Abuse - Something Kinda Like A Poem I Guess
I struggled to know whether or not I wanted to post this, and honestly I still don’t know. For one, I think it’s bad as a work of poetry or prose or any other form of written word. It’s clunky and irregular and almost simplistic in its vocabulary. But more importantly, it’s very raw, very revealing.
I struggle with authenticity. I think we all do to some extent. I find the most inspiring people to be those who put themselves, warts and all, in public display - whether that be through song lyrics, paintings, film, photography, poetry, novels, or any other medium. It inspires me to share, to do the same. And yet I find it not just difficult but debilitating. Why would anyone care about my scars? Why should anyone care? And worse, what if they judge me?
I’m growing though, as we all constantly are, and I think I’m ready to be a bit more vulnerable, a bit more raw. So here you go if you’re into that sort of thing.
CW: child abuse, suicide attempt
Abuse
The most traumatizing thing she ever did
Was hug me
Because it meant she knew all along
Amongst the beatings and the screaming
Amongst the clawing and insulting
Amongst the neglect
She knew
And she did not care
“I thought I told you to call me mom”
She was menacing
Nails drawing blood from my forearm
In my preschool parking lot
What could I do?
“Yes mom” I said
And ran inside
Nobody asked about the marks
Middle school kids like to complain
As they grow into their own
About parental cruelties, perceived slights
Inflicted over meager years
With laughter they compare stories
Over lunch tables and under bleachers
But whenever I would share
All laughter ceased
My second knee surgery wasn’t as painful
As my first
This much is true
Yet surgery always yields pain
So when she took away my meds
And moved my crutches out of reach
She condemned me to agonizing days
And fevered nights
So many nights moaning and sweating
Grimacing and pleading
Not just from surgeries
But sicknesses too
Yet always suffering silently
Because the only thing worse
Than my pain
Was interrupting her sleep
I recall the time she threw my clothes
So she had an excuse to take the belt to me
For my room not being clean
I was ten years old
The time she made me overeat
Until, at last, I vomited
And she beat me for insulting her cooking
I was eight
I recall when she began using the belt buckle
Because I no longer yelped
I was twelve
The time she held me under water
Because she found my struggling funny
I was six
The time I took a knife to my artery
I was sixteen
On and on I could write examples
But one thing I cannot write about
Is a hero
I learned early
Though I was too young to know the words
The abused are lepers
And the greatest crime they can commit
Is to show their scars