and fishnet stockings
and dark makeup and
choker necklaces

masochistic tendencies
and nights spent in
small towns and strange beds

bottles of cheap *****
that were probably stolen
and the scent of marijuana
and all of that self-hatred

took the empty seat of
the girl I once was.



daddy issues replaced
my childhood innocence

and vibrators and little bags
of happiness in powder form
moved into the drawer
that my Polly Pocket dolls
once inhabited.

mascara-stained cheeks
and eyes red from crying
or cigarette smoke or drugs
or maybe all of the above
shoved their way into
the bathroom mirror,
replacing my reflection.

pessimism stood where
my hope should be.

panic attacks and **** kits
gave birth to trauma,
and trauma settled down
inside of my head.

guilt wedged its way
between my ribs

and the air in my lungs
was still there but
it didn't want to be

and something I still
haven't identified
closed my mouth
and taped it shut.

silence sank into the house
where the noise of laughter
and Spongebob episodes
had vanished long ago.



and somewhere between
my mother's disappearance
and my father's anger and

meeting a hollow body
of a man filled with
shame and secrets

and that first cut on my skin,
now raised and scarred,

and the phone call
that told me my
best friend had died

and another man
entering my body
without my permission,

I was hit with the
realization that my life
was stolen from me.



somewhere along the way,
I lost myself

and I don't like the
person who replaced me.