done
you were supposed to love me, your daughter.
the one with your blood in her veins.
but you don’t, do you?
because if you did, you wouldn’t have left.
and don’t give me that bullshit that it wasn’t your choice.
it was. you know it. I know it.
so don’t act like you left to me a better life.
you can’t make it all better by just coming into my life again.
you can’t. So stop trying.
you made your choice. to leave.
no matter what happened that day. it was your fucking choice.
to leave your SIX-YEAR-OLD daughter alone,
with just a mother to love her.
I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I HATE YOU.
you did what you did, knowing that you had a little girl at home just waiting for her daddy to get home so that she can matter to you again.
so that she becomes the most important thing to you again, but she never will. At SIX, she figured out that she’d always be second.
but she didn’t care, she just loved to hear her daddy say “I love you” even if it wasn’t true or real.
She just wanted a father to love her, like he’s supposed to, unconditionally.
no matter what she did, it never worked.
and she is just done trying to make it happen.
#poetry #daddy #daughter #leave #abandonment #alone #done
Exhaustion
In a typical movie scene, a girl would be sitting alone on a park bench, reading, texting on her phone, finishing her bagel. Suddenly her silence is interrupted, a man approaches her, telling her that he just couldn’t walk by without calling her beautiful. The story would continue to play out: the two would fall in love, they would fight, make up, or move a thousand miles away from each other, yet they overcome every single obstacle, ending with them both confessing how they never want to be without each other again. It’s raved by the hopeless romantics as they long for the day they have a love worth fighting for, a story worth telling to young and new lovers.
The cookie cutter boy meets girl story trope was one that I use to dream about. I would watch the romance movies, crying over the two lovers who fight against all odds to be together, craving and wanting that for myself. So, I gave my heart out to anyone who gave me any sort of attention, open to any possibility, any chance to begin my story.
It almost seems so long ago, because now I no longer even let the story begin. I’ll sit by myself, eating that same bagel, perhaps reading a different book. Then mid- sentence, my attention is attempted to be shifted towards the man trying to speak to me.
“My I just have to say, you’re so beautiful, would you love like to go out sometime,” or other variations of the phrase is what they'll say to me. I remove the headphone from one of my ears and I thank them for their compliment and decline as politely as can. At times they are understanding, embarrassed, but kindly smile as they thank me for my time. But more times than I can count, they persist, and I realize my politeness has come back to bite me, I should really know better by now. Aggressively, I repeat my answer, sending them off on their way. And under their breath before they turn around completely, I hear them say ever softly, “What a bitch.”
I pat myself on the back, telling myself that I’ve done well. I’ve collected all the different names I’ve been called by men: crazy, whore, etc. But “bitch” is by far my favorite to be called. Men use “bitch” as a name to call women who have decided to take charge of their own story, to not have it dictated by the opportunity to find love through a male.
Right now, I wonder if I perhaps sound pretentious, or insulting. As if I’m trying to say I’m “not like other girls,” the most internalized misogynistic statement I could make. But my words are not meant to hurt my fellow sisters, if anything, I envy the hopeless romantics, and their ability to search for love, eagerly awaiting a new chapter in their lives. They aren’t naïve for their hope, and neither was I.
Three years ago, my heart was open to every single possibility, smiling with every encounter, completely helpless the moment a pair of charming eyes laid their eyes on me, constantly wondering if this would be the one. I was helpless.
And I was in love.
My first love was a tall scruffy boy with slightly curly ginger hair, my best friend, my rock and my reason that I had to smile. And on the night he told me he loved me too, I gave my whole self to him, a night that I wanted to last forever. But it didn’t, and neither could we. In the morning he was gone, and he had taken a part of my soul with him. I began to dissolve into an empty void, hoping the men could fill it.
Every kiss that touched my lips left me with a fixation, trusting men to fulfil the craving. Every word lured me in, as I fell in love with their promises to love me forever, to treat me better than the one before, to please me the way I should be. What I didn’t know at the time was men would continue to use me, sliding their hand up my skirt before they even really knew my name. They would take what the want from me, my body, my kindness, my love, take it all for themselves, and leave once they’ve acquired what they need, just in time so they don’t have to give anything back.
Years go by and my body is filled with bruised marks from those I’ve trusted, scars from the amount of times I’ve cut open my heart to give it away. I think and tell myself, maybe I should have stop them, maybe I should have told them they need to do more before I would allow them inside. But I know my voice is worthless in their eyes, why else would they kiss me more than they allowed me to talk other than to show me what they believe the main purpose of my mouth is is.
Perhaps I have no one else to blame but myself, for my expectations, for wanting to be treated as a human being, and for expecting men to treat me as such, for expecting to care more about my soul and the person I am than the kisses I give them
Instead, men have exhausted my soul, they have exhausted my will to open up. They have done nothing but hurt me.
So as the word bitch crosses their lips, I want to tell them how their brothers have hurt me, how they have drained the life out of so many others like me. I want to tell them how I can’t even risk the possibility of getting my heart broke again, and how I’ve been left with nothing but empty promise.
However nothing comes from my lips expect a smile, as I see that their ego has been bruised, for they have been lump into a generalization of men. They are offended by my rejection, and I want to explain that my “no” is not because of them. Then a realization comes to my mind, because despite how the years have worn me out, nothing has exhausted me more than my constant feeling that I need to explain myself, when the word “no” is in fact a complete sentence. Because even though they have yet to brace my body and they’ve done nothing to me yet, I’m exhausted of men believing that I owe any part of myself.
Somedays I’ll stare at a girl, maybe younger, maybe older, and wonder if her soul has been exhausted yet. I hope she isn’t, I hope she holds onto the possibility of a story that plays out exactly how it’s meant to be.
As for me,
I’m exhausted, let me be.
#Heartbreak #Personal #Love # Men #Story #Exhuasted #LetMeBe #Alone #Lonely #Done
What’s to Be Done.
Shout it from the rooftops.
But don't be so aggressive.
Be an example,
But don't judge.
Because chef don't judge?
No.
Because it's not our place.
Does that mean do whatever you want?
No.
His judgement should be far more feared than ours.
Talk to people,
But say the right words.
This all sound harsh
It sounds impossible.
So it's a good thing it is not really me doing these things.
Without Him,
It is impossible,
But if you rely on Him
And pray to Him
And ask for the strength,
Ask for courage
Ask for wisdom.
Read for wisdom,
Study for guidance.
And apply.
You're golden.
Deathbed of Sand
I promise it was an accident.
I didn't mean to fall.
Today, promises are pennies spent
They mean near nothing at all.
Spread eagled in the air,
Crimson stains my hand,
Everything's a fight these days,
In the end it's hard to stand.
There's a reason I fell after all.
It's only partially my fault.
At least I had the courage to stand,
When most others choose to crawl.
I'm sorry my smile wasn't enough.
That my laugh was a little empty.
All I ask is don't call my bluff
Too late, I belong to the sea.
I know I'm drowning.
Before long my struggles will cease.
My head is always pounding.
Let me be at peace.
With the surface far above me,
And the gentle sands below.
There are now things I can see,
That you will never know.
I promise it was an accident.
I didn't mean to fall.
But promises are pennies spent.
They mean nothing at all.
If We’re Done
If we’re done here I’d like back all my secrets
If we’re done here I’d like back all my affections
All my lustful thoughts
All my 11:11 wishes
If we’re done here I’d like back my love
If we’re done here I’d like back my bashful flirtations
All my “which outfit” obstacles
All my “five more minutes” for perfect hair
If we’re done here you can have back your “I love you’s”
If we’re done here you can have back your “someday’s”
All your shoulder kisses
All your sexual tensions
If we’re done I want back all my time
If we’re done I want back all my energy
All my trust
All my forgiveness
If we’re done here I want back my heart
And all its skipped beats