the fear of men who look like my mother

my mother asks me

on a regular basis why

am i so goddamn scared

of everything

she says i make it hard for her

to take me places and

seeing me have a mental breakdown

over a stranger on the street

is the equivalent to her coming to

one of my poetry slams only for her

to walk out halfway through the performance

when she realises it's about how shitty

of a job she's doing

 

she tells me she would never

let anything happen to me

and i have to fight the urge to tell her

about the man that followed me home

from school, everyday for a year

and how i still carry the panic in my backpack

or about her brother, my uncle

and the time he slammed me up against a wall

with his hand around my neck

how he told me to stop crying  

that he liked his women silent

like my mother

or all the times her boyfriend forced me

onto the floor of the rusted old toyshed

in the backyard that she built

with her own two hands

it still couldn’t or wouldn’t protect me

and none of this is to justify or rationalise

the tears that only come when the sun goes down

and i am walking an empty street

with no one there to see them except another

abuser disguised as boy getting home too late

i empty myself till the tears go dry

i do not want him to know i am scared of him

he might take that as an opportunity

to give me something to fear

it is not easy for me to see the faces of men who have

hurt me on strangers

and i am sure you are a nice man sir, but i do not want

to stick around to find out

if i am able to end the conversation before it has started

i can walk away

without taking the drink from you

without going into the backyard to “have a conversation” with you

without being too fucked up to say no to you

and i'm sure you wouldn’t intentionally

disregard my rejection, but i do not

want to stick around to find out

 

and so, when there is enough

empty space and silence to be occupied

by a strangers breaths

please do not ask me why i want to walk the other direction

or why i can’t stop crying

or why i can’t answer your fucking questions right now

do not point to all the places it hurts

as if you are offering me a bandage

for a bullet wound you created

 

my mother tells me she didn’t raise me to be afraid

of my surroundings

i think she meant to say

she can’t admit to herself that i am just like her

she attempts to read strangers

on the street and tell me why i should not fear them

as if shining a flashlight without batteries

into the dark corners is going to light the way

maybe they are just getting their mail 

maybe they just stepped outside for a cigarette 

maybe they are walking home just like us 

maybe your abusers were just like you 

when they couldn’t silence the voices

they just listened to what they had to say

 

sometimes the voices tell me to run

say i do not have to outrun the hungry man

i just have to outrun the bones of the girls

whose hearts he is feasting on

and so i am running and running and running

and i do not recognize the street i am on anymore

but i know it well enough

to know i’ve been down it before

i know these echos, like i know the

melody turned symphony of

“just breathe”

and i know i am not conscious

but i can feel him breathing

and whispering into all the places

i have let become numb since he’s left

i can feel my bones crack under the weight

of his body and let their dust become

my mothers look of disapproval

 

some days the voices tell me

to shower five times a day

to pour boiling water over these scars

and i know they have not healed

because salt water tears still burn

even after the lines have turned white

and walking home alone at night

still burns my insides

 

and i know i cannot tell her

but i am not afraid of the assault

i am afraid of the nights that will follow

to know that i may never not be afraid again

i am afraid that even with a knife under my pillow

and a gun in my top drawer

i don’t know if i would hurt you or myself first

and i will try to ignore my fears

for your well being

but most days, i am a broken car alarm

i go off at the sound of fireworks, and drunken yelling

and gunshots, and anything that rings something like a scream

and there may not be any real danger

but i will certainly alert you of the possibility

mother, i know you do not want to see me

lose my breath when we go running after dark

i know it is not easy for you to see me fall to the floor

to collect the ruins i have let myself become

there is a reason the panic comes in attacks

when it knows i am an army of one

who’s only ever waged wars

against her own body

and you asking why i am always so scared

sounds alot like you are joining their side

 

but i promise you, i am trying

the days i leave the house

in anything other than my pajamas

i am trying

the days i eat fruit for breakfast

instead of fistfulls of sleeping pills or emptiness

i am trying

and the days i am trying my hardest are the days you do not seem to notice

the days i lose my breath, but do not run the other direction

are the days i am fighting back

it is not easy to see color in a world that has never been anything

other than darkness

it is not easy to tell myself the grass is greener on the other side

when nobody has been around to turn the water on for years

it is not easy to keep the safety on the gun

or to keep myself from pulling the trigger

but i promise you, i am trying