Trauma steals your voice
In the most subtle of ways.
A whisper here, maybe there,
And a pinch of “I can\'t cope”.
Guilt surrounds, an endless
Ocean to bask in,
Drown in.
When you\'re drowning,
You don\'t usually die from the water,
But the lack of air.
I have inhaled enough of the ocean
Without having the breath:
My father\'s hitting,
My mother\'s screaming,
A slap on the cheek
And a cut on the wrist.
Maybe a lack of food
For a day or two.
The hate and hate and hate,
But I don\'t want to hate?
I can\'t help but love, but God,
I am ever so angry at them.
My childhood stolen,
My tears hidden,
And my everlasting trauma.
I couldn\'t ask for help
When I was drowning,
My voice muted and cut out
By the endless waves.
Trauma grasped my voice
And told me I imagined him,
That I was a liar, a bitch,
And a horrible daughter.
Carving ‘Bitch’ into my shoulder
Was my way of staying afloat,
A raft of sorts.
Maybe proof that it was real,
Proof that I was real,
Because my constant dissociative state
Couldn\'t handle my emotions.
My throat is raw from screaming
And my eyes are red from the heavy salt,
Even now the memories hurt;
I think I need my inhaler but
My prescription ran out.
I can feel the fluid in my lungs and
I am losing my voice, so slowly,
And no one is noticing.