#pstd
I'm not angry that you hurt me.
I'm angry for the way fear stole the words from my mouth
And surprise bound my hands and legs to the bed.
I'm angry that my mind spun the dial and settled on freeze.
I'm not angry that you hurt me.
I'm angry that silence hung between us,
Thicker than the air I was struggling to breathe,
That the absence of syllables prevented me from giving name
To the violation.
I'm not angry that you hurt me.
I am angry that I let you,
That I convinced myself saying 'yes' after I'd already said 'no'
Meant it wasn't so bad after all.
I'm not angry that you hurt me.
I'm angry that others violated so many boundaries
I thought love was a race to cross the finish over every line I'd ever drawn,
That my best interest and your desires were somehow the same thing.
I am not angry that you hurt me.
I am angry I sought you as a protector to fight the demons YOU gave me,
That I thought you could save me from the fear you were causing.
I'm not angry that you hurt me.
I am angry that the walls are now caving in
Around the idea that I could ever be clean,
That I am alone with the thought I somehow did this to myself,
That had I listened and not been so hell bent on breaking free of the literal chains,
Not been searching for liberation from my childhood hurts ,
Or chasing my power in the line between 'sexy' and 'slut',
I might still be a "gold-star lesbian" and not tainted goods.
I am not angry that you hurt me.
I am angry you might still get off to the pictures I sent you,
That my manic mental health crises were your free ticket to "play time."
I must have always reeked of angst and desperation,
Little girl playing dress up in a world she doesn't understand,
Seeking solace in a man twice her age,
But he would only seek to cage her in bars of his own making.
Meanwhile, Mother writes it off as having "bad taste in men,"
As if she was not a link in the chain of how I ended up there,
Neglecting to mention I did not consent to being manipulated by a predator.
I'm not angry that you hurt me.
I am angry that I thought seeing past the scars on my skin meant you loved me,
That acknowledging how others had hurt me meant you wouldn't do the same.
I am angry that when your face appeared in my nightmares
I let you tell me I was mistaken,
That when I began to hate the word **** and couldn't stand it to be mentioned,
I believed you when you said it had never happened.
I'm not angry you hurt me.
I'm ashamed it took me a year to leave
Even when you drowned me in enough red flags to make a Matador proud
Because I thought I could fix you.
Was I not broken too?
You made me feel like I owed you for loving me through the cracks,
And I am not one to skip out on debts.
I'm not angry that you hurt me.
I'm angry you stole the skin off my body and safety from my mind,
And I didn't fight back.
I wish you had just killed me so they can't say I was asking for it.
Was that not the purpose of the sword wedged under the mattress?
You should have finished the job when you choked me,
So I don't have to live with this.
I'm not angry that you hurt me.
I'm angry that I didn't stop it.
I'm not angry that you hurt me.
I'm angry that I let you.
Jan 24, 2021
Jan 24, 2021 at 6:17 PM UTC
Underneath my bed, you''ll find a box that
holds everything that I've forgotten.
You'll say it was never mine,
and I filled it with passing time.
And there's nothing I can do to change it's rapid course,
"it'll only fill you with drowning remorse."
They'll say.
But I pick and I pry, wondering
what could be inside.
Rolling in my bed, watching
life pass instead.
With eyes wide open, worried
it will always remain
Shut.
So I ask a few friends, a stranger, and you:
Do you have a box, kept hidden, but near?
Of moments long gone, but fill you with fear?
Do you stay awake, all through the night
debating whether or not you should fight?
Do you dream of broken pieces from a different time & place?
Smeared and burned with a ghost of a face?
This box, this box
in which I've forgotten
But cannot seem to forget,
will not leave
my head.
So I smash it on the ground, until I make
sure all the hinges are
completely
unbound.
It opens, quickly and quietly,
so silently
I hear it all at once:
Do you remember the day,
when someone had all the right words to say?
When you were picked up with warmth & laughter,
so you forgot what you were after?
Do you remember your very own touch,
honest, genuine, and never too much?
The slide of a hand within your own,
so tender and kind it becomes a home?
Do you remember the days you let yourself grow,
through cracks and stains painted long ago?
Underneath my bed, you'll find
a box, filled with all that
I'm
becoming.
Jan 13, 2021
Jan 13, 2021 at 3:28 AM UTC
Audacity is when your ****** texts you
To wish you a Happy New Year
Because his therapist advised him to make amends.
The price of breaking my soul
Is more than a ******* text.
Jan 15, 2020
Jan 15, 2020 at 3:30 AM UTC
I can feel anxiety crawling into my mind, feeding me with unnecessary thoughts.
Self-doubt reaches out for my soul; fear smiles at me as I quivered my lips.
My trembling hands strike down on the concrete, and my head spins.
I slowly shut my eyes, hoping my demons would leave me.
But they persist, making me feel like I have to plea for peace.
I grasp my reality behind a mirror and watch the clock unwind.
I hear the faded children laugh, it echoes through my mind, and I feel the fear within my heart.
I wish my thoughts were sane, so they didn't fall like rain.
When I look ahead of the storm, I see a generation full of demons.
Darkness may rule the world, but I kept holding on.
With every battle I withstand, I fear the shadows will bind my heart and take my breath away.
But somehow, my spirit will never give in.
-Niko
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 11:06 PM UTC
I will always be a Siebert
I will live and die a Siebert
I will die before you do
My soul escaped my body,
in that glass box
My father
this man they all loathe
But cannot ****
They will **** me
Me and brother
never belonged
We have his blood
we were both strapped to a machine
We were both stricken of life
Lungs scarred
The voices are genetic
This introvert loneliness
This manic death
Slowly consuming me
I walk with my father's name
His shadow over my crown
This jewish rat! This stupid blonde dead baby
I will never belong
My brother calls out
He has my eyes
He sees what I see
Born of the same stock
Faces lost in books
Perspective of the world
from the view of education
Horst? Can you hear me
I am my father's daughter
I will always be a Siebert
This is how I will die
Like you, I will die young
I will never marry
I will never bear children
I am nothing, nemo
The name will die with me
But I am his daughter
They will dance on my grave
Or they will mourn the loss of their scapegoat
My body is hallow
I lost my soul
God forgive me
Saul is his hebrew image
Where is he now?
Dead, the man I knew is dead
The star of David
they all mock
But they forgot
How history repeats itself
How the creeping of death is vast
Silent on cold dark nights
To die is easy, to live is hard
I will die a Siebert
I will be eternal in my Father's name
That is my crime
and it will **** me
It killed me then
It just didn't take the body
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 6:49 PM UTC
When I first admitted
To loving you
A seed was planted in my being
It grew with every rain of love
It somehow became a part of me
And when you left
My body ached
You are like
A phantom limb
My body cannot
Accept your absence
Some nights
I feel it all again
I relive the moment
I did not give consent for
Such great a amputation
Though I knew the risks
Of keeping a dying limb
You cut yourself off
And months later I'm stuck
With my phantom pain
They took me to psych
Told me I'd gone insane
But after the sunshine of our love
what's there to expect
But cold weather and rain?
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 3:48 PM UTC
Please, love this broken body.
Because no one else ever could.
Bring me peace and quiet,
When my ears scream in pain,
From the sounds deep inside,
Residing in my broken brain.
Forgive me and all the things I've done
Though I will never forgive myself.
Just take me in my sleep,
Before I **** myself.
Hell can't be hotter than the desert sun,
Nor worse than the image of weeping children,
Damaged by my hands.
Help me, I will never be the same.
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 10:34 PM UTC