existence crafted out of abuse

something so beautiful, so raw, so elegant

reassurance by those who only just met you that you are lovely

but they don’t know what you did last night

and those who are so convinced they know you well

don’t know that dad won’t pay your medical bills

and that you struggle to see welfare cover your pain

"get therapy" they cry when things get rough over rails

but I bet they don’t know

that under their sheltered existence of abuse highlighted by media

not all therapists are there for the benefit of the patient

and that those we can afford are there for the money

sucking the life out of you with each sick smile 

and I bet that they don’t know

how corrupt the school system really is

and how their greed smiles at you when you are depressed

they want you evaluated and diagnosed and its not good enough

to be a medical nightmare.

seen as a difficulty making their job harder, victim of the heartless core

of bureaucratic dimwits expressing cold-hearted jokes

in paperwork claiming the fault operates on my weakness

did you ever fear your dad killing you? 

have you felt that rush of blood 

as you call up a friend and write a will, crying in fear

an unimaginable darkness in an old country house

hardwood floors and walls and rugs that possessed my feet with glue

and i would look out at 2 a.m. afraid to sleep

and see that street light outside shining to mix with the moon

fearing the box fan, fearing that door creak, hiding in the bathroom 

fearing the box fan as the door opens for the cat

that only wakes you from a nervous breakdown?

i could never save that scared little girl,

crying silently as to murmur the background of wild horses

waking up with the fear of the mood of a psychopath

and you knew it in the tone of his voice

in the stagger of his bulky, abrupt movements

the swoop of the predator screaming at you for

being sick and sad, being anything other than happy

to fit the definition of his perfect material world

and no one saved that scared little girl

who screeched to her mother to never let her go back

please mom he scares me I’m afraid to die he has guns

but i have to let you go, he will withhold child support

and she has a cigarette lit in her bathroom in pleasure

watching her children retch in pain.

the little one girl saved her brothers from the abuse, masking their mistakes in her own responsibility

because she couldn’t stand to see anyone else torn down by 

the man whom crafted a hell no one could relate to

we would go in public

and in the walmart in the country i would wonder

who would see us in these sweatpants and sad eyes

who would I go to when I was scared?

If i said something to the greeter would she have called the cops and

could i have saved my trauma

would anyone ever love me enough to stop him

No one did.

his abuse continues through his manipulation of my mother

of our finances

of our security

of our sanity.

And no one can stop him.

He bought his way into the law, the lawyers, and painted

a black hole of foster homes if we fought again

and its so heart-wrenching

because my friends see me push and argue and die

under a mask of elaborate literary complication

and they never know that every day

i wake up that scared little girl

wondering who will love her enough to see her worthy of being saved.