Broken Be Our Bread.

I’m standing in,
the fading rays,
of your shine,
and, as it fades,
away from me,
into a shade,
of washed out gray,
muted memories,
of brighter days,
a better time,
I can’t rewind,
stuck on auto-play,
the things we said,
promises made,
yours and mine,
fear and dread,

push back instead,
relations forbade,
teardrops cried,
both misty-eyed,
fast-forward to today,
it’s enough, instead,
buck the brick blockade,
as hard as I can bang
with my own head,
cracked opening,
brightest of red,
the blood we bled,
so many times,
yours and mine,
broken be our bread.

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.

Paradoxy.

The biggest dilemma surrounding me,
is that which defines my own failed dealings,
throughout my life, it’s become a disease,
to be broken, in comparison to everybody;
and in turn, this difference that stands between,
always burns to ashes, any chances I might see,
wholesome and unbroken folks want no part of me,
rendering it impossible to know such human beings;
many times I’ve tried to put myself into a “normal” scene,
only to effectively emphasize such vast contrast in between,
I’m tired of sharing “friendships” with liars, cheats and feigns,
but I don’t want to mix my bullshit with the next guy’s purity;
it’s a problem I’ve lived with throughout my entire memory,
to hate to love the people who fear abandonment, same as me,
but, to also despise the feeling of trying to fit into “normalcy”,
it’s the paradox of searching for a place to simply “be”.

Picture This.

beat-upSit for a few and let me outline a plan –
In a language that we can each understand;
Listen as I frankly describe –
What it’s like to be terrorized.
No matter a female, or a male –
The story’s the same and we all tell the tale;
A plan that belongs to an unnaturally cruel mind –
The gradual death grip that tightens with time.
Childhood fist fights lost, think back now –
That feeling of wanting a new identity, somehow;
The dip in the ego, embarrassment, shame –
Just shift this in its context to a given domestic domain.
The surprise and shock will absorb the first few hits –
The shame hides behind her down-turned, swollen lips;
Next to go: so quickly though, will be always, her pride –
Disbelief is that shimmering from either blackened eye.
The plan continues to play itself out –
The talk on the street everyone knows all about;
The terror becomes a part of her life –
Until she isn’t sure she sees anything right.
A tactical, practical fuck of the mind –
So perfectly tuned to the room in which she’s confined.
There’s nowhere to go, nowhere to hide –
It’s a matter of when the terrorist chooses to terrorize.
He’s so good at degrading the body and soul –
To cope, she must fly her mind out the window;
He’s so disturbingly satisfied with her misery –
That he makes certain it will remain HIS, exclusively.
The days begin to string together like beads –
Escape drifts further from a perceived reality.
The ache goes much deeper than wounds in the flesh –

he drops her and breaks her  – makes her beg him for death;
the cuts, scars, and impact marks, broken jaw and collar bones –
gradual desecration of the heart barking orders at the drones.
this plan was constructed by my husband: a psychopath –
a monster who hated me beneath a charming mask.
this very same plan is revived everyday –
set in motion to unfold in exactly such ways;
although the faces change on those in the show –
where the battered buck stops, we never do know.
those school-yard fights with bloody faces and egos –
break you so much harder when they happen in your home.

Paradoxy.

The biggest dilemma surrounding me
is that which defines my own failed dealings
throughout my life, it’s become a disease
to be broken, in comparison to anybody
and in turn, this difference that stands between
always burns to ashes, any chances I might see
wholesome and unbroken folks want no part of me
rendering it impossible to know such human beings
many times I’ve tried to put myself into a “normal” scene
only to effectively emphasize such vast contrast in between
I’m tired of sharing “friendships” with liars, cheats and feigns
but I don’t want to mix my bullshit with the next guy’s purity
it’s a problem I’ve lived with throughout my entire memory
to hate to love the people who fear abandonment, same as me
but, to also despise the feeling of trying to fit into “normalcy”
it’s the paradox of searching for a place to simply “be”.

In Your Headlight Beams.

It occurs to me –
that, quite possibly –
there’s a solid reason behind,
these repeated failures of mine,
when I once again can’t find what I seek;
Perhaps it is simply that he –
isn’t out there after all, for me –
it’s gone well beyond the time,
to accept with heart and mind,
that I stand in that lonely line of reality;
Maybe I have finally seen that such things –
are blessings bestowed upon other human beings –
and now I feel like the same old fool again,
in the skin of a bitter and aging woman,
the wide-eyed doe in your headlight beams.

Chow Mein.

It isn’t so bad,
when I think on it;
the way that my brain,
becomes like chowmein,
after taking so much of it,
the dumbass bullshit…
it doesn’t surprise me,
maybe not even slightly;
how much it might take,
before I finally break,
cut my nose from my face,
just to spite me…

Broken Be Our Bread.

I’m standing in,
the fading rays,
of your shine,
and, as it fades,
away from me,
into a shade,
dulled out gray,
muted memories,
of brighter days,
a better time,
I can’t rewind,
stuck on auto-play,
the things we said,
promises made,
yours and mine,
fear and dread,

push back instead,
relations forbade,
teardrops cried,
both misty-eyed,
fast-forward to today,
it’s enough, instead,
buck the brick blockade,
as hard as I can bang
with my own head,
cracked opening,
brightest of red,
the blood we bled,
so many times,
yours and mine,
broken be our bread.

A Different Line.

Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.” – William Shakespeare

While you can be fine

there are still words left

unsaid, of mine…

I can keep going

into a different sunset,

down a different line…

And I can be good

with so many nickels

made of wood…

I can just disappear

and let you be

like I probably should…

So you can be free

away from the fear

that’s made a hostage of me…

and I can believe

that you’re coming back

to find me, eventually…

Then, you can be strong

the way you’ve always

remained, all along…

while I can continue

to drunkenly scream

the same ol’ love song…

As you start to know

that I’m ever come –

and never go…

and I fail to realize

that my key no longer

fits in the door.

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.

Angel of Nothing at All.

Angels of Nothing.

Angels of Nothing.

Picture This.

Sit for a few and let me outline a plan –
In a language that we can each understand;
Listen as I frankly describe –
What it’s like to be terrorized.
No matter a female, or a male –
The story’s the same and we all tell the tale;
A plan that belongs to an unnaturally cruel mind –
The gradual death grip that tightens with time.
Childhood fist fights lost, think back now –
That feeling of wanting a new identity, somehow;
The dip in the ego, embarrassment, shame –
Just shift this in its context to a given domestic domain.
The surprise and shock will absorb the first few hits –
The shame hides behind her down-turned, swollen lips;
Next to go: so quickly though, will be always, her pride –
Disbelief is that shimmering from either blackened eye.
The plan continues to play itself out –
The talk on the street everyone knows all about;
The terror becomes a part of her life –
Until she isn’t sure she sees anything right.
A tactical, practical fuck of the mind –
So perfectly tuned to room in which she’s confined.
There’s nowhere to go, nowhere to hide –
It’s a matter of when the terrorist comes to terrorize.
He’s so good at degrading the body and soul –
To cope, she must fly her mind out the window;
He’s so disturbingly satisfied with her misery –
That he makes certain it will remain HIS, exclusively.
The days begin to string together like beads –
Escape drifts further from a perceived reality.
The aches goes so much deeper than the wounds in the flesh –

He drops her and breaks her  – makes her beg him for death;
Not from the cuts, scars, and skin grafts – broken jaws and collarbones –
But from the desecration of the heart that barks orders at the drones.
The plan was constructed by my husband: a psychopath –
Someone who always hated me beneath his handsome mask.
The plan is created, anew, everyday –
Set in motion to unfold exactly this way;
The faces change on those in the show –
And where the wheel stops, we never do know.
Those yard school fights with bloody faces and egos –
stay with you so much longer when they happen in your home.

Bashful and Insecure.

Um Bashful...

Insecure.

Let Me.

Let me write of the way that my very genetics seem to yearn,
Blood pumping so quickly, so fiercely; my skin begins to burn.
Tingles of sweat drops on hot spots – oceans, the tides turn;
Now it’s my turn on top, and I won’t stop until you learn.

Let me illustrate a circumstance, in which your eyes are locked to mine,
Let me orchestrate the Rain Dance that stops the pace of time.
Swirled inside of ecstasy, next to me – everything is fine;
Everything else is frozen besides the warmth on my insides.

Let me warn you of the influence that my surrender tends to hold,
My face is shy, my body is small; but this spirit is fierce and bold.
For it’s been said that if I get in your head, your legs will surely fold;
And for a tongue that’s made of silver, so goes a heart of solid gold.

Let me remind of a time that was just yours and mine,
The snow fell lightly through beams of warm sunshine.
I lay wrapped tightly around your chisels like a serpentine;
While your lips insistently sipped on that nasty Moonshine.

Let me try to forget of the sounds of my heart’s tattering ,
Never you – never me, never was or will be.
Just sit in the warmth of a thought, sitting so far from me;
Come closer now, I don’t care how…I need this fire put out in me.

Nope.

Nope, still too shy.

Nope, still too shy.

Reversed Rejection.

It was as soon as I walked through the threshold of my front door to the front porch that I heard the cries of a child – the screams that a child makes out of true panic – the scream that comes after the initial fall or impact of an injury – the scream that tells ANY mother within a three block radius that a child has been hurt.
My ‘mother bear’ instinct kicked in right away, of course; and I was instantly down my driveway and into the middle of street, trying to visualize the source of the crying, to no avail. I once again (and this is always something that tickles the shit out of me) located the source using ONLY my “good ear” to guide me. The child was across the street, up over the other side of a footbridge that begins adjacent to my house. As I huffed and puffed (I’m a smoker) my way over the bridge and down the stairway on the other side, a little boy came rushing at me with a look of sheer terror on his face – I recognized him immediately as one of the two young boys belonging to the man down the street (who totally hits on me constantly, not disrespectfully so, but it’s awkward, and I become the PTSD poster-child whenever he talks to me – yet he keeps trying!).
“Are you going to go get your Dad?” I hissed at him, not even bothering to wait for his answer as I sprinted quickly by his little form.
“Yes…” I heard him reply as he rounded the upper-corner of the stairway to cross the bridge, and disappeared into the fog. I was nearly upon the younger boy, who sat, wailing in panicked breaths, almost “Indian-Style” at the bottom of the final step of the steep, concrete stairway – with his Roller Blades still on.
“Oh Jesus…” I muttered under my breath, upon noting that last detail. Soft bones or not, it can’t be very comfortable on your ankles to sit that way with Roller Blades
“You’re okay, Buddy! You’re okay!” I realized I was already saying this from a few feet away from him. He looked up at me as I reached his tiny frame in the mud with a look full of gratitude and fear and relief and shock all at once: brightly lit blue eyes like darts into my heart. His little, shivering arms both shot upwards and outwards for me, his mouth hanging open, trailing snot and spit from his bloodied lips, still covered in a layer of loose gravel.
“You’re gonna be okay, shhhh…come here…what’s your name, again?”
I scoop him up off the ground, as I had already visually found no serious injuries outside of a bruised ego and a busted mouth.
“Alan.” He says, muffled by his own little forearm as he wipes his face with his sleeve, leaving a crimson-smeared work of booger art across the entirety of it.
“What happened, Alan – did you jump those stairs in your Roller Blades?” I ask him, obviously being silly. We’re talking 50+ steps.
“No…my brover pushed me…” He begins to cry harder again and digs his dirty, bloody face into my armpit out of shame and embarrassment.
“He did!?”
“Yes!” His voice is so full of betrayal as he answers me, his little body wracking by the sobs he can’t help but let out. My heart was so hurt by that teeny part of the entire episode, though. He digs his small fingers into my neck and shoulder as I ease my way up with him on my hip.
“Let’s just sit up and check out your battle wounds, okay?”
“Kay…” His slowly calming voice sounds infused with helium.
Just then, his Dad and brother came booking down the stairway towards us, I said “I think he’s okay…sorry if we alarmed you…”
I handed Alan off to his grateful father without any further incident, or so I thought. Ever since that day (about three weeks ago), Alan and his father have come to say “hello” to me on two separate occasions. Yesterday, they invited me to go out with them…it’s tough because I don’t know to tell an adorable little button-faced boy (and his Dad, more importantly) that I’m broken and a waste of their’ time and energy.

My “Misery” Doesn’t Love Anything.

A Gauge of My Levels of Combustion at Present.

Some Insight to My Levels of Near-Combustion at Present.

Misery Loves Company, No?

I sent the Orphan to the beach alone twice, no three times in a row last week…he’s not deserving of my current state of shittiness…so I have spared him out of love and respect.

Why….?”, He wondered the last time I mumbled “Rain-check” to him with my back turned – not wanting to make eye contact at that very moment for my own WHACKED-OUT ANXIETY/PTSD-esque reasons…(he never pushes); he eventually left for the blue without me again, with a locker-room throwback slug in my arm on his way out the front door; he makes me grin…

I sent him a text message about an hour later that read:

“Idk how else to express myself other than to tell you that I’m trying to spare you, Killer…I feel like I’m gonna explode…”

A statement which is very accurate in description; a lifetime spent in the open spaces – arms reaching upwards towards the Gods in the thunderstorm – demanding that the other shoe be dropped on my fucking head already…’cause I have been on edge, waiting with nervous anticipation for it since I can recall anything about my own sense of anxiety,

I am ashamed of my social and emotional shortcomings when it comes to meaningful relationships with the male persuasion;

I am afraid of most males with whom I share any context of a confined physical space with, reflexively – no matter how hard I fight the fear that swallows me;

Men wonder why I am such a “stuck up bitch” or if I am “on mute” or if  I “feel superior somehow” to them, as a result of my misunderstood, standoffish reaction to their fucking pheromones in my environment…

I wonder why I am so broken; and why I’ve been so far: unable to just STOP the anxiousness,fear,paranoia and passive-aggressive rage that has been part of the Survivor Me – The miserable parts of being a Survivor…the mind-fuck, night terror shit you can’t wish on your very worst enemy.

So..does my own Misery Love Company, after all…? I think not.

 

Misery is a Contagious Disease That I Don’t Wish To Spread.