#childhoodabuse
There’s something so ironic about grieving the person that broke you like a China shop manager with a “bulls welcome” sign on the door I welcomed you in only to have you shatter every porcelain piece of me only to clean it up and invite you back. Only to see you in a room with me organizing the shelves so their perfect before they once again come smashing down as you turn to leave.
Then one day you stopped coming back you left and you didn’t return and I craved the sound of shattering glass of slamming doors and turned backs as I utter to you the words which I always craved to hear back. My shop stayed pristine this time and without you to ruin it I began to trash it myself and time and time again people would stop in and sweep up the glass with me and they’d say the words and I’d turn my back just like you taught me. When it wasn’t enough to do it myself I’d hang more signs up outside begging someone to come in and wreck the shop I made and boy would they. I’d cut my fingers cleaning up the glass alone because nobody deserved to be treated the way I treated those that helped me.
Did I deserve to be treated this way?
Over and over I’d clean it up, and they’d return to destroy it and everytime the bell rang I’d look up expecting to see you yet I knew it wasn’t you it could never be you and somehow the assault from the others didn’t satisfy my thirst for anguish the way yours did, their back turning didn’t wound me correctly and their abandonment didn’t starve me the way yours always has. And always will.
You’re gone.
And I’m alone in a perfect store I’ve taken the signs down and stared at the stocked shelves I’ve uttered the words to others and they’ve reciprocated with so much enthusiasm yet it doesn’t cure the ache I feel to hear you truly mean it when you speak it: and I never will. I settle for their purchases, their words fill a small part of the void temporarily but occasionally I’ll glance at your sign and I’ll crave you, and knowing I can’t have you I’ll take the sign and place it back on the door “bulls welcome, I miss you dad”
Apr 13
Apr 13, 2026 at 10:00 AM UTC
Sometimes I fall back into that place of darkness
To once again sit with my demons like old friends
They look older now, more tired than before
I’m sorry haunting me was such a chore
Feb 3
Feb 3, 2026 at 10:42 PM UTC
By 3 months a fetus has developed its own
unique set of fingertips and by 10 it's supposed
to have developed a sense that s is loved--
so why am I 12 years old and feeling
like no one could ever love a body
as scarred as mine? I am a flower and I
am my own sun but I'm 12 and I haven't found that
yet. You're the fat clouds that drop
hot rain on my forehead and I do not
realize that too much water bogs roots down,
severs the nodules that keep it down. Rips
it from the ground so that I have no earth.
I am 12 and I have my first F and I'm
sick deep down because I know that it's
all I'm worth. My mother has
taught me how to love--with poisoned fire,
with words that speak of anything but.
And I scramble to avoid blaming you
for the 4-foot child that thinks
death is the ultimate prize, I refuse to
face your cruelty and call it abuse.
You'll never be out of the rain, they would
say--you'll find a dry patch, friends,
love but you'll never be out of the
downpour, hand-me-down hate cascading
in rivulets so much like blood.
"Family" is a bad word that turns my veins cold
but I will tell you that I love you, and I'll
get the words back, sandwitched between
bouts of rage and nights of crying myself awake.
I may never leave the shadow of your claws but
I will cling to this semblance of me that I've dusted
off of filthy bookshelves, piles of clutter, and sunlight,
do anything to keep it from crumbling
under the force of our years. I
am my own mother. I am my own sun.
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 3:48 PM UTC