counting by even numbers

queer-with-a-pen

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 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
  • Users favorite of this poem: Cali Kittana
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Comments +

Comments2

  • FredPeyer

    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.

    • queer-with-a-pen

      Hey, thanks, man. I really needed to hear something like this tonight.

    • orchidee

      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.

      • queer-with-a-pen

        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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