Somewhere along the long stretching lines
of misogyny and misunderstanding,
******* and child-******* became
false-terms that were accepted by the masses
to describe small exploited human beings,
survivors.
and **** became a title boys and men aspired
to achieve, and not quite directly the
selfish manipulative sociopathic ****
that it really entailed.
Thank you, Curtis Jackson.
In case no one has screamed it enough,
It's January 2016 folks.
Let's place ourselves in some perspective.
The stories are never just one,
but I'm getting angry and I'm fortunate
enough to be able to speak.
I've got privileges that need to be checked,
too.
Let's check off the privilege that I haven't been abducted
or coerced at 12 by he who claimed that I was wise beyond my years,
and plucked out of my family to do his bidding
under the guise of a mature relationship.
He's 26, but all I can see is the fact I could be older
than the other girls. An old soul in a small pre-pubescent body.
Which is what they tell you to make you feel special.
Let's check off the privilege that
I'm not given those funny feeling drugs to help me
cope with pain of losing my "virginity" to a high-rolling old man
who was fond of his size.
Let's check off the privilege
that even if I do manage to escape the slavery that I'm put in,
I'm labeled as a *** and used up and too ****** up to really be better,
by both my family and my peers
You don't have to cover your ears and eyes,
because you think you can't see me.
You think I'm over seas or in some true detective podunk village
in middle America.
You think I'm not in your school-yard or
I wasn't the girl you teased for being pregnant in middle school,
the one that disappeared and never came back.
That I might not be your troubled niece who keeps hanging with the wrong crowd and going to boarding school this summer,
but she runs away from home before she's sent off.
But we keep blaming *** education, welfare and alternative schooling as the bane of our children,
all these ads for awareness and underfunded programs to aid them
are quickly shoveled under the thick heavy expensive rugs of the Kardashians and Wests,
the golden globes and the best dressed,
and those horrendous child beauty pageants.
Let's stop absorbing this filler material that we shovel into our
kids brains,
and maybe teach our little boys what it means to be privileged,
and to protect by learning to respect.
Our little girls how far they can reach if they learn to never second guess their worth.
It begins with us. Let's stop turning a blind-eye and shut ear,
because we fear making a commitment to the belief
that men and women should be equal.
That yes, not all men,
but yes there are women,
and our experience is not the only story that needs to be understood.
And everyone has a privilege that needs to be checked,
but check your own first.
January is human-trafficking and slavery awareness month.
It exists among us, all.
Let's stop being part of the problem and learn how we can help.

I remember the day you said,
"Ah, yours is a familiar face."
It was summer,
we were ripe.
I drew yours in many lines.
That look littered all of my books-
and burned scars into my mind.
Now some time,
and it's bitter cold.
Yours has become lost and old.
I try to pull the lines together
every single chilly night.
I look at the photos I have left
and I still can't get it right.
Her face keeps blocking my view.
She has come and taken you.
Ah, yours was a familiar face.
But now it's all but a trace.

There are few words of substance to be said.
I won't reinforce the violence.
There are some terrifying acts
I could concoct when I'm thinking of her.
But I have taste.
Class.
Shame, even.
I can't fall into her category of betrayal.
I won't stoop down that deep.
I'll keep it to myself,
and dump out the stew.
With everyone I embrace, I'll forget about you.
Conscious.
What does it mean any way?
Friendship.
Who needs the glamor?
I stammer when I say your name-
but realize that your claim to fame
was a ******* child-
you couldn't be a good father.
You held your music like a baby
but tossed it out like a bother.
Uttering this, as you called her.
She called you.
You kissed her.
No, she kissed you.
You don't love her.
But she loves you.
This isn't the last one, I gasp,
and take the card and cookies that you gave me,
on the day that we turned two
drop tears on them
like suicide bombs and
toss them in the dust bin.
This just in,
this trust is
demolished and disgusting.
****** with ample shine,
Like the muck thats left behind
when a porter-***** by a tree is cracked,
and all that's done to clean it up-
is the dumping of icewater.
Washed us away for a bit-
but there's still this ****.
I feel it seep into my soils.
I wont let it reach my roots.
I need to grow and shoot
up to the sky away from you
and her
and thoughts of you
and her
I can't seem to get too far from you
and her
My branches reach up to the clouds,
hold me once again "doubt."
Let me be your baby,
let me stop and shout.
I keep falling down.
I'll rise again, then drown,
in this filthy water.
No-
There are flowers in the future.
I can smell them now.

I feel fine.
I feel fine.
I feel fine.
And I've really been all of the things that are outside of me.
I ask you a thousand times,
why did you commit this crime?
I don't let anyone else know...
that I feel anything short of fine.
I know you're with her when I call.
I know there's no point in this at all.
I feel you punch me in my sleep-
I feel you watch me as I weep.
Why do I want to go back to this?
I am such a *******.
I am such a *******.
You are just an apologist.
Your lies they sound like sweet release.
They take me by my wrist and squeeze.
I think about them when I am one.
I know it's done.
Pick up your phone.
I keep screaming I'm not alone.
I'm not alone.
I'm not alone.
I want to believe you down to my bones.
You won't pick up.
I know it's done.
I think about you when I am one.
I'm no stranger
to tears in my palms.
I'll smile when I have become calm.
The dial tone.
It is a sign.
That I'm on my way to feeling fine.
I feel fine.
I feel fine.
I feel fine.
Am I really all the things that are outside of me?

It's such a shame. Such a shame,
that I'm no fantasy football game.
And try as I might, I can't keep up
with the numbers or the names.
During pre-season,
You'd wake up early for no good reason.
Just to learn me and how I'm breathing.
You'd read my every message,
and stay alert.
You'd always be invested,
through pleasure and hurt.
Every week has the potential to be the best,
you'd count your points and aim for perfection.
You'd think of me when you're out or when you're on a date,
you would never ever ever be as late.
You'd have a beer with me,
and truly enjoy it.
You'd never find any of my phone calls annoying.
But most of all you'd bet a **** ton on me,
something you'd probably never do now,
because if I were your fantasy football game,
Despite the odds against you,
you'd believe in us.

I've been learning to embrace your child.
When he is screaming and pushing away,
it is hard but I let him know that I love him.
And I know he wont ever show it,
but he's crying inside.
And he'll pull the blankets over him
after locking me out of his room.
And I'll knock of few times,
but I've got to be at work soon.
I know he hates when I go
but he needs the space.
I know he's always tired, hungry
and medicated.
I know he has friends but he's lonely.
There's this little girl sobbing at his window
but he chooses to pretend she isn't real.
She would keep him company
but she knows that you hate her.
Never wanted her enough
to even give up on her.
So even though I'm learning
to embrace the little boy,
I've got to go.
The little girl in me is lonelier
and she will love me back.