It Rained On My Mom's Birthday

You’re talking to me.
At least your voice in the background makes it seem that way.
You’re probably making valid points about perspective,
attempting to help me grieve while my period eats away at my emotions,
or trying to make me feel better about being broke “because it’s temporary.”
You never fail to mention that the pockets of the wealthiest people
cannot stop their own crises from taking place.

Maybe you should stop.
Maybe you should let me be;
because what you’re telling me,
I already know,
and it will only worsen my mood.

I’m sorry that you’re spending your 60th birthday 
misty-eyed,
having yet another conversation with your daughter
about how to overcome her woes. 
You tell me a couple of scriptures I can’t adequately recall
before going back to your book.

Moments later I’ve made myself more aware,
only because the speech doesn’t seem like it’ll reconvene.
Part of me is relieved that you’re focused on news updates,
and it doesn’t take long before your routine complaints about Trump begin. 

This is it:
Just us.
It usually is.
Me, suctioned into my warped little world, consumed by my hunger for success.
You, hurting beyond any type of explanation or comprehension,
carrying on as if today isn’t especially yours.

I’m sorry. 

written September 15, 2016.

Halfway

Sometimes, he would hurt me.
Sometimes, I would like it. 
Most times, I didn’t.
And when he would hold me,
it was because he wanted me held captive,
not because he cared.

When I cry, my tears are shed for the younger me,
who had hands in between her legs that didn’t belong there,
who was forced to trade in her childhood for maturation,
and became an adult long before she turned 18.

I don’t want you to wipe my slate clean,
in case you were wondering.
You can’t.
But I was hoping that I could start a new one with you. 
I could give you the love that you’ve been craving,
and you could render the kind that I’ve never received.

Can you do that?
Can you hold all of my broken pieces,
careful not to mix them with your own?
Can you cradle my heart without cutting your hands? 
Can you carry me when my feet are dragging so heavily,
that they begin to slow yours down too?

We understand each other in ways that our formers never could;
we adore the parts of ourselves that they didn’t want. 
Now, we’re presented an opportunity to become the type of people
that we never had.

So, what do you say?
Would you like to meet halfway? 
We deserve a “forever” too. 
I can’t make you whole,
but I’ll vow to make you better.
Just promise that by the time our ending arrives,
you will have done the same for me.

written March 10, 2017.

Unpublished

I could write a book about what each tear means. 
I could, but I won’t. 
I don’t trust you enough to understand why I feel the way that I do. 
I don’t trust at all.

My pain is scattered between old news and current events. 
It’s written in these lines, 
painted on the walls of the buildings I used to reside,
and held in the hearts of men that said they loved me,
but never quite knew how.

Sometimes I think about all that I’ve been through and cry.
I think about what’s to come and I cry some more. 
I am far from sending a bullet through my skull, 
but my sadness runs deep. 
I am far from the woman that the public believes me to be. 
Right now I am small.

I could write a book about it. 
I could. But I won’t. 
I could write a book about it. 
But there’s nothing left to say.

written October 7, 2016.

Flashback

It started with a tub. 
There is no body of water deeper
than the destruction you put me in,
yet I found myself suffocating
in its warm stillness.

It ended with a kitchen. 
You were in a good mood when you came home.
Drunk, but not belligerent.  
Happy. Horny. 
You embraced me from behind as I washed the dishes. 
I felt safe again.

I don’t know what I did to make you angry.
I never really do. 
But in a fraction of a second,
you went from kissing me to almost killing me.

You struck me to the floor with a force so powerful,
the world itself must’ve shook. 
Blood spilled from my mouth as you peered down at me,
your eyes riddled with fury.

You pulled me up,
and in that moment I knew that if I fell to 
the floor again, 
I would remain there until a coroner came. 
You left me no choice.

I grabbed a knife from the counter 
and sent it straight into your side. 
I saw the darkness drain from your pupils,
and felt the beauty in ending your life.

As I laid you down onto the tile, 
gratification overcame me.
It’s like you always used to say, babe:
“You made a monster out of me.”

written November 3, 2016.

From 23 Gulick Lane

I did not watch the reports, since I was a part of them.
There was no need to read the papers since I know your face,
but that still didn’t stop me from looking.

At some point, between the 12-year-old girl sitting on the curb
and the teenager fielding scholarship offers,
I became a woman.

Was it the humiliation that expedited my growth?
Or maybe it was my fear of the metastasizing tumor
that caused me to mature.

Maybe it was looking in the mirror all bloodied and bruised,
wondering where my weight was going,
pleading with my white blood cells that were giving up on me,
that caused me to change. 

My turmoil taught me that only God can save you,
but first you must want to save yourself. 
My tears taught me that strength comes from 
weakness that is willing to be worked on, only if you let it.

There were times when I thought I was not going to live.
There were times when I didn’t want to.
And although the aftermath of your actions
deteriorated my mind and seared my soul,
I am on the road to redemption.

Empty promises, hotels and hospitals beds led me here. 
The homes of loved ones served as a slight cushion
for the blows I had to endure.
You destroyed me for over a decade. 
You title yourself my protector;
but even blind eyes can see the truth.

The circumstances may have gotten better,
but only certain aspects have become easier.
There is not one day that goes by where I
neglect to replay the film I call my past. 

I am a woman of the mud.
I have trudged and I have triumphed.
I have failed, but always fight back.
Everyday is an uphill battle,
because there is no winning your war.

written July 31, 2016.

Sanctuaries

You allowed men to make homes out of a temple
they never appreciated beyond its walls.
They entered you so easily and left once they came.

You now mourn what was once an ethereal place of peace.
Countless spirits have resided within the confines of your soul,
and now you are stitching yourself back together.

You are weakened.
You are weary.
Everyone has a breaking point,
and yours is swiftly approaching.

You’ve loved men that had no clue how to love themselves,
and were treated like the very dirt you walk on.
You’ve held on to the hearts of past lovers for dear life,
while they took extreme measures to destroy yours.

It hasn’t been all bad, though.
There were a select few who would give you their all,
but you didn’t want to take it.
Sometimes you didn’t know how to.
The residue from the men before had already festered in your mind,
tarnished your heart, and toyed with your vision.

You are filthy inside.
Years of unresolved issues and suppressed emotions have piled up.
The pieces of people from your past have left their mark on you
without your consent.

You cannot scrub off your scars.
Repression does not erase what still lingers;
denial does not get rid of what devours.
I wonder,
if those that have harmed you so detrimentally, are hurting just the same.

written July 5, 2016.