existence crafted out of abuse
something so beautiful, so raw, so elegant
reassurance by those who only just met you that you are lovely
but they don’t know what you did last night
and those who are so convinced they know you well
don’t know that dad won’t pay your medical bills
and that you struggle to see welfare cover your pain
"get therapy" they cry when things get rough over rails
but I bet they don’t know
that under their sheltered existence of abuse highlighted by media
not all therapists are there for the benefit of the patient
and that those we can afford are there for the money
sucking the life out of you with each sick smile
and I bet that they don’t know
how corrupt the school system really is
and how their greed smiles at you when you are depressed
they want you evaluated and diagnosed and its not good enough
to be a medical nightmare.
seen as a difficulty making their job harder, victim of the heartless core
of bureaucratic dimwits expressing cold-hearted jokes
in paperwork claiming the fault operates on my weakness
did you ever fear your dad killing you?
have you felt that rush of blood
as you call up a friend and write a will, crying in fear
an unimaginable darkness in an old country house
hardwood floors and walls and rugs that possessed my feet with glue
and i would look out at 2 a.m. afraid to sleep
and see that street light outside shining to mix with the moon
fearing the box fan, fearing that door creak, hiding in the bathroom
fearing the box fan as the door opens for the cat
that only wakes you from a nervous breakdown?
i could never save that scared little girl,
crying silently as to murmur the background of wild horses
waking up with the fear of the mood of a psychopath
and you knew it in the tone of his voice
in the stagger of his bulky, abrupt movements
the swoop of the predator screaming at you for
being sick and sad, being anything other than happy
to fit the definition of his perfect material world
and no one saved that scared little girl
who screeched to her mother to never let her go back
please mom he scares me I’m afraid to die he has guns
but i have to let you go, he will withhold child support
and she has a cigarette lit in her bathroom in pleasure
watching her children retch in pain.
the little one girl saved her brothers from the abuse, masking their mistakes in her own responsibility
because she couldn’t stand to see anyone else torn down by
the man whom crafted a hell no one could relate to
we would go in public
and in the walmart in the country i would wonder
who would see us in these sweatpants and sad eyes
who would I go to when I was scared?
If i said something to the greeter would she have called the cops and
could i have saved my trauma
would anyone ever love me enough to stop him
No one did.
his abuse continues through his manipulation of my mother
of our finances
of our security
of our sanity.
And no one can stop him.
He bought his way into the law, the lawyers, and painted
a black hole of foster homes if we fought again
and its so heart-wrenching
because my friends see me push and argue and die
under a mask of elaborate literary complication
and they never know that every day
i wake up that scared little girl
wondering who will love her enough to see her worthy of being saved.