No Strangers Here

It’s one of the longest nights of the year

and my soul aches from the pressure it brings.

As the darkness surrounds me,

I open my eyes and see much the same.

I lay in the small, worn bed of my childhood

as the silent tears glide down my face,

softly landing and expanding the never-ceasing puddles.

The tears are no strangers here.

My well-trained pillows are familiar with

muffling the screams and questions

that come straight from my damaged heart:

Why am I not good enough?

Why don’t I deserve love?

No one will ever love a damaged soul like mine.

My soul aches with the weight of carrying questions

that can never be asked or answered.

They are a burden I’m left to ponder

while staring at my ceiling,

trying to make out the faint details in the plaster

as I’ve done so many times before.

I’ve been here before.

I know I’ll be here again.

There’s no way to fix me

and even if there was,

it’s been made clear many times

that no one in my life will ever try.

I’m not worth it.

No one will wastes an “I love you”

on a girl destined to die.

 

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The Kitchen Drawer

When I was in the eighth grade,

you made it quite clear

that I was not YOUR child

when you kicked my mother,

my brother and I

out of the house after an argument.

You broke the drawer off,

the one with knives,

in your fury.

I thought you were going to kill her

right in front of me.

You pinned her to the wall

and spat on her face

as you belittled her

and screamed at her

for some stupid little reason.

You told her to take HER kids

and get out.

I wasn’t even allowed

to get my shoes. Or a coat.

We sat in the car

in the driveway

to a house where I grew up

and cried. And cried.

We did not know where to go.

I told my mother to divorce you.

I told we could move in with grandma.

I told her we could come to get our things

once he was at work tomorrow.

She didn’t listen.

I wish she had

because now I am just as damaged.

You welcomed us back

and acted as though nothing was wrong;

that nothing had happened.

You pretended that everything

was the same as always.

But I know better because

the kitchen drawer doesn’t have a handle

 

 

 

9 Years

9 years.

That’s a long time.

That’s how long I was waiting.

Waiting for you to notice me.

Waiting for you to see me.

Waiting for you to say you love me.

Waiting for you to hear me cry myself to sleep,

maybe on just one of those nights

and to ask me what was wrong.

That’s 3,287 chances you had

and you didn’t use any of them.

So now here we are.

You want to make amends

and try to make  it up to me for

all the times you ignored me

when I needed you most;

when you were all that I needed.

But you have damaged me.

I cannot be fixed.

I cannot be retaught that I deserve love

after all the times you showed me I did not.

 

 

 

 

The Emotional Abuse

Because of you, I don’t trust anyone, not even myself.

I can’t stand up for myself.

I can’t do anything.

Because of you, I question my own memories.

I obviously can’t be right

or you wouldn’t be angry.

Because of you,  I have anxiety severe enough that I have to receive help for it.

I walk on eggshells so I don’t trip the magic wire

that sets you off on nothing.

Because of you, I’m ashamed to have people come over.

You’re a different person and it breaks me.

Why don’t I deserve that kindness and easy-going?

Because of you, I’m afraid to leave.

I don’t have anywhere else to go.

How do I turn my back on family?

Because of you, I am passive.

I just do what I have to do to be compliant.

I have to protect myself.

Because of you, I cry. A LOT.

Every night for 9 years to be exact.

I wonder what I did to deserve this.

Because of you, I can’t look people in the eye.

They probably think I’m rude, or not paying attention,

but that connection has hurt me many times in the past.

Because of you, I feel powerless.

I fell I have to take it.

I feel like I have no control.

Because of you, I have no self-esteem.

If I don’t and can’t deserve your love,

then who else would ever love me?

Because of you, I fear men.

I can’t have a relationship because what if?

What if they are all the same?

What if they will hurt me too?

What if I can never escape?

This Place is Not a Home

This place is not a home.

It’s a war zone. It’s hell.

It’s full of people on edge,

people walking on eggshells

trying to avoid another fight,

but someone always cracks

because how can you not be angry?

This place is unhealthy.

This place is not a home.

 

This place is not a home.

This place is emotionally abusive.

You can’t share your feelings

or your true thoughts because

the tyrant will scream at you

until to submit to his way

and are terrorized into giving up.

The “man” of the house

is not a man at all

but a dictator who admitted

just last week in fact

that nothing gets done around here

unless he intimidates us

and that’s just how he likes it.

This place is run by a bully.

This place is not a home.

 

This place is not a home,

it’s barely a step above a dump.

Bathrooms are falling apart.

floors are rotting through

and tiles are shattered.

Carpets are permentaly stained

and in desperate need of a vacuum.

There hasn’t been a working light

in the kitchen in the better part

of half a decade, maybe more.

Things are broken, but not replaced.

Just put off until it becomes an “issue”,

whatever that’s supposed to mean.

Junk is piled up everywhere

that we’re expected to just live around.

There are paths but no space.

This is not a living space.

This place is not a home.

 

 

Having You Over Was a Mistake

Having you over was a mistake.

Before you came over,

I was already depressed,

But I had at least adjusted to the numb.

Being with you again reminded me

What it’s like to be happy.

But now you are too busy for me.

My happiness isn’t important to you

And I’m falling back into the dark.

The rock bottom is harder than before.

The pain is worse now.

What you did is wrong.

You teased me with a potential

Chance of feeling better.

And then you took it away from me.

I’m destroyed now more than ever.

Having you over was a mistake.