Yeah yeah yeah.

So when I used to have this horribly monsterous and abusive husband, one of the things most strongly engrained in my memory about that period of my life is how I was accused of things constantly; things that never even crossed my mind, much less actually represented reality.
I vividly recall waking up one night from a dead sleep in my bed to his hands around my throat being choked nearly to death because he truly believed that I had been flashing signals and signs out the window to a car that kept driving back-and-forth up-and-down our street in the middle of the night. The reality behind this was that I had no clue who that person in that car was; and, definitely had not been flashing signals and/or signs to them from my window; I had been out cold with a sinus infection.
My recollections of that period in my life are full of such instances; times when I had absolutely no control or involvement in the things that I was paying the most brutal consequences for. The helplessness that defined my life during those years was immense; so immense, that it’s still with me to some extent, even today.
My most recent attempt at a meaningful and worthwhile relationship has failed at last.

This has been partially due to certain lingering effects of my own residual trauma i.e. the inability I continue to harbor reagarding trust and commitment, its true.
But the main cause behind the most recent going down in flames I’ve actually come to recognize and acknowledge for what it has turned out to be:
My natural response to the helplessness put forth as a result of repeatedly being accused of things I haven’t done.
I have come too far to fall back down into such a miserable situation in which my own true identity has been marred by the paranoid and insecure notions of the other person in the relationship.

That is not a relationship. And that is not healthy. I’m striving for healthy and have realized that the thing I’ve come to comfortably call “my relationship” was (from the beginning) the opposite of what I’ve been seeking out.

Inward and upward, though.

It’s a new year.

Tainted.

To know that it’s true,
This knowledge, so new,
To recognize what I’ve been trying not to.
To harbor not a single doubt,
Surrounding all that I’ve found out,
The clout they’ve always given you.
A thing so lowly and despicable,
Goes right along with how you roll,
It’s pathetic but not a shocking truth.
The shock may be in another truth,
One I’ll share in turn with you,
How that stupid choice has leaked on through.
How from now on no REAL WOMAN can respect,
Such a tainted by baby-talk dialect,
No righteous woman will want to touch you.
So you’re stuck forever in the land of STD’s,
Though I must say, it fits your mentality,
You’re fucking 40, and she’s 22.

You’re A Worm.

I wonder if you realize how disgusting you are for what you are doing; no need for me to go into detail…you’re fucking gross, dude.

Two things I have learned in recent history that 110% do it in terms of TOTALLY TURNING ME THE FUCK OFF:

  • Being talked to like I am an idiot.
  • Trying to be taken home by a guy (that I used to fuck, a chunk of time ago – like years) who is now sporting a 22 year old girlfriend.

Like I would EVER sleep with you again after knowing this condemning fact about you, dude?… get real. That’s like, my daughter’s age, you sick fuck…you are supposed to be a grown ass man, and I am deeply disappointed to know that you went astray down the road bordering pedophilia, it’s sordid.

Black on Blue.

If you had a clue how it hurts when you cut in,

with your blade ever-sharp, like a spade to my heart, within;

if you felt the fear that I feel when the torture begins –

if you really loved this person I am,

under this roughed up and broken skin,

I doubt you’d ever be able to hurt me, again.

When you say you’ve changed your evil ways,

when you promise that I can believe what you say;

and my face is smeared and bleeding the very next day –

when you would sooner beat me than to let me get away,

for just a moment, from the constant hurt and pain,

you’d rather violate me in every imaginable way.

Once you broke my body, my mind fell next in line,

you broke me down and ground me out through the course of time;

once you knew I’d still love you, even when you were unkind –

once you recognized the kind by which my spirit is defined,

it then became a simple matter of the gradual pass of time,

before it explodes, and you lose your damned mind.

If you could bleed the blood I’ve bled,

at the hands of your very own beloved,

if your days were so bad, that you wished you were dead –

if you spent your every night being pinned beneath dread,

and your days cleaning wounds all over your swimming head,

I can guarantee that you would have killed me, instead.

When your painful marks cover all of my visible parts,

and you still can’t fight the despicable urge to tear the rest apart;

when the light shines onto what you’ve done to me in the dark –

when you recognize my terror, so you’re sure to make it smart,

and you have brutality down to a medieval dungeon art,

it’s no wonder my blood runs so miserably slow and dark.

Just a One-Page-Entry.

We…
you and me…
it turned out –
not quite so,
meant to be.

Feet…
carry me…
right on by –
the desire,
for familiarity.

Me…
I’m angry…
at the truth –
and the lies,
so eye-opening.

See…
the humanity…
finally drain –
of these veins,
I stand empty.

Be…
my history…
more vague –
with each day,
a memory.

Black Days.

If you knew how it feels when you cut in,

with a blade to the core of my heart, within;

if you felt what I feel when the torture begins –

if you really loved this loveable person

under this bloody and broken skin…

I don’t think you’d be able to hurt me again.

When you say you’ve changed your evil ways,

when you promise me that I can believe what you say;

and my face is smeared and bleeding the very next day –

when you refuse to let me get away

            from the constant hurt and pain…

How can you even spit the words “I love you”, at me, anyway?

Once you broke my body, my mind fell next in line,

you battered it into something no longer reminiscent of mine;

once you knew that I’d still love you, even when you were unkind –

once you saw the ways by which my spirit is defined

            only a matter of mattered time…

before the Universe levels out, and the planets re-aligned.

If you could bleed the blood I’ve bled’

at the hands of your very own, singularly beloved;

if your heart stabbed so bad, that you wished you were dead –

if you spent every moment of your nights underneath dread

and your days cleaning up the wounds on your head…

I’m sure you would have already killed me, instead.

When your marks cover all of my visible parts,

yet, you can’t fight your despicable urges to tear me apart;

when the light shines onto what you’ve done again in the dark –

when you recognize the terror, so you’re sure to make it smart

            and you capitalize on my body, down to a medieval dungeon art…

it’s no wonder then, that my blood runs so burgundy from your heart.

This is a poem that recently found scribbled by hand into an old notebook I used to keep during my marriage/captivity. This is something that I wrote right around the very first time that I tried to leave my The Ripper, when I was eighteen years old and six months pregnant with Boo.

The important thing I would like anyone who reads this to keep in mind is…

I WENT BACK.