ChildhoodTrauma

I had grown weary, Of trying to be worthy, I had to be my own friend, I had to betray myself less; In the name

Hushed tones, subtle and dreadful, His gaze never leaves my frame, No bruises in sight, skin smooth as glass, Yet deep inside, wounds flourish and

Like a baby torn from its mother’s succulent breast, Like a joey ripped from the warmth of its pouch, I am knifed from the pleasure

He left a void, one never to be filled, His memories leave my heart heavy, I cannot sleep, without dreaming, Of his moments last. I

Raging flames, Wails and cries of anguish, The smell of burnt skin, Roaring of flames, Chaos, panic, and fear.  All these played vividly in her

Crying in rooms so bare, Inscribed in me since childhood that life was never fair, Instructed to hustle, earn, win, Never taught to love within.

At the gaze of the ceiling above, I find peace, quiet, and comfort, Not because I am lost in despair, But life has offered its

Whipped Flashes They prefer calling it discipline. A necessary guiding hand, But it was a whip I could not withstand. For every mischief, for every

A vile critter, Was the man I called father. The drunkard, The drug abuser, Not a day was he sober. He laid hands on mother,

I have never known such loneliness. This is too much to bear. I am inclined to let this pass, As I have before, But it’s