Poem about survivors of Domestic Violence (I am one). Inspired by my life and friends’ lives. If you can, give this a read. Tell me what you think. Tell me what you feel.
Funny that I’m writing so many things about my childhood now that it’s birthday season and Seasonal Affective Disorder time. /-:
Why We Wish We Were Fake- Survivors of Domestic Violence, a poem by Drem
July 1, 2016
I miss being controlled.
Depression can do crazy things.
And make you desperate to feel anything,
anything at all.
I’m a twenty something
now on the wrong side of her twenties.
And I don’t love.
I’ve forgotten how, not that I care to remember.
I’m a shell
other than the scent of sadness,
which I know so sounds cliched, but it’s true…
And bad memories fill me, too.
Memories from a hotel room,
and memories from hearing glass break
locked in the bathroom.
“You’re safe in here,” she said.
“Call 911 if you hear me scream for help,” she said.
“And you don’t do what he’s doing. That’s not the way to act,” she said.
Well that wasn’t the way to live.
Locked in a bathroom.
A little girl.
Locked herself in her bedroom.
Locked herself in
because she can’t hear the world.
And her mind rips her apart every day
from her past.
And her mind clouds her eyes every day in gray.
I’m that person.
I can’t hear the world no more.
It’s too loud.
And it’s too dangerous
because men live outside
and they aren’t nice.
And they break glass so your feet bleed.
And throw things at you when you sleep.
And put a pillow over your head
so you can’t breathe.
And rip off your clothes when they feel like it.
And I miss certain feelings I had then,
which is really sick shit.
I know that.
But the world is too loud.
And I rather be kept in a box
than have no box at all to be kept in.
It’s too chaotic
and I haven’t the skills to survive out here.
I guess that’s why so many of us
end up on SNAP and welfare.
Or end up in the care of the state.
End up in jail.
Or kill ourselves slowly
with due thanks
to opiates and narcotics
and alcohol and cigarettes
and video games.
Anything is better than here-
an uncontrolled spinning sideways
We need to escape the real world
because that world never been kind to us.
And we don’t want to be real.
We want to be fake.
That this was all a beta test.
It wasn’t real life.
That these things didn’t happen to us.
No cigarette burns, foster care or forced anal sex.
Be told by God,
“Tomorrow is actually the first day of your life and that life is going to be wonderful. Your life’s going to be wonderful”
(C) 2016 Drem