there’s this thing i have
a way to cope with the
anxiety that even though i am
almost done with therapy
for as long as i like
is still a constant thing
you see, i count
by even numbers
maybe because ending
on an odd number
makes my breath puff
out before leaving my lungs
and my head starts to spin
i count evenly
on each inhale and exhale
the number of scars on my arm
the years i spent putting those scars there
the times my mother told me she never wanted kids
and how long it took me to get over that
before she went and said it again
and i count the times that
my mother has said sorry
though that takes less than all
five fingers on one hand
because the things that she has
not apologized for
still keep me up at night
like sending me to school
with fresh bruises in the shape
of her fingers wrapping around my upper arms
like chasing me up to my room and cornering me
and shaking me with spit landing on my face
from how much and how loud she was screaming
like trapping me up against the corner
and pressing her breasts up against my back
and grinding up against me
until i said “enough”
and she replied in swears and blaming me
like her basically sexually assaulting me was
somehow my fault
and when i told the counselor
at my school what had happened
after my friends agreed i should go
that led to my telling a cop through
sobs and so many tears what my mother
had done how she had used me
i counted the number of pills i had taken
two years prior
in an attempt to take my own life
and felt a feeling like i should have known
that forty wasn’t going to be enough
-
Author:
Boaz Priestly (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: August 12th, 2017 23:37
- Comment from author about the poem: Just to clarify, I no longer live with my mother. But not because she sexually assaulted me; because she kicked me out twice. She also doesn't remember the assault, because she was intoxicated off a mixture of alcohol and weed at the time. I've actually kind of forgiven her for it, I guess. I mean, it's something that I'm never going to forget, but I have moved passed it. I am also never going to tell her what she did, because she literally denies the eleven years of abuse she inflicted upon me. Anyway, I am safe and okay and have a way healthier relationship with my mother than I ever did when I was living with her. Kinda sucks that that's what it took for her to finally be a parent, but one parent is better than two that are abusive assholes, yanno. So, really, I am just venting here, nothing more. I'm alright. I'm okay.
- Category: Sad
- Views: 25
- User favorite of this poem: Cali Kittana.
Offline)
Comments2
Very good and very emotional writing. You do put it all out there. I am glad you wrote a comment about your poem and am happy for you that you are better and safe now.
Hey, thanks, man. I really needed to hear something like this tonight.
Well, it's ironic maybe, that 40 is an EVEN number, if even numbers are meant to be good for you?! And yet it was good, in that you survived. A good write Q.
I get what you mean, but I'll also eat a whole bag of candy if it means getting an even number, so it's not always that great of a thing. Sorry if that doesn't make sense. It's late/early and I'm tired. But, thank you for your words.
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