I know you.

I am you.

I know your pain.

I know how you hold your tears back because you don't want her to know how much her abuse actually hurts.

I know how you've put up so many walls, how that empty, numb feeling has taken a firm hold on your very soul.

I know that you are scared. You want to leave. Escape. Die.

I know you've tried more times than you'll be proud of in the future. You dread coming home. You dread seeing her.

Never knowing her mood, always guessing and wondering, will today be a good day? Eventually, her blows will stop. Eventually, the bruises will fade, and the physical hurt will heal.

One day you will feel safe. And beautiful. And wanted. And loved. You will be told you are worth the air you breathe and the life you live. You will find a god that comforts you, and you will start to heal.

I know you are scared. You live in this perpetual state of fear and hatred and stress and confusion as to why and what you did to deserve the hate you've been given from birth.

It isn't your fault. Know that. You should've been protected. From him. From her. From all of them. All the hurt. But you weren't, we, weren't.

I'm sorry, little one.

You aren't going to hear that for a long, long time, but I'm sorry we had to survive for this long, barely hanging on to sanity and life. I'm sorry we don't get to truly live until so much further down the road. I promise it will end, not anytime soon, but it will come to an end. You will see the light, and you will take that golden chance at freedom and love and support.

The fear hasn't gone away yet, but we will work on it. Together, and we will heal from all the pain we've had drilled into our heads and all the hate we know.

Trust me.

-R

A palm is put up, that no pity could make it through

“How can you console her knowing death is afraid of you?”

I did not compose these words, yet they are mine

Uttered in a dream, one echoing line

Spoken by Death herself, while she holds a girl’s hand

She looks only twelve, and the child smaller stands

An audience watches, a statement, a show

To a pit at the bottom the children all go

The sand does not sort them by age or by name

They fall, listless, down, to be buried the same

Death never asked us for these bodies, so small

What she asks is a question, overworked and appalled

“I am but a reaper, a guideman, a door

What terrors are you who keep sending me more?”

So her palm is an army that will not make way for you

“How can you console her knowing Death is afraid of you?”

How can we console her, us watching the news

With our guns in the closet we’ve never had to use?

It was not our bullets that broke through her chest

But we fought for the weapon that laid her to rest

How can you console her, you preachers who pray

When you say that the young must retrieve those astray?

How can you tell a child, while wishing them well

That their weakness and fear sends their playmates to hell?

Were none of us sacred before we were grown?

Are none of them sacred now, not on their own?

Is innocence meaningless, the perfect white page

That we write on and fight on, turn black as our rage?

Are they pawns? Are they dough? To be molded and used,

Or abused, until like us they grow? Death begs no.

there’s a beautiful girl i know

and she looks just like me

she appears in my daydreams

and night dreams

and her name is my own

her friends are my friends

and she likes what i like

because we are both me

everywhere i go i am her

(i think i am her)

she is the girl in every beloved love story

who people meet in bookstores

and coffee shops

and try to romance because she is so lovely

and mysterious

and effortlessly

enchanting

(no one i don’t know speaks to me ever

and i don’t ever speak to anyone

i don’t know)

if i think i might like someone

they must love her back

and they want her to be theirs

(far more than i could ever want them to be mine)

and i will close my eyes

and picture the confession

played out like a movie

because the thought of being desired

is just

so

(desirable)

this girl and i

exist at the same time

in the same body and mind

until someone pulls out a camera

and shows me the photo

and i realize

she isn’t

real

(not in the way that i want her

to be)

she is thinner

and delicate

with a confident stride

she is what i see

(what i want to see;

what i make myself see)

in my reflection

every time i get dressed

for the day

(and i am glimpses of myself

in bookstore windows

and white coffee shop mugs

and black tv screens;

candid and objective

and made of things i wish

i wasn’t)

no smoke,

all mirrors

a sickness and a stab when i remember

she is only inside my head

because when i can’t see myself

i think i am her

(i think i am her)

when i am so much

less beautiful

in the flesh

(in everyone else’s eyes)

and it’s hard

to feel beautiful again

after that.

I can feel it in my stomach. I feel the pit in my stomach and the weight that drags down my eyes. When I think of them I can feel the turning of my insides. I pray this is not how I’ll always feel. That I won’t always feel the physical repercussions of when someone bruises my heart. A heart that I refuse to call broken because I am still praying it will all fade. And that's what bruises do , fade but cracks need glue or stitches and that shits too sticky, I have a fear of needles and closure is not worth allowing you to look into my eyes. It is not worth allowing you back into my life even if just for the moment. And I pray that one day my heart stops getting bruised because I can remember the feeling of every single punch it ever took. I remember every time I have been hurt. My mind and my heart are not the best of friends . My mind won’t let my heart forget. I pray that they learn to get along , for the sake of my stomach because the differences between hungry and sad have become quite hard to differentiate. I cannot tell if my headaches need medicine or just an episode of new girl to temporarily numb the pain.

I pray they feel the consequences of their actions, I pray their heart drops when they see me in the halls . I pray they see me in the distance and wonder what we could have been if there wasn't silence left between the walls. I hope they see me in our hometown and miss the idea of giving me a call. But I can't pray for God to bring evil , because that is not what God is. I just do not want to be the only one regretting the situation. The only one left in remembrance. The only one with a name on a tombstone and a picture in the paper. I pray that I am not dead to them in the way I have worked so hard to kill them inside of me. It feels like I searched so long for heaven but was led straight into hell. I have been through alot in my life but their silence is the loudest I have ever heard someone yell. I pray that I stop saying they are who I hate because who am I to? But I have no remorse for a man who collects broken hearts in alcohol bottles. A Man Who hides behind a fraternity when that money should have really gone to therapy. I pray that one day I understand men like him, what hurt it must have taken to ruin the friendship - and then ruin the friend. I try to have remorse for a girl I've always cared for but You can’t save a person from drowning when she twists the stories and says you are the one who threw her in. I pray that one day I will understand a woman like her , what place of hurt she came from to put validation from a man first. She taught me that sisterhood has evil step sisters. That some people can’t change no matter how long you were convinced they did.

Mostly I pray for my mirror that I sit in front of to cry. The reflection I see tells me what everyone else does. I pray I’ll stop laughing at myself for being human and feeling weak. I pray for the little girl I never allowed myself to be. I pray I learn from the situation and stop letting my heart stand still in the middle of the highway for cars to come at it going 80. I pray my brain and heart become mutual friends with my gut and intuition. I pray I stop being so easy to forgive and be the type of person who can just move on and forget. Because I know I am not the type of person who can hate , but I have always been the one who remembers. I pray the pits in my stomachs and the weight that drags down my eyes become more and more temporary. Though I don't want them to disappear because that would take away from my humanity.