I’m here to tell you that
there’s always more to the story
Of the good old days
you remember like glory
Tag: grief
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more to the story
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make oceans of me
when history stops dictating how
you feel in the present and now
that’s when you’ve taken your life back.until then I’ll cry rivers into seas
about all that was taken from me.csa, flashbacks, grief, incest, life, love, mental-health, poetry, ptsd, rape, recovery, sexual assault, trauma, writing
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Like a hatchet
You tell me to bury the hatchet
when I’d rather use it to fracture
the lives of the ones who took their sharp
ills out on my body, now remarkedyet, able to see who benefits from such a plea;
silence the echoing screams
pouring out of me without fair warning.
From suffering to scorning,
not just from the scars of their weapons of choice
but from the kindhearted ways you, too, silence my voice –
my only real weapon now that I’ve grown
up old enough to choose to own
the damage that results from causing a racket.
So, no I will not put down my hatchet
because what your request really means
is to wipe my face and hands real clean,
fall in line with the “forgiving” others,
stop being unsightly and such a bother.
But I’ve tried to bleach my collar and nail beds real white
I put up the darndest of fights,
and yet I’ve learned in all my failing;
no matter what I do, you’re always complaining.
I’ll never be washed white as snow.
It’s because there’s no way to erase what I already know;
that the likes of you and the others who
so blindly continue
to cover up dark truth in white linens
are the realest of child-raping villains.The story in my bones, far more spooky
than the fire burning in me like a fury.
Despite the risk of speaking, I’m still here wielding
this hatchet; so fucking unyielding
is what I became when my parents turned into monsters –
the saving grace that my broken mind conjured
in the middle of a terror that destroys,
creates in living bodies the deepest of voids.
When just like my rapers, also invaders
were the onlookers, determined blind fakers,
insisting they don’t see
anything wrong with what was done to me.
They dare now insist and demand
I put down my weapon on their condescending command.But still my hatchet remains in my hands –
I’ll carry it all over this stolen land,
with it mark up the books, records of all that they took
from me and the many adult survivors, butt of your insults
and wary glances from the ones who wouldn’t take chances
of ruffling feathers by considering whether…
The truth is that children who ask for help
have already survived what can’t be unfelt…
Or, that children who muster enough sound
to ask why it’s normal for dads on their kids pound
or why mothers are too sick and sad
to see the ugliness inside their baby dads…
Or, that kids who simply say hey,
I get hit by three set of hands every day…
Are worth trusting enough to take a second fucking look.
You are the same, like those who misunderstood
that the truth cuts and tears
and though bleeding doesn’t always seem fair,
sometimes that’s what it takes to salvage
the good left in all the wreckage;
not just of the bodies who bled as victims,
but of the ones who, like you, the villains
who plowed and plundered, raped and broke apart
innocent bodies left alone in the dark
shadows of your turned backs.
That’s why I continue to hack
away with the coldness of my blade.
For my voice is all that was saved
when I finally grew old enough to search for ways
to do more than sit and pray for the body I had before
I became so badly beaten and torn
from the inside out, despite your dissociative doubt
that one so well put-together could have endured
the process of witnessing in silence all that is impure.
My hatchet, you so greatly fear
is my proof that I came too near
to the underbelly of human nature –
the stuff you turn sterile in lectures
and podcasts about the ones you deem
are better not kept in the dark unseen;
for you’d rather consume and binge
words about the perpetrators. So cringe
to think this is how you get off,
all while telling victims who speak up ENOUGH
all ready! with the bleach bucket
to silence those of us causing a ruckus.
With our hatchet-sharp voices, no longer silent
Echoing on about your compliance.
With my words I’ll sound the alarm
About all that continues to cause us such harm.cptsd, csa, flashbacks, grief, healing, life, love, mental-health, poetry, ptsd, rape, recovery, sexual abuse, sexual assault, trauma, victim advocacy, writing
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Delayed reaction
I think this is where I leave you
But is it really me doing the leaving
When you’re nowhere in sight?
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Could’ve been somebody
I could’ve been somebody who didn’t flinch or wince
at every sound out of place.
Living life in a dream state,
known to dissociate, disconnect, and escape
nightmarish recollections of all that I hatein me – what no one wants to me to surface;
find a prettier purpose,
quietly close the curtain
on all that was taken –
like it’s easy to move on,
sing a happier song.If my body could produce
a sound, lighter, or induce
sweet melodies from my lips,
I swear all of me I would give
to be cleaner and easy
to digest than all my queasymemories and pleas turned into rhymes.
Believe me, I try all the time
to open my mouth
and let out things that won’t make you frown,
or sob in a puddle; surprised
beauty like mine is so deprivedof days where the sun fully shines,
where what’s lost is behind –
no more echoes of my screams,
no more bleeding from the shards of my broken dreams.
But it’s because I’m so broken
you love me now like a token;
so long as I leave unspoken
how I came to be
so jumpy and distrusting.
Should’ve died from the thrusting
and thrashing against
a reality too dense
to produce anything other than
the broken beauty I command.I could’ve been somebody who doesn’t fawn or freeze
at reminders of his insatiable greed –
but I’m not and I’m dreadfully tired
of being asked to put out the fire
in my soul, burned to ashes
from all the masses
of complicit onlookers, now
telling me to calm down
every time I flinch or wince or hold my breath;
like I’m scared to death –
because I was and I am
and I’m simply doing the best I can.flashbacks, grief, IFS, life, love, mental-health, poetry, ptsd, recovery, sexual assault, trauma, writing
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A thin line
I’m waiting on a thin line
for an outcome I secretly dreamed;
perhaps this is the time
it finally happens to me?But as I sit and stare ahead
at a patterned grey-washed wall,
I remember all the times I’ve bled
from begging, pleading this lonely call.Once positive that this test
was surely different-
NO, unlike the rest-
to be, it’s finally meant…But, as the seconds drag along,
I feel it from within;
outlandish wishes don’t belong
in a body so barren-Oh look, it says not pregnant!
childless, cnbc, dating, grief, infertility, life, love, mental-health, poetry, ptsd, relationships, trauma, writing
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Like flip-flopping
You and I,
we are like mirrors.
Your pain and mine –
a comedy of errors.But neither of us are laughing,
yet- you still find joy,
like flip-flopping –
so puppy like and coy –when we knew less of
Abandonment & Suffering.
You were there thru the push, shove
and crying my way to discoveryabout life. This is what your
steady presence has taught me –
how to freely flow, pure
and unafraid to leave.You waited what felt
like a lifetime to see me finally
fully Exhale.
All my late night pleas,you’ve kept hidden in
your quiet knowing –
lick teardrops from my chin –
always ready for my going.And gone we have been.
Here and there;
I’m afraid you have seen
more than your fair shareof violence this world
hides behind
cold walls- bodies curled
up tightly. I’d rewindback to the start
when I first called you mine
despite broken heart;
you returned love in kind.For, now I know that you
knew
I’d eventually choose
you, too.But that’s not even
the point of this rhyme.
For, I know heaven
is saying it is time.I’m not ready, I have cried
and I’ll cry ’til you die
and long after
Ive laid your body to rest.Because I’m the first to admit
you’re the reason I didn’t quit
many times over the past
decade of bullshit.You’re the reason I turned
tears and deep wounds,
set down things I could no longer carry,
into space and discern-
meant between “Not Now, But Soon.”
It’s why I’ll never be ready to buryyou into the ground
even if I know that
Hope Never Really Dies.
No, I know you’ll stay alive,
including our connection that
I’m just starting to realizeis one you initiated, not I,
when you took on the task
of being my witness and friend.I’d go on for forever if
it meant I could stall
the inevitable call
I’ve left unanswered.I would leave them on read
if it meant you never had to go-
but I see how you’ve gotten too slow
for this world despite meds.So, I’ll wrap it up
just for now
because I still mean to disrupt
with a howlof insistent protest. In prayer,
make you whole and eternal,
with me everywhere
not just in a journal.Surely heaven is bound to reply
with a resounding yes!
Forever stay by my side
because without you I’ll be lessapt to brave it alone;
missing your headbutts and sighs,
farts and loud groans-
promise me you’ll never die!Still, it’s the end,
here we are.
My all-time greatest friend.
I have one last request:
be honest, but please say yes –
instead of goodbye, see you soon –
as we depart
can we vow to call this
just the start?
Parker Stillwater 