One Day...

​One day…

One day is the lie I’ve been telling myself since the beginning of time. One day is my lifeline, life preserver, the beginning and end of my inner dialogue, and will probably be the last two words on my last will or my tombstone.

One. Day.

One day I’ll escape this house, my younger self will away the day, daydreaming for hours, and no one will ever hurt me again. 

That one day never came because the hurt is within’, forever following, attached like a cancer.

It stops you from having an ordinary life because you’re bound to make patterns. Your one days don’t matter in its scheme, only sucking dry your hopes and dreams. 

One day I will move, and my parents will be happy; I’d pray every night we can be a typical family then.

That one day never came because unchecked mental health swooped in like a predator and claimed each soul that entered those doors. Normal was a social construct you weren't meant to taste. It was there to tease but, my dear, never to please. 

One day I’ll fall in love, and I’ll be finally happy; I’d wish on every star as I stared up at the sky, tears in my eyes.

“I wish… for happiness.” I’d whisper. I still prayed, but they were left unheard, unread, words spoken and never read. The abuse was worse. The yelling lasted longer and came on more frequently and so much harder. Dear God, I’d plead, where did you go? 

But no one would answer, and no phone calls were returned. It’s like these issues were expected because no one would look twice, no ears to our door, or a glance at my face.

One day, I’ll be normal; I’d look in the mirror around my red-rimmed eyes and tear-tracked cheeks. It will be okay; you will see, it’s character building, that’s right, that’s precisely what it will be. Until our character is guarded and our words forever misconstrued, when we hid inside of our head and clung alone to basic human curiosity.

One day, I sit in my car, thumbs plucking up tears as they fall, you’ll see. We will stop running, I whisper in the night. We won’t have to run because one day, we will be healed enough not to have to worry about being misunderstood. You’ll see, I promise.

We will be okay one day.

One day…

One day we will be okay.

Fragility -poem-

​I am, in the infinite world of every possibility, completely broken. Like an egg that fell to the floor or a window after a baseball.

I’ve been shattered, accidentally or on purpose, but broken nonetheless by people I let inside. 

It started when I was young and continued until I was a vase pieced back together over time. This stained glass effect on my soul shows light through the cracks where darkness still hides. 

I grasp at each crack, hoping for a shard of light to penetrate. My fingers itch for warmth, the tiniest bit will do.

Until the warmth touches my sallow skin, do I shrink away.

How can I want something so bad, but fall away from its touch? 

It’s like I want until I can’t fathom, then once in reach, I get scared and push back into my cool shadow.

Safety in darkness, but in want of the light.

It teases the wisps of the dark at my edges, but the light never intrudes.

It’s like I crave the softness, but curl up instead of the crude. 

In comfort I find in jagged corners where monsters are want to hide.

Because if I cross the dark and into the light, I fear I’ll see where other demons hide. 

Better Days -poem-

I think it’s the way you used to hold me,

Versus how you do now,

That grants me a more significant pause,

It’s like you cannot remember how to be gentle,

When you reach for me,

Because,

Your fingertips bruise, and my lips turn down,

Instead of lighting a fire, you stoke stone-cold embers,

There’s a phantom of you and me,

Lingering passionately in the in-between, 

As we roll to our respective sides,

Both of us living in dreams of finer times.

Enough -poem-

Can we go back?

To when things were easy?

When the only bad things, we're monsters under our beds,

Because now, I try to hide from the monsters in my head,

Because the battles I face are battles I can’t win,

They say I’m not pretty and not good enough,

If I gain weight, I’m too big, or if I lose weight, I’m too thin,

My hair is too short or never long enough, 

I’m too quiet or too loud,

No matter what I do, it will never be enough,

Will there come a day,

When I’ll be enough?

Because as I live and breathe, I fear I’ll, 

Never be good enough, 

Can I go back, 

From the days I spent dreaming of adventures,

Not the nightmares instead,

Because when things were slower, I had this grand scheme of being someone,

Of being something,

Now all I want is for someone to see me,

That when they really look, they see the real me, 

They say I should be outspoken, then try to quiet me,

I'm told to be a good girl, then told to be a more wild, 

When I say I don’t want children, they tell me to have a child, 

No matter what I do, it will never be enough,

Will there come a day,

When I’ll be enough?

Because as I live and breathe, I fear I’ll, 

Never be good enough, 

When can I stop this grand charade?

This song and dance of pleasing others instead of myself,

I want to break the mold and be free of the chains that hold me back in fear of change,

Will there come a day when the voices will drop, and I’ll ignore the suggestions,

Of how to act or behave when they wait for my reaction,

I want them to breathe, to see, to witness my extraction,

From the person they think I should be,

To the girl, I know is enough, 

Because where I sit now, I’m this beautiful wild thing, With short hair and dreams as vast as the sea, 

I’m outspoken and dance in the rain,

Regardless of looking insane,

I do the things people told me not to do because life’s too short to be afraid,

Of the boundaries people set for me, 

No matter what I do, it will always be enough,

And there will come a day,

When I know I am enough,

Because as I live and breathe, I’ll never fear it again,

I’ll always  be good enough, 

Because I’m good enough for me. 

The Cost of Silence - Short Story

I used to think I knew what I wanted, where I wanted to go, and that everything would fall into place once I got to where my soul yearned. I knew it to my core to be law. 

Through the yelling, the shrieking screams no one ever heard, and the mental abuse scars ripped open weekly, I counted the days until I could leave. If I had stayed any longer without a plan, I might not go there alive. I would plot my escape, like climbing a Greyhound bus with just a suitcase and leaving everything else behind. 

Where do you find sanctuary in the positive when your only definers have been damaging? Between the pages of lands unknown, in the journals, you clung to and hid away, in another God because the one you prayed to wasn't saving you? You learn the only one protecting you from the torment will be yourself; it will also be your hopes and dreams and your will to survive. 

But as a child of domestic violence, where do you go for help when you live in secrets, lies, and harrowing negativity.

You learn to smile at school because the last time you cried in public, you were ignored and told your parents to fight. The last time you voiced what was wrong, it was a misunderstanding.

But was it a misunderstanding when your free time is spent sitting in your bedroom waiting for the verbal storm to pass? You sit in hypervigilance, having walked on eggshells all night because she was rearing for a fight? For hours you hide away, reading, but the words quit making sense when the voices got louder, her shrieking higher, the cries of your siblings spurring you forward. A soldier on the front line, I would move, armed with my shaking voice and made-up script. You learn to cry later when you lay down in bed when you get to lock your door and hide away for a couple of hours before you get on the bus again. When you sit alone and read for the first time that day until the words make sense again. Then force a smile when you get off the bus and pretend you're not falling apart inside because each confrontation takes a little more out of you.

I move through a haze because my brain has gone into battle mode; I had been sitting there listening for keywords, so I know the fight is over something stupid again. Something childish even for a fifteen-year-old to gage. I move past where the dog should be, but even he's hiding. The kids are stacked like a totem pole when I round the kitchen island. I waved my hand for them to go away because getting in the middle of this never worked.

They were loved.

I was the mouthy little bitch that didn't belong, the perfect target for tonight's rager.

As the pocket door closes, I take a deep breath and face the moment I show up several times a week when their tempers burn too brightly. Tonight was a good night compared to others; they hadn't broken anything yet.

"Can you just fucking stop?" I yell, tactic one being initiated. I throw in my glove, armed with tonight's script. Always be louder.

 They turned their angry distorted faces toward me, Asking me who I thought I was to speak to them that way. I know I'm nothing, but when you've been battered and bruised, what more can they do to me that they haven't done before?

We've been here before; their anger is now trained on me. Good, we can dish this out in ten minutes.

"You're scaring the kids, acting like a bunch of assholes." Tactic two, if you say you're scaring the kids, this may stop them. Plus, throwing in a curse word or two is bound to get insults thrown at me, but that's Okay. It's not my first rodeo. I'm not part of the kids, so I don't count; I've never counted.

Always an outsider, the Blacksheep, the interloper in family drama. The emotional sponge that exists as the make-shift punching bag for parents who should have never gotten married.

She would swing around, eyes wild, teeth-baring like a trapped animal caught in the wild. She had been drinking, and so had dad. They were horrible drunks. 

This was the part mom would throw insults at me, dad in the background taunting, things I filed away for later because right now, the goal was to get them to storm off.

My throat is tight as I tell them I'll call the police. 

We all know no one will call because no one ever does. The parents know I won't do it because I had been groomed to keep what happens in the house quiet. Because I was a stupid kid, I didn't know anything, right?

My father's eyes are crazy now as he puffs his chest up, and mom is yelling at me, cursing me. I've often been told how my dad was happy I wasn't his kid because I was just like her, always causing problems. Then mother would add that I was just like my piece of shit, abusive father. That I wasn't any good, I'd always be the mistake she made.

I knew they were just angry because deep down they loved me, but as they teamed up to berate me, I couldn't help the tears that gathered in my eyes as my voice began to shake.

"Can you at least take it to your room?" She senses the weakness and jumps.

"This. Is. My. Fucking. House." Her voice rose with each word as she stepped closer. "You don't own it; you don't own shit." She would laugh bitterly in my face, shaking her head, the smell of Virginia slims and Chardonnay on her breath. Spittle would hit my cheek because she was so close, and I would tense. She's not a drunk, she'd say. She didn't need to seek a therapist; she'd cry because she wasn't the crazy one like me. She was always right; everyone else was wrong.

Dad would laugh bitterly behind her, egging her on, taunting me, making my adrenaline race, and causing my vision to slant as it did when the end was nearing. These people no longer blurred into the picture of what I thought parents should be.

It had never been them.

"You're a joke." His voice would boom after the laughter ended abruptly. He would get in my face; it was pungent like moms was, but with Wild Turkey and pot that he tried to hide with dollar store cherry; the smell would make me sick. 

At each end, I would feel numb, spent, and poked full of holes with no wind left in my sails. I would melt my posture, check on the siblings with hugs and kisses, swipe at tears as I wash my face, wondering about things I never should. I was emotionally spent when one stomped off to the bedroom, and another slammed out the backdoor rattling the windows.

I'd pray to a God that never helped me, but talking to someone, even to myself and this invisible deity, was better than nothing because no one would believe a liar like me. I'd lay there for hours, door locked, laying in bed and thinking about everything I did wrong because I never did anything right. There was no right way to fight with them because the battlefield constantly changed.

I must be more vigilant next time. Yes, I must listen more before I jump in. But then…

What they said about me settles in as the pillow soaks up the tears I didn't think could possibly be there after already crying so much.

You're a stupid girl; smart girls stay in their rooms and let adults yell at each other and break things and themselves. You are unloved because you cause problems and are a shit-stirrer, which is not a good trait in women. You don't know anything about the real world because your head is so far up in fantasies ass that you are blinded to reality. 

It's your fault they fight.

You're not loved or wanted.

You will never be anything.

Even if you killed yourself, would they actually care?

And as the salty tracks dry, the house remains quiet thanks to another soul-shattering. My adrenalin has finally settled, and sleep is becoming a reality. I ask for happy dreams instead of the nightmares that would greet me, but as I fall asleep, something profound inside of me asks me if this all is worth the cost.

And when I sleepily wonder what it meant by cost, it whispers back.

The cost of silence.

Everything Is Meant To Be Broken -poem

​

Everything is made to be broken, 

So when I fall apart and grasp at the shards,

I find it more difficult to piece myself back together,

When the glue that once held me,

Is the same I'm forcing apart,

No longer am I okay with the subpar,

Being held together by grief and bitterness, 

I want more than my harrowing experiences,

To be what keeps me joined. 

Don’t Quit Your Daydream - poem

​

You get scared easily,

I know you do,

We inhabit the same sad body, 

We're stuck in a rut but we will get out again,

This bad part is only temporary,

I know you've heard that hand-over-fist,

But maybe this time will be different?

Take Me Apart -poem

​

I'm disappearing again,

This time it's worse,

The waves come faster this time,

Like a storm not ready to be spent,

I cling to any solid form I can find,

But there isn't much substance left behind to grasp,

Everything collapsed until I'm left grasping at decay,

But as the waves rush through me with impatience,

I can't help but want them to take me,

To drag me in, 

To drag me down. 

Guillotine- poem

​Oh, whoops, I’ve lost my head again,

This isn’t the first, nor is it the last,

It’s like we don’t learn from all the times we fell before,

It’s a never-ending loop of mistakes made while depressed,

Always a step back but never one forward that lasts, 

I thought this would be it,

The time we won, 

But low and behold, this wasn’t the time either,

Each time we fall to our knees, I feel the bruises more and more, 

It’s like all the healing I thought I did was just a scab that formed, and once it was picked,

Well,

The wound opened again,

I’ve lost my head once again, and it sucks,

Maybe we’ll climb out once again and make it last a little longer this time, 

Maybe we will stay here in the nether just a bit longer and wallow,

Possibly lose ourselves to the dark side for a while until the light beckons us in,

Or just stay,

At least here, we’re used to the negatives inside and out, 

The void is dark, but we never liked too much of the light, anyways,

The dark is my muse, I would say,

So maybe she will keep me company this time,

To help us navigate through the twists of darkness, 

Through the dark of night,

Maybe in the darkness, I’ll finally find my light, and while doing that, perhaps I’ll be made whole,

But for now,

Dear sweet soul,

Wallow in the dark until you’re made whole.