Don't Forget

Slam Poem Number One

 When i was six years old, i was touched in the private places that my body was told to keep secret. When i was six years old, i learned not to cry, because crying means you're letting something slip out of you and its the only part of you that keeps you awake sometimes. When i was six years old, i got my finger caught in a door and i held back tears just like i did when my brother groped my ass and stared hungrily like my ass was an appetizer for his two hundred and six boned meal. my mother asked if it hurt, and i said no, i'm a big girl and getting my finger caught in a door was nothing. look forward, i'm seven years old now, and coming home after school and doing homework was routine. second grade was easy, and my mother called me her smart angel. daddy didn't call me anything cause he wasn't there. but when i went to visit him every weekend at his apartment, and my brother was there, my dad called me an ungrateful bitch because i didn't wanna eat cube steak. he said he worked his ass off for me and i didn't wanna eat his food? and i remember shoving that entire steak into my mouth like i was an animal that hadn't been fed in weeks. and i held back those tears again, because i didn't like cube steak and here i was, acting like it was my favorite thing in the world. all for my daddy's pleasure. then i would walk back to my room and just stare at the blank white walls, waiting for my brother to come and destroy what little was left of my dignity. fast forward to second semester of second grade. i was told my big brother was arrested for attempted murder on school grounds. i cried tears of relief, but they were mistaken as tears of grief. i pretended it was the worst thing in the world. but was i really pretending?  even though he's taken every part of me that i shouldn't have known existed at such a young age, i missed that son of a bitch like he had given me the world instead of ripping it from my tiny six year old fingers. i thought he was changing, and by the time third grade rolled around, he was in a group home and visiting every weekend. but i was so wrong. he wasn't changing, he was just fooling everyone. he had me fooled, but i quickly came to my senses because as soon as i saw him, he ripped the world right back out of my hands and stepped on every piece of hope my eight year old self had. but i never told anyone. so lets look toward the future some more. nine years old and my birthday is here and i hadn't heard from my daddy in a year. brother was back in juvie and mama had found a new man. she was happy sometimes. but sometimes he lost his temper and went haywire. they'd been together since i was seven, but i didn't wanna accept it. and then just when everything was going good, dad popped right back in and ruined everything. when i was ten, mama and her new man married each other, and that was the first time i cut my wrists. twelve years old and my brother was seventeen and home for good. he forced me onto his lap where he had this grossness protruding from his skinny jeans. i struggled to move away but my held his hands on my bony hips and refused to let me leave. so i just broke down and let him have his way with me. my dad was in the same room and didn't stop him. seventh grade and two months  before my thirteenth birthday, i had my first mental break down. one month after my birthday, i swallowed fifty pills and almost died. finally my secret came out and everyone knew. i was so relieved. but then comes may, and i smoked my first joint. i let myself forget everything and i was happy. i felt relief for the first time since my six year old self had been hurt. seven years, i held all of that inside, and it ate me alive like a venus fly trap swallowing a bird whole. one year later and im fourteen and going strong. but i still havent found the answer to my questions. why the hell was the world okay with what was happening to me. why the hell did i feel like i had to hide my feelings? why? why? someone tell me why the fuck i was torn apart because society taught my brother at age twelve that if a girl shakes her head no it means she is playing hard to get. to boys no means go and stop means please, come to me. But its cool, cause now my mental illnesses are romanticized because they were caused by a common trauma. and when i ask someone if it happened to them, i mean when. because its so fucking common that its not if. its god damn when.