Recycled Abuse


When I was a young child

I was abused. 

I won't say which way, 

how or even why I think it happened to me, 

but it did. 


My mother would tell me how 

beautiful she was and how

men looked at her like she was

a goddess and how

they fell at her feet 

and how

I ruined that for her. 


She would laugh along with me

like best friends do, 

but turn around and

expect me to fix her broken bits

with my little girl fists, 

unsure of even if I was meant to be 




I was the daughter, 

the help, 

the psychiatrist, 

the best friend, 

the cook, 

the mom, 

the laundromat, 

the adult, 

all at age 8. 


At 10, 

my little sister was born. 

My little sister is now my 

mother's cavas on which 

to paint her problems

as if my sister

isn't predisposed

to enough bullshit already. 


At 18, 


I live with my best friend

in the whole wide world. 


there IS NOT 

another her

in all of creation. 

In all of this universe. 

When I was 14, 

when I had my old best friend,

there would never be another Harley. 

And there hasn't been. 

But Rachel? 

Rachel is twenty-fold Harley. 


But you see,

Rachel did not come from 

proper American dreams

laced with good company and 

supportive, loving parents. 

She came from a broken home

like a sheet of ice

cracked by pressure

melted by the heat

and she sat on a floating splinter



And she would sometimes get angry, 

why me, 

why not someone else, 

why did no one help me, 

why, why, why whY, wHY, WHY ME!? 

And she would fall under her own sea 

of anger

and darkness

thinking it was just her. 

But the thing about the sea is that

you're squeezing your eyes shut

so watery darkness doesn't

seep into your eyes, 

tainting your vision and 

soaking your soul with cynicism. 

She didn't see

that she had me. 


Now we're not drifting. 

We made land. 

But see... 

there was her other. 

Her boy. 

Her capricorn, 


everything-for-her boy. 


His problems, 

albeit, not as large,

were still his demons. 

Society put standards 

on him for his masculinity

and his honor

and reputation

so that he never felt like

he could truly learn who he was

because society had already mapped out

who he should be... 

not who he could  be. 


And when they twist 

in heated love, 

bodies fitting just so, 

lips locking sweetly, 

I can see both of their hearts 

healed with their own passions... 

but it's not always just so... 


Their minds do not speak with their hearts. 

Their passionate love does not coincide with their

moral obligations, 

their safety concerns, 

their standards and societal impacts... 

and so they fight. 


They fight like my mother fought with me 

like static on the TV screen,

noise drowning out everything

because neither could see

the true simplicity

of everything

and so they turned to me. 


I do not like being fought between, 

not over. 

One comes to me and is fuming mad,

the other asks what he's done wrong. 

One is already made up in her mind, 

the other only takes his suffering prolonged. 

And all I can do

is help them as 

much as I can... 

but as much as I love to,

want to, 

have to help... 

I don't want to be in 

yet another house of 

recycled abuse. 


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