A vent chapter
TW: CSA/Suicide
Inside out
I told myself that today is write a beautiful poem,
I'd take the flowers and make myself a lovely bouquet of roses.
But there's nothing more vile than what happened, there's nothing pretty about any of it.
Last night I relived many awful moments in time.
I woke up gasping for air, screaming no, like that ever worked.
The dream I remember most vividly I was on vacation with my family,
We were eating dinner and I told them how awful they were.
I screamed at them for still having his photos up, for never seeing the abuse, for pretending like they were so perfect.
I stumbled home and he was there.
I'd love to close this poem speaking of happiness and hope, but I am still finding it myself.
Two paths
I wish I could write a poem with my conclusion pointing down a certain path,
But the truth is far more complicated than that, I guess it always is.
I stand between two cross roads, staring down both paths.
One of them, the path of authenticity, I rest my eyes looking at, because wouldn't that be beautiful?
Wouldn't it be just lovely to say how you really feel, to be who you really are.
I remember the way people live with that, I think to myself "maybe one day."
It seems in nearly every moment when given the option I choose the path of acceptance,
It's an easier road to walk, always has been.
Seasons change
I think we were always bound to be together,
I'm meant for you, you're meant for me,
That's simply how it is and always has been.
But I'm starting to think I don't love you as much as I need you.
Our love used to be a summer night, it was hot and heavy but full of laughter.
Now it's a snowing winter,
We aren't together because we should be, we love like we do because it's too cold outside to leave.
I can't quite tell when the seasons changed, but when I look up at the sky I know they did.
The perfect family
I remember being young and being told I had the perfect family,
I understand why they said what they did,
They had no reason to say otherwise,
But it did crush me a bit every time I heard it.
It hurt because they didn't know the full story, they didn't know the story at all.
They didn't see the nights I spent in terror.
The years of abuse slipped through their fingers like sand, and none of them are willing to see that this family is not only a disaster but a dishonest one at that.
My parents didn't see the horrors I lived through and grew to teach me how to be different.
To teach me how to change, how to cope, and most importantly how to live in quiet suffering, because truthfully I don't think they are worth the pain.
I don't think they deserve to hear my struggles when they do everything but help.
When they ask how I'm doing I don't feel bad for lying through my teeth.
I broke into pieces, pieces that could have been one, and they want me to glue them together while pictures of the boy who broke me are in the living room, displayed like he was ever worth listening to.
So yes I'm angry, yes I am beyond resentful because my best option is to hurt alone.
Unsent letters
When they ask why I am angry I wonder if in any sense there is a reason not to be.
Why on any level wouldn't I be?
I spent my entire childhood in terror only to be told I'm the one who's sick.
I'm the one who's ill, I'm the one who needs to be medicated and tampered with?
To put it honestly, those individuals are wrong and I don't think most of them deserve to feel any differently.
If you can't pick up the bread crumbs I desperately left behind me at eight years old, then you don't deserve to be my mother or father.
If I was terrified of someone you still hang on your walls, then no, you are not a parent of mine.
My little dark age
Things have been bad and worse and in moments like this I am in my darkest hour, my little dark age.
I tried to convince myself things were different, I wrote poems about the happy things and the roses of life.
Yet the truth is I will be surprised if I make it to the beginning next summer.
It's not that I don't want to, I just don't see it, not like I used to.
I'd love to make it in life, I don't see a reason in putting a bullet in my head, but I don't know if I'm cut out for it.
I don't know if I'm the type.
Too much to do even more to live with.
I'm trying, I'm doing what I know to do,
And I'd love to make it,
I just don't know if that's really what I have to look forward to,
So yes I will stare at the sunflower seeds I planted but I will not pretend like they are destined grow.
YOU ARE READING
Letters from sixteen
PoetryA poetry book I wrote during periods of my life with many different facets. I wrote about happy moments, addiction, and trauma, the book becomes more depressing as it goes on. I choose the title "letters from sixteen" to capture how I wanted to capt...
