Tuesday, September 28, 2010

A friend I find in Time...

My past will soon be rewritten and a new history will become my future, time is no longer my enemy, but a friend that passes by me with embracing hands...I must sit still a little longer...wait for my time to be freed and his time to be consumed by the darkness that he is deserving of so rightfully.

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

Noise

Shhhhhhhh did you hear that, I ask? That sound? The tap, tap, tapping. Did you hear that? The noises that fill the ear and trick the mind to believe we are not alone. In the darkness.  It’s time for the shadows to come out and play, safe. Do they feel safe? Is it the voices of the unrest that I hear in the white noise that plays to help me sleep.  The defeated purpose. What are they saying, who are they calling for? Are they asking me for help or warning me? The noises become intense.  Thick thuds, sounds like bodies hitting the floor. Is that you walking? I am scared now, stiff like a brittle board in winter.  The noises dance around me. The delicate touch of a soft hand on the door handle - click - clack. The tapping on the window glass. Curious. You can’t hear it, I say? I refuse to believe I am confined by my own mind. The thought dissolves away to the certainty of knowing an eerie presence is in the room.
What do you want, I say to the heavy shadow looming over me ready to suffocate the air out of my lungs. Waiting. Ready to descend upon me and inflict illness and grief. I cannot resist seeing the mass move around the bed wanting nothing more than to cover my head as a child would do scared of the evil the lurks in the closet. I am too paralyzed to look away, but wanting nothing more than to wake up and realize this is a dream – a nightmare. I can’t help it, I need to know, we all want to know when it is our time. Is it my time, I say. Is that why you stay over me? I see you moving, slowly and methodically across the room, you want me to see you. Paranoia sets in and I hear the voices speak with purpose in the white noise that eagerly tries to change my mind’s interpretations. I cannot reason in this state. As I try to resist knowing what the voices are saying, I succumb to knowing it is no use to oppose. I focus. I focus on them calling out, crying out. Do I know you, should I know you, my mind screams “what do you want” so loudly I wonder if the words were spoke instead.
I want to run and escape the presence of this mass, but my legs feel weak and malleable like my bones have been removed.  I close my eyes and hope I will open to an empty lonely room. But you know. I know. You play your cards well.  The noises amplify when I close my eyes with the intent to drive me crazy – making me eager to see what is taking place before me. I decide to be strong, stronger than you. I get up from my bed and make a run for the door. I hear a screeching noise that hurts my ears I crumble a bit inward as if to protect my core. I am nearly to the door to find you. There. Everything is in slow motion as I try to pass you. There you are. Sitting in a chair. Pale and frail. Your clothes look worn and ragged. Eyes drooping, dark and empty, mouth open to a darkness like a dungeon, head covered with a grey matted mess of hair. You make no noise, but your hollow eyes follow me as I approach. I pass by and you reach for my arm. I feel my entire body go limp, the heat rushing from my head to my toes, feeling like a thousand needles going into my skin, my heart beats hard against my rib cage, it wants out, wants nothing to do of this dreadful date between you and I. I can’t breathe. I fall. Darkness closes in.
I wake to a voice, noise, vision blurry, I look up. I hear, “Are you ok? You must have fallen over the ottoman. Were you sleep walking last night?” I look around confused but thankful to see daylight filling the room that once was occupied by darkness. You are gone. I look down at my wrist. The evidence that you were there is left in the bruise that wraps around my wrist. I know when the noise returns so will you. I must be prepared. I will be expecting you, ready.

Sunday, September 19, 2010

Country Road

There is nothing that can compare and nothing can explain it. There is something free about taking a long Sunday drive on a back country road. Windows down. Radio up. One arm hanging out the window gleaming red from the sun’s piercing kiss. The wind hitting me from both sides, the blows are soft, yet strong. My hair stirs overhead, going crazy like a conductor’s arms directing a Bach symphony – wild and passionate. The road is empty and provides many curves to maneuver. Like a rug being whipped, the road has many bumps that provides me with a momentary free fall feeling as my car drives over them and partially leaves the concrete. It stirs a tickle in my stomach like nerves from a first date. A familiar song comes on the radio, one that reminds of my youth. The sky is vast and is the color of light blue sapphires with clouds that look to be made of filling for a pillow. They offer no recognizable shapes but are free forms floating above. The fields are full of life. Crops for the local market.  The smells that fill my nose are pure with a hint of wild flowers. I feel safe, secure, and free. It feels good.
The sun seems to fall from the sky as dusk quickly approaches. The warm wind is replaced with a slight intimation of coolness. The sky changes colors right before me. It looks like a rainbow turned sideways with large bands of blue, yellow, orange, and red that disappear as it touches to tree line. I can see the stars beginning to form and the suns light is quickly replaced by the moon’s light shining down like a guide. I can hear nature calling as the frogs and crickets sound off competing for airtime to find a mate.  While the air is still pure it now offers an earthly scent. It is not overpowering, but makes me think of earthworms digging in the soil in the fields a few feet away.
As I approach the city limits I notice a drastic change is my surroundings. The streets are illuminated by light poles that shine an eerie shade of white and the ground is cluttered with garbage. People drive sporadic and aggressive. The smells of a city can only be described as factory smog – thick and impure. The green crops are replaced by visual pollution – billboards and signs everywhere. The roaring cars and honking horns consume the sounds of nature. It is no match.
I am amazed at what we have created as a livable community. One that knows not of the purest of life but one that takes all that is good to create something that is yet still unappreciated. There was a simpler time, a safer time. I am sad that I never knew it. I long for those long drives on that back country road for that is where freedom and peace reside. Living at its best, simple and pure.

Thursday, September 16, 2010

Windows - a short story

We all share the same journey in life, just different paths with different scenery and different things alone the path to encounter. We all do the best that we can in the worst of times. I find it hard to understand why those who know no fear can live so full? I fear everything. I live in a state of fear. I keep it close and dear to me. I would not want to live without it because if I do then I would undoubtedly have the worst things possible happen to me. I lived without fear once in my life and the worst did happen. Point taken.
When I was 18 I remember sitting on a public bus in Gainesville going to work at the VA Hospital and a lady passed by me. She was old with white hair twirled in a messy bun on top of her head, she had good skin and carried one of those reusable canvas shopping bag. Those that have experienced trauma tend to be very observant and aware of people. She gave me good reason to be aware of her. As she passed by she glared at me, looking me right in the eyes. The kind of glare that stays with you. Odd and creepy. The kind that chills your spine and sends goose bumps to the surface of the skin. Of course, she sat behind me too. I did not know whether to move or get off the bus.
My senses were now on full alert. My intuition was heightened. It was like I could feel her breathing on me. Needless to say, I was unable to move. I slightly turned my head to do a passenger position check on the lady only to find indeed she was mere inches from my face. I leaned forward and turned as I asked her if she was ok. She laughed. I told myself that maybe she needed some mental help and was about to leave when she reached out for my arm and I pulled it back so fast like a snake after it has bitten its prey.
Was this the point that I should retaliate and run? Did she want something from me? Did she have a weapon? Yes you could say I was in a state of FEAR. So many things running through my mind that all I could do was press my body into the seat in front of me and hope that she would notice how uncomfortable I was. She did. We all would like to think we would know what to do in a confrontational situation, but I would argue that most of us don’t know. She stayed leaning in but moved back a tad as to give me my breathing room back. Then she looked at my face and understandably saw what I was feeling, fear.
She said, “you don’t need to fear me girl.” I said, “I am not fearful of you” and she swiftly whispered, “you are so full of fear right now your face is wet from the overflow from your eyes” I went from being scared to being confused, what did that mean? She then proceeded to tell me that my eyes held all my power and if I wanted people to not see my fear to change the windows to my soul. She stated that she could see pain in my eyes. Ok now I was shaking. I mean did I know this lady? It was almost as if she was reading my mind when she said, “no, we have not met, I know you are wondering how I know so much but know so little about you”. She proceeded to claim that those who have endured so much pain in their lives that they carry the pain in their eyes. I turned around in my seat as to not face her anymore and thought to myself, well if that is the case then I must have had billboards in my eyes advertising my pain. I shrugged at the thought and squirmed in my seat not wanting to give into the lady’s silly banter. Trying to think of something to say in return but coming back with nothing that would not sound like denial. I turned around to ask her in all her wisdom how I could disguise this so called fear and was bewildered to find her gone. I didn’t even remember the bus stopping but I guess it had.
Right? From that day on I changed my windows.

Monday, September 13, 2010

I Wish

I wish I didn’t know. I wish I wasn’t stronger. I wish that I could wake up each day not plagued by the disease that cripples me; a diseases I have no control over, but one that controls me. I wish my thoughts were pure and innocent. I wish I could see the good in all people. I wish that I could smile and mean it. I wish I could trust those with the best intentions. I wish I was free. I wish that I could escape the moments that turned my memories into shit. I wish that I could stop forgetting the good and only remembering evil. I wish my mind could stop erasing the good things I want to keep dear and only keep me from the bad things. I wish that I was not suspicious of everyone who walks too close, or stares too long. I wish I had more faith in The System. I wish that I could fly like a bird and escape my pain. I wish that I could love the right way and not the only way I know how. I wish the words that hurt people didn’t come from my mouth. I wish that I could focus without giving attention to my demons. I wish that I had the nerve to go to your house and confront you. I wish I could live one day with thinking about it. I wish that I had a penny for every time I cursed your name, or existence, for I would be rich. I wish that I knew the finer things in life. I wish that I had been smarter. I wish that I lived each day and not wasted my tears on you. I wish that I could escape the page that bears our names together – my birth certificate. I wish that I could erase the pain you have caused me that I have evoked on others. I wish that I never knew you for if I never knew you I would not know the pain of a father who cared so little. I wish that I had tried new things. I wish that I hadn’t lived so sheltered. I wish that I let more people in. I wish that I had reported your crimes when I was a child. I wish that I had reached out more. I wish that I could beleive the nice things people say. I wish that my heart didn’t ache. I wish that I didn’t feel like death was the answer. I wish that I could turn back time. I wish that I had known my mother – but you beat her away too. I wish I had known what a family was like having. I wish that one day you will pay for what you did. I wish for nothing more than to find inner peace and stop living my days consumed by my hate for you. I wish for the right things to happen as they should. I wish for the day when I will not have to wish anymore.

In Your Hands

You say it is a decision for me to make,

but carries consequences that I must take,

with no one I will share the burden,

so in my decision I must be certain,

make no matter the swaying decision,

in the end it will cause a family division,

like waves I feel the pain of reluctance,

but I will say proceed for all I have are assumptions,

I will assume you have trained in your profession for this day,

and you will seek to make this body with a lack of a soul pay,

I cannot live by the chance he may slip through the knot,

so I place my hopes in your hands for the freedom I have sought,

for I cannot fear the worst may happen any longer,

as my true desire to proceed is growing stronger,

this happens they say to those who are content,

I just know I want all of this to end,

you are to seek out the person I make these claims,

no matter his voice I have found freedom from my shames,

if victory is not in my cards to play,

rest peaceful knowing I will live on no matter the day.

Thursday, September 9, 2010

Devil Down

My hands are heavy bearing the weight of fingers filling with lead to furiously write the horrid emotions that load my heart like a gun that will implode if I do not share. My body feels stiff like a state of postmortem. My veins are poison as they fill with mercury from the heat I am consumed with in anger! I did not know my words could spill out of me like a child eagerly ripping open his bag full of Halloween candy. I am not sorry that my words are as vile as a snakes venom, because they are just and deserving. I will not allow you to be life’s lucky lottery ticket, you are not going to win. You may think you control the mind of those you oppress, but rest not, this mind you do not control. I am not afraid of the dark, or the leeches you plague my thoughts with hoping to drain me of happiness. I am angry. I am mad. But I am not afraid. I am not.

Some do not share my same belief in damming you to hell, but let them know I will not hold a grudge beyond this life for them. For that would require me to show my teeth and they would wear thin from the grinding of words that do not nourish my mind but instead fill me with hate. For the next life, everything will be on my terms like a finely written contract between me and life. See life and I will make a deal and it will cost you your soul. Do you want to play? My rules. My way. Did you make a deal with the devil? Is your soul going to hell upon leaving this life? One would assume that His eyes are upon you now. Ready to take the creation he has made, ready to collect on his formation – he needs you now. The devil is watching waiting behind the door – feel free to answer when He rings the bell. Here let me give you a push or at the very least open the door for you. See I have manners, manners capable of crushing the tiny, destructive tree of life you created. Some would say you need to devil down your past and cleanse yourself from this life. I wish you to just wash away, diminish, in a waterfall of acid. Be gone like a diary of a dead man that tells no tales. You have watched me burn for so long, but now, it is your time.

Wicked as a pitchfork shoved into my gut, comes the news of your conquest over yet again another decree of the edict. But what you stab at is straw. Empty as the scarecrow that is void of heart, mind, emotions, or any substance of matter. Refusing to give you a moment’s thought. For moments make memories and memories make a mess. You can have mine back – all of them. I want new ones. Yes I have much to say. I have 17 years worth of words for you. We are playing an inning-less game. Hope you are rested, but I guess there is no rest for the wicked. Ready to devil down or are you ready to play my game?

No Words Can Convey

I think a system that protects pedophiles is no system at all. Victims may not have their day in court, but by the means of determination WILL have their voices be heard! ‎Furthermore, those that choose to NOT speak of the crimes they witness being done to another are just as guilty as the one who commits them in my eyes! Selfish cowards!

I cannot say I have the courage or strength to do harm to the person responsible for my shame and pain. But what I can say is I understand why people hurt, and on some occasions kill, their abuser. The justice system finds ways to fail victims each day. Pushing victims to their limits, but being a survivor with grace and resilience I choose to continue to hold my head high knowing no matter if he is not behind bars I will live each moment untarnished by his despicable actions and deplorable behaviors. After all he has to live with what he did right?

He raped a five year old and continued to do so for 7 years after that! I mean I was not the first! Wake up – I was not the last! Is it of the impression of our state attorney - that he cannot win my case because it is my word (the victim) against the perpetrator, therefore he will not prosecute? He risks a big check in the win category – while I risk my life and sanity to find justice!

Why do you need a witness when you have two daughters separated by 13 years with similar stories telling you what happened? I don’t understand why you think the case is not winnable? Why would a victim need a witness to the abuse? The victim can tell you what happened! What a rollercoaster of disappointment - I want off this ride! It comes down to my word against his. Let us both take lie detectors, let us both be heard by a jury. Give me my day in court!

Does the legal system think that sexual abuse survivors need to make up a story to get attention? Here is a newsflash - I can think of many other stories to make up instead of one that brings me pain and shame!

Sure I will speak about what my father did and if he doesn’t like it – he can take me to court and try to win a lawsuit for slander or deformation! But you know, I will bet my life taken by the grim reaper, that he won’t because he is GUILTY! GUILTY OF RAPING A 5 YEAR OLD (HIS OWN DAUGHTER) FOR 7 YEARS, HUNDREDS IF NOT THOUSANDS OF TIMES! YAY I SAID IT! 37 YEARS IT HAS TAKEN ME TO SAY THAT OUTLOUD, BUT THERE IT IS! I am sorry that no one seems to understand or comprehend what that feels like!

Let me be clear, I live in a state (FLORIDA) with NO statute of limitations on the crime committed against me, but yet they (FLORIDA) won’t charge him because there are no witnesses? No words can convey, no words can say how appalled I am at this moment. Each accusation is a felony with a possible sentence of 25 to life. He should be charged with 3 counts! If I was able to at 13 to report him he would have gotten the death penalty, but now that I am an adult reporting it – the S.A. basically says fuck you because you’re not a child anymore, na na na na na shoulda reported it when you were a child. Oh well excuse me, oh dear, stupid me, why didn’t I think of that!

End of story.

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

I am Me

I wanted to share a piece I wrote after speaking with a sexual assault service provider. I share this piece because it is important for service providers to remember to not lump all victims into a category as they sometimes do when they feel they have encountered 'all' types of victims.

A service provider cannot become complacent and apathetic. I realize that victims share similarities, but no one victim’s experience is the same. We all see it differently. Victims should not be pushed into decisions they don’t feel comfortable making. Who has the right, but the victim, to tell victims when they should take action?

It has taken me 37 years to speak out about the trauma I endured. I encourage others who share a similar past to find your voice on your own time and screw the government who feels it necessary to put deadlines on when a victim should deal with their trauma!

Warm regards,
Lee Ann

I am Me

You keep referring to me as a “normal victim”. But how do you know? Do you know what that means? Do you know that offends me? I keep telling you I am a survivor , so why must you keeping call me a victim? I am not a person who has been exposed to one wicked incident. I am a survivor of thousands of filthy, indecent acts over half of my living years. Don’t put me in a category or tell me you know how I feel. You can’t know how I feel for I am not a “normal victim” as a you call me. I do not fit in a pretty box that enables a label that fits thousands of others as you have declared. I am a survivor in my own way. You cannot know how I feel unless you have endured the pain and suffering I have? I do not want to hear, “in my experience in working with other victims” because I assure you I am nothing like what you have experienced. I am me.


Allow me to be an individual, to grieve as an individual, to seek restoration and tranquility as an individual. For I am not a victim but a survivor. I will keep telling you that because you are not hearing me. Open your mind to the possibility that the worst kind of violence has happened to me, then you will foretaste and see for yourself that I don’t fit in your label of “normal victim”. Incise and separate my legs and my arms from my body and I will still not be ‘Helena(1)’ fitting into a box unable to move, grown, and live because I will not be crippled by fear, dependant on life. Tell me not of what you have known because I will not allow you to diminish my conquest over the dark shadows that seek relentlessly at my very quintessence!

I have come so far not to allow one person who thinks they know my experience based on a mere observation – and a virtual one at that - to play judge and jury over my circumstance! I have not even met you! A victim implies someone who has allowed the demons to take permanent residence in their mind and impinge on the ability to live each day as a gift. I can assure you, I am survivor because I hunt for and feed off of life – life depends on me! I know my gifts and I cherish them – my demons are kept on a tight lease that chokes their eager and throttling desire to consume me for I am me and the only one like me, a survivor – give me that right. In your ignorance, I will battle to divide myself from your label. Remember your words, remember your place, you cannot help what you don’t understand. You will only cause harm and consternation for those you wish to affect change upon. Heed this warning I beg of you, open your mind and see me and those around you for what and who they really are and not for what you wish to make them for lack of acquaintance.

(1) Boxing Helena (1993). A fictional movie about a surgeon who becomes obsessed with the seductive woman he once had an affair with. Refusing to accept that she has moved on, he amputates her limbs and holds her captive in his mansion.

Monday, September 6, 2010

Endless Ocean

9/5/2010


Dear Endless Ocean,

You are my ocean with endless bounds. You are powerful and protective over all that lives in your ocean. You are calming to my mind and soothing to my body. You are the maker of life and the taker of pain. Your rhythmic tides seek to cleanse my wounds and heal them with your salty medicine, faithfully and unchanging.
You are made of nature and provider of a love that makes my heart pound like the crashing of your waves on the surrounding rocks. Your copious waves wash over me like a fine shower of renewing rain. I know your love is endless and on this day of union, I know you are the only ocean I wish to swim in for the rest of my remaining years.

Love,

The Swimmer

Saturday, September 4, 2010

Luckyland

I do not feel safe in my nocturnal solitude. My room. It is like a jail with bars on the windows, laughing at my feeble attempts to escape. The dreadful noises that the wood flooring makes beneath the monster. It cries with subtle creaks and cracking of the weight it bears. Begging to wake me before the monster reaches me. But I am paralyzed with fear for I know what is coming, I am unable to move. My body feels heavy. My arms wrapped tightly around my legs rocking back and forth.

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. The creaks and cracking stop. He is outside now, listening for sounds before he enters. I begin to feel the tears run down my face. I beg my mind to escape. I give it permission to go to the place I know so well, one that I am free and the sun warms my body and the rain purifies my thoughts. I am drifting now, here I go. I am in the rain. It falls fast but softly hits my skins – gentle like it means me no harm. It washes away the shame I feel. The rain stops and the sun shines through the clouds as if to say I am here now to warm your soul. The wind begins to blow swirling itself around me like soft feathers from a baby bird. I feel happy inside. I begin to run through the meadow filled with daisies, the grass beneath my feet is so supple I just want to lay in it. I want to spend forever here, in this place. I want this place to take and keep my soul, for I won’t need it where I am going back to. The place I go back to is not worthy of it. I love this place.

I can see the darkness behind me like a vortex destroying the meadow covered in daisies. Spinning so fast with teeth like razor blades, shredding its way to me. I will not fight against it as I know it is no use. It will be over soon. This is the end of it. This time. I have enjoyed my time of peace in a place I call Luckyland. Lucky for it brings me bliss and happiness. I feel lucky to go there, feel lucky to have a place of my own – free from all things evil – anything I want can come true. This place allows me to be me – a child.

My vision becomes hazy and my body feels like it is spinning a million miles an hour. It aches like I have been thrown against a wall; my body feels torn and tattered. But it is over. I see the monster’s shadow retreating, leaving. Thank you Luckyland, for allowing me to escape, even if for only a short while. I will see you again tomorrow.

Friday, September 3, 2010

Word Bullets

The blows were thunderous between my ears, like I had been blasted by rapid fire bullets, loud ricocheting echoes bounce inside my brain. The space once inhabited with hopes and dreams was drowning in pain and anguish. Darkness closes in. Is this the calm before the storm. The silence is eerie. I fear not of what you can do to me but what I shall do to myself leaving debilitating emotions bottled in a glass waiting for someone to tap and break the glass. For if they are set free, they will plague my life and take what I have worked so hard to gain. I will share my words because it keeps the jar from filling up. Your words hurt like a bullet. It feels like I have been shot, languid from being beaten down - the matter called life surrounds my body like a perfectly drawn chalk outline. What is inside the line dare not cross. It has come to the end. Is it but the weak that bears the shreds of sacrifice, stabbing at the shield of life.

“I wish you were dead”, those were your words. How can you hate me so much? How can you strip me of all the autonomy that comes with being a person born of this world? I became less of a person, no person, no mind to act on her own, and no self confidence to lift my head. I had to rewrite my life, playing time machine with my actions and emotions - erasing the damage.

Life is precious. Here today, gone tomorrow. Taken in an instance, taken for granted. Life is fragile like a brilliant, glass carafe filled to the brim with happiness, but so easily shattered by sorrow and sadness. Your words cut me open pouring out my ounces of triumph. Who are you to tell me hopes and dreams are fairytales. Who are you to not believe in me. Who are you to have been so stupid to think I would not desire life. Who are you to think your words could dam the only endowment this life will ever give me – to love and be loved. It was all I ever wanted from you. You are no one, nothing to me.

I sew up the cuts you have irrevocably places upon my soul and move to the light, step to me not -I warn - or I may push you to the depth of darkness you deserve. Hear me like a bullet coming fast and irreversible - life is better without you in it.

Whisper

You are my drug, my intoxicating non toxic drug. I will soon become addicted to it. So pure. So innocent. Watching, wondering, learning. I have not known such a love like this. It is a feeling I am not used to and the weight of its treasure bears heavy on my chest. When you were a baby I would watch you sleep and for the briefest moment feel the emancipating joy and freedom I beg you will always know. I linger above you for a moment longer to feel your warm, delicate breath on my face as I whisper your name and tell you that I love you.


When you are awake I watch you from a distance to make sure you are safe. You smile. You laugh. You know innocence. You know nothing of the dark side. A world filled with hate, rage, abuse, and death. Yes my child you were born to live. Born of a mother and father who will love you without judgment, without condition, for we know true love, you sweet child were made from love’s core.

I did not know how strong my love for you could be, like wild flowers growing in a field that spreads like a blanket covering and consuming everything it touches. I was taken aback by how absorbed I became by this love – nothing I have ever felt before. A love that demanded and needed me to feed into it, constantly hungry for more, this time whispering my name and replying, I love you mommy. Sweet child of mine, how I love you. You have become the world that resides upon my pedestal of life, every vein filling with your drug. You are my lifeline, my daily, constant reminder of why I choose life.

When you fall I will be there to help you, when you rise I will be there to applaud you and one day the time will come when you will say goodbye and begin your own life – and in that day my drug supply will run thin but I will be there to support you. But I know you will always be there, only a whisper away. Right? Tell me that you will whisper my name if you ever need me, never hold back if the need is there as I will always be here.

But before you leave always know my love for you will never run out, a constant supply, so drink it up my sweet child. Drink as much as you want for a mother’s love will never end. I know you must go now, but remember to be safe, remember that I love you, remember the happy times, and may you never know the dark side. Live this life to the fullest with no regrets is what I ask of you. May our example of love provide you with the ability to one day find it for yourself. May sorrow never seek you.

But know there will come a day when I must leave too, leaving this earth for another. My body will rest below it but my spirit will rise above it. But do not cry for me as I want you to know I am never far away – on that day your drug supply will run very thin, but remember I will always be there. Just whisper my name like I taught you. I will hear you as your words will be carried by an assembly line of angels taking special care not to lose any of them. I will be looking down, watching over you, protecting you and always, above all else, loving you.

So should you hear your name as a whisper in the wind, you will know it is mommy whispering back, I love you sweet child of mine.

Thursday, September 2, 2010

I Cannot

I cannot fill the empty space in my brain

Because the information stays the same

I won’t agree to be the one that needs to take the blame

Because you are the one that needs to feel this shame

I cannot fully convey this fucking anger

Because I fear that my life will be in danger

One day soon I will speak out about what you did

But I am sure you will say I am crazy or telling a fib

I think you should know I am not the crazy one bitch

Your time will come as you wear chains digging a ditch

Behind bars is where you will stay

And I will be the one living each day

Each day, in peace is what I pray

But until your dead I cannot say.

Taking Luck

All of the sweetest smells fill my nose. The fresh cut grass on a hot spring day with a light wind blowing, swaddling me, the silken feeling of rose petals rubbed between my fingers, remnants of dried tobacco leaves scenting an empty cigarette box, brownies baking in the oven, baby powder sprinkling from the sky in a fine mist. I feel the sun on my face, kissing my cheeks. So warm, so bright. I run barefoot through an endless field of poppies growing wild in the greenest grass I have ever seen. I am wearing a babydoll dress with oversized sunflowers that sway with my movement. As I step on the flowers I spring forward, almost gliding in the air. I am smiling, I never smile, it feels good to smile – my skin stretching across my cheeks until it can stretch no more. I am small like a child. As I run through the poppy fields, I feel my chest expand with laughter and air; I see my cat, Hannah. She is jumping over the flowers to keep up with me chasing pretty butterflies of fluorescent, almost glowing colors. She too looks to be smiling. Her fur is as white as snow, so pure and untouched, and her eyes are as blue as a settled sky void of cotton ball clouds. We run so fast I feel my breath is no longer pacing with my steps. It is too hurried. I must slow down; my body feels like someone is controlling me with a slow motion remote. My heart rate is rising. I look at my Hannah, something is wrong; I can see her fur turning dark like ash left from a fire. Her eyes are turning black as an empty night sky with no stars twinkling to light the way. The sun is battling a dark sky approaching from behind me. It is losing. It is getting colder now, I feel the rush of goose bumps all over my body, I can almost see my breath. I begin to quiver slightly. The sweet smells are turning rancid, spoiled, rotten. The grass is molding, the flowers are wilting, the brownies are burning, the dried tobacco is now a burning cigarette that closes my throat with every inhalation. I can no longer laugh. The darkness is upon me now whispering decaying messages of tainted love in my ears. I start to become sad. I do not know or understand what is going on. I feel like I cannot breathe, my lungs will not expand. I am suffocating. I am crying and I feel pain. My body is heavy; the darkness consumes me afflicting a sickness that turns my stomach. I am scared. I close my eyes. When I open them, they are spilling over with tears that are so hot they sting my face. I wipe them away only to have new ones replacing them like an assembly line of tears. I continue to blink trying to focus but still I am unable to see the presence above me. I feel a sharp pain, my vision becomes abruptly clear, I see the cause of my pain now. I see my father on top of my naked, cold, tiny body. He looks down upon me with a smug smirk. His breath pungent. It smells of alcohol. His eyes glassed over. He says it won’t hurt, but it does. He is raping me…I am five.

Sorrow Seeks

I want to say I am sorry. I want my actions to speak louder than my words. I want them to scream at you and tell you how much you mean to me. I surrender to the mercy you have bestowed upon me because my words have cut you in a way you do not deserve. Anger rises from a place I cannot control, a place that is locked by my brain and can only be accesses in times I feel defensive. Maybe it is a natural defense my mind wants to provide a shield around my emotional heart protecting it from a possible break.

I cannot express the heartache I would feel if one day you were no longer there. I have a true undying wish to be with you till the end, holding my hand on the lighted staircase to another dimension. If we do not live for what we have in this life, I beg my wish of knowing you again in another.

You provide me with the rays of life and the solace of security. Without you my being would not be whole. I do not seek out sorrow, but it resides on my doorstep waiting eagerly for me to let my guard down. It wishes not to punish me, but to hurt those that I adore for that would be more damage than any affliction of pain I would bestow upon myself.

I only want for you to see into my soul to know that you complete the parts me that was lost so many years ago. I pledge an undying love for you – but will you accept me in my flawed state? Knowing I cannot promise to be perfect for I was born damaged. My wounds are like my permanent tattoos, constant reminders of a life I try to keep hidden but my scars serve as age lines of the sadness I feel. You see me for what and who I am and yet you love me unconditionally.

My sorrow is captivated by the love I feel for you, wishing it had the power to move the wave of emotions I feel when I look into your eyes. It feels it has no place to be victorious when you are in my presence – in my presence is where I hope you will always stay. I cannot take back the lashing of my tongue or the words that cut you like a newly sharpened knife, but I wish to say I am sorry for the pain I have yet again caused you. I hope this will not be a day marked on the calendar of judgment.

I love you and I seek sorrow and restitution in your grace.

More to Me

There is more to me that what you see. I have layers that are like a cake baked to feed a country. I have many dimensions all of which exist on the many planes of life’s longitude and latitude. I come from all places but yet claim no nowhere. I don’t have a home in my mind – I am a nomad. I see things as they are not for what they are. I am content with my demons and fear not the ghosts that seek me in the darkness. I succumb not the weakness that makes my heart ache. I live for the freedoms that daylight can make. I take no pleasure in the dark voices that try to dissuade my morality. I am like a piano that can make the most precious of sound or the shrills of noise that breaks the ear. Deafened by pain and weak from fighting I am comforted by the thought of death. But yet it is not my time to go. There are many a things I need to know, many a things that need me now. I have opened my heart and it spills purity and love like an ocean that is being turned upside down. It runs so fast and furious, wrapping around me like latex. I am not the sheltered, adolescent fool once taped at the mouth to keep me quite. There are noises that escape my mouth. I am free to speak and share and love. I know now it is not an all or nothing world, I am divided like a fraction and I can share my triumph that beaches itself on my shoulders feeling no shame in my journey. I can be the happy person that is clawing to get out. I can break the cycle of inhumanity that devoured my prior years. I am a strong survivor of this life regardless of the guards that stand watching eager to stab my body and drain it. Placing me in a dungeon of disgrace and morbidity. Yes there is more to me that what you see. My body holds the secrets. The key to my body is in a safe place now.

I am Blinded

I am blinded. It is not from an impairment or disease of my eyes. It is not from the bright light emanating from the center of the sun finding me wherever I go like a spotlight. It is not from the silent, still darkness of night that creeps on my backside like a heavy burlap sack filled with dread. I am blinded by a raw emotion. Rage. My mind traps me like a room with no doors or windows and all I can see are disturbing images of torture and abuse. I try to get out, banging on the walls while screams escape my throat hoarse from shreds of air. However, no sounds can be heard beyond these walls, as if I stand behind walls that wish me to silence – walls that do not want me to speak or be heard. I cannot, no should not speak of the things I see. But I will. I see the marks that remain, the bruises that cover my body like algae covering a pond in the thick of a humid summer heat wave. They gradient in color from a spoiled yellow to a dark, deep purplish black. The scars left from lacerations that at one time poured out my blood at the hands of his sins. I hear screaming in my mind that can curdle the contentment of any sane soul. I am taken off guard by the actions my mind is urging me to do to the person I hold accountable for my rage. I am shaken by the profound revelation that I feel capable to do these ghastly things.


I am a kind, good person who is tormented by these memories. The memories are left like fingerprints on my soul that cannot be erased nor forgotten even for a briefest time. Burned into my being, my makeup. I do not want to believe the love of the purest kind can be so tainted by actions of selfishness, hatred, and greed. I ask the many chaotic whispering voices in my mind, “Why me”, but comes no answer just the words echoing in my mind. Repeating like a broken record left playing in an empty house that creaks and cackles at the stillness.

I cry myself to sleep almost every night. I seek to understand why me only to abandon the desire of a reply because I know it will never come. I find contentment with myself that the confirmation to understand it would be better spent to seek the answer to, “Why not me.”

The tears stream down my face leaving wide, wet paths of salty water that burns my cheeks. I cry so hard I can hardly breathe, lungs gasping for air, unable to catch my breath. I feel sorry for my pillow. It truly takes the brunt of my anger. Nevertheless, lies still by me like a steadfast friend –almost acknowledging and understanding my unyielding, abusive actions upon it. It suffocates me in its many folds as I shed wasted tears. I recreate the scenes in my head. Throwing my poor, undeserving pillow to the ground as if it means nothing. I punch it so hard it caves in the middle only to find it shapes itself back to its original form. It is resilient. It is like me. Bouncing back like a ball tied to a string being pulled when it gets too far away. I look down at my hands balled up into fists void of fingers and speak aloud in a thunderous voice, “Why me, I ask you again?” I hear the silence breaking with a reply from a fragile, tiny voice within me that says, “For if not me, then who?” The pain is a slow agonizing self-torture that renders me helpless and humble. His actions methodical and planned, my reaction reserved and subdued. I see now, I am no longer blinded by rage, but sadness fills my heart that is so void of happiness. Pity resides here now, for soon his blindness will come too. He will ask, as I have done for so many years “why me”, but the silence will be met by six thunderous voices that say in unison, “Guilty.”

Hate is a Lonely Number

I used to look up to you like a bright future. I used to think you looked out for me too. Now I know you are looking for no one but yourself. I can’t help but to think in my pain you relish happiness and in my achievements you wager my failure. I can only think it comes from a place of bitterness that you demise happiness in those around you. Maybe it is a deadly sin called envy that you succumb to so easily. Don’t envy me. I have nothing to envy. Why do you find things so deliberate to crumble me to my knees? But I have allowed you in to see my weakness, perfection. Why must you take the ounces of sunshine I have left in my hourglass of life? My fault yes, because I allowed you to glimpse my past. You think your actions are invisible but I see them, they are deliberate and calculated. You are diabolical.


Is this wrath a remnant of a bitter past, one that fills your heart not allowing goodness to poke holes and eventually break free from the chains you have placed upon it? That I cannot say, but your anger towards me only empowers me, for it takes much more of the soul’s energy to hate than to allow one to prosper. I feel sorry for you, as this - is all you attain to be. I feel sorry for you that what you reap will inevitably be what you sow and what you sow you will reap full circle.

A slight giggle escapes my lips when I think about how you must feel powerful to step on me, how in control you think you are. I can only think of the time to come when my wings will spread far and wide shading the sun from your path, you will look up only to see a dark sky void of warmth, forbidding the sun from casting over your days. Envy will quickly turn to hate as you see how far above you I will fly.

I pity you really, feel sorry for you really. I cannot imagine a life filled with that much hostility to make those around you so volatile at your sight at your touch at your voice. I gave you the best of me. This is not my future, you are not my future, you have no part in my glorious forthcomings. You are my past, the forgotten, the wasted carnage after a war. I cannot hate you, for hate stands alone and alone is a lonely number, hate consumes too much of my energy, and preservation is the secret to a kind soul.

Goodbye Sadness

Sadness. It is a pure emotion, one that cannot be hidden with a smile or accessories to hide the river of tears that are on the verge of eruption. Some use sunglasses to try, but sadness is smarter than that as the cheeks turn a sun kissed rose color, the grin comes slowly but is in turmoil from the strength of the frown. The evidence is there, that tears are only a moment away.


I sit in an airport. Airports hold the truest form of sadness, called the goodbye. I see a father who hugs his son. He holds him a little longer than normal. Longer than the casual goodbye – this one implies much time and distant will keep them apart. Maybe it is the goodbye dedicated to a soldier son going off to war or a college freshman embarking on his life’s journey. This father may have felt he prepared him, but now doubt creeps in and he is unsure if he has taught him, showed him all that he could have. Moments in time come flooding back and fill his brain – this is the part of sadness that is overwhelming – the part that can not be controlled. No matter the kind of goodbye – the sadness is agonizing to see.



He hugs and lets go not able to look up at his son, but merely turns and walks off. I can feel his heartache thick like a blanket of humidity on a already too hot day, but this day is not like any other for this day is father’s day.

For No Good Reason

It starts with something. Its starts with something lacking. Something you need, but are not getting. You can feel them, uncontrollable and determined. The flush. The flood. The Sadness. Sadness for no good reason is such a wasted emotion. But what makes for a good reason? Illness, death, misery and fear perhaps. But that is not why I shed them; I shed them because my internal emotions and expressions do not match the external spoken words that my mind forms and my mouth mimics. Have I have said it all wrong, have I not said enough, have I said too much. There so many better things to shed them for. Health, birth, happiness, and strength perhaps.


I am sad on the inside and my tears are a way to show it on the outside. My eyes become flooded and overwhelmed with a painful sting. A punishment for holding them in too long. My eyes fill with a toxic salt water mixture; toxic because it is tainted with a touch of sadness and a pinch of regret. My tears are hot, yet, cold to the touch. They overflow on to my cheeks letting me know there is a slight breeze in the room as my cheeks are chilled in the wake of the determined tears path. They flow as if they are running from something, maybe they too fear I will not let them escape next time. Trickery to have done so this time, silly on my part. My heart hurts because I have no real reason to cry. For tomorrow this will all be forgotten and my tears will have fallen for no good reason.

Caught

My body is not a sanctuary of peace as it should be.

There is no hint of heaven, but a battleground of war with blind soldiers serving in cynical sadness.

One side fighting the other to prevail.

Doubt against reason.

Confirmation against the unknown.

I do not know how I became.

I only know how I survived.

In life, as I will in death, walk in my shadow knowing the righteous will prevail against the tyrant who feeds on the flesh of my soul – feasting on the last ounces of goodness left in my body.

I will resist the hunger and feed sorrow no more; I will starve the demon that drains me of my clarity and innocence.

I will whisper my story and it will come by wind to the ear of anyone who will listen, but may prove no match for the hypocrisy of a system that fails the weak and gives to the stronger evil.

I am caught.

Between two worlds waiting for the resurrection of my being.

Dying Innocence

Innocence is not a gift bound to life, it is but a pebble found along the gravel path leading to a grave yard waiting for its time to be taken.


A grave yard full of innocents that lay restless and used.

Dying because it has not been given the chance to live, but born to die.

How can this be?

How can the one who gives you the air of life damn you to an eternal death and take what is not his to take?

It is but a mere death of the soul that cannot be undone.

In my birth as in my death I will die never knowing innocence.

I was born to die – to never revel in the gut of glory.

13,505 is my age in days.

Each of those days represents the time you have been free while I have been locked in a prison of merging denials and unsound reasons.

My innocence will not rest for it feels it was unjust in the taking.

But it refused to die, to lay restless.

One day my restless innocents will rise from the grave and seek to find its pebble path to freedom.

On that day you will seek death over life for your freedom will feel lost and consumed by a darkness you have been deserving for 13,506 days.