Why I Write

Sun, 07/10/2016 - 17:37 -- Mo1077

As a way to not feel depressed,

Or maybe it was oppressed.

The fifth grade was only a start,

As a senior I still feel its mark.

 

My mother felt the bottle or aluminum can was an escape

And AA did not help put her back into shape. 

A functioning alcholic, 

As we have learned to call it.

 

Then in secret my cousin had a guilty pleasure,

One that left me with scars too deep to measure. 

I still feel his hands one me, 

Some nights when I try to sleep. 

 

Pens and paper were the only way to cope, you see.

It is really how I decided to take care of just me. 

In addition to the art on my arms,

Legs, and stomach, my means of control painted with a brush of self-harm.

 

However, it was not just me, myself, and I that needed protecting. 

Her innocence I'd always be caressing;

My little sister, two years younger, 

Encouraged me to get stronger. 

 

Her stomach over mine when they would growl.

She still eats well now.

But me? A full stomach and I feel disgusted,

Just another effect of abuse keeping me unadjusted.

 

Handed over the food every time,

I learned to push hunger out of my mind.

I stopped thinking of what and when I was eating,

And I felt my body slowly depleting.

 

Removed and given a fresh start,

These troubles have yet to part.

I have hopes to repair the broken, 

And say words worth being spoken.

 

In my writings I remind myself,

It is okay to feel what I felt.

Between trigger warnings without  warnings,

Making it through my darkest days without being self-scorning. 

 

I try to remind my friends and family,

And the friends that turned into family,

That I am happier;

They've broken down my heart's barrier. 

This poem is about: 
Me
My family

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