Permission to write bad personal poetry has been granted to the author.
EDIT: CASCADING MEMORIES PROBLEM ONGOING. I wish I could cry but I can't so I'll write.
I looked her in the eye, which lent pain to my words.
"I'm not a nice person,
actually." I'm really not fun.
The therapist could not doubt my sincerity.
she could not believe my accuracy,
it's hard to explain in therapy;
but I'll try to show how I came to be me.
At First
My parents hated themselves individually
(and their marriage, which produced the littler me).
They hated each other and their life together
and my own life at times hung by a feather.
When She threw out everything that was in my room
I trashpicked my horses from their garbage bag tomb.
It's clear when She shouted "You're just like your father"
I had succeeded again at failing my mother.
When he said,"You're appallingly so like your mother"
I had failed at logic and Being the Other;
"You're just like a woman," he said with such scorn.
I couldn't help it, I was female-born.
Not talking to me, but only through me;
it was their way of living less dangerously.
I should have said this, often and loud.
I should have shouted and just cried it out.
He abandoned me (9) once in a parking lot,
left me sobbing after the car had pulled out.
She threw me (16) out of the car one night,
told the police I'd run away from a fight.
At Class
I was in school next morning,
and about it said nothing.
I'll never know what my sibling thought,
since between us words were but naught.
At New Years She picked up a knife and struck out
and I knew that I could not win in that bout.
And still the next day I was back in my class
watching the gang leader study my ass.
When the gang first came after me (12),
I faced them all down and we left finally.
The second time they came with rocks and with bats.
I don't really know how I came out of that.
I never told them about the gang's intent,
it didn't seem like something they would want to prevent.
They had their problems, I had my own,
I stuffed my griefs deep and silenced my groans.
Then She threatened to put me away
and said the judge would lock me lifelong to stay
at an evil place that had already closed down
a place that was known to drive intelligence down!
How did it happen that no one did die?
We had household poisons and weapons nearby,
He played the piano, She grimly hung on,
and I counted the years until I was gone.
And Here I Find Myself
From childhood I practiced invisibility
not being seen was necessary--
despite the red hair, the Brit accent, and brains
that marked me too different to ever make friends.
Never a boy and unlike a girl
I lived in a dream that wouldn't unfurl.
So I soaked in bitterness and matured in gall
and soured forever on understanding at all.
I do believe I don't exist,
except maybe once, as a uterine cyst.
I don't trust groups of any kind.
I'm not surprised at the state of my mind.
If I don't exist, but you still see me,
I'm unpleasantly aware of vulnerability.
I'm armed to fight, my weapons are words
and a furious rage that throws them like swords.
And now I can't fix it. Neither can you.
Some days I just don't know what else I can do.
Being hard has been the best defence
and in so many ways still makes so much sense.
Love your enemies. I got lots of practice
and never found any of them let go of their malice.
My black-and-white outlook is not just my brain,
it's the nature and nurture of a life spent in pain.
It doesn't end yet. It doesn't end here.
I have much in my life that I hold very dear.
This brain doesn't do social and doesn't connect,
but it's all that I have, my own to protect.
You still don't see I
cannot see why
I'd want to be more like you--
I've a lifetime of knowledge about what you're willing to do.
I battled my giants while you cuddled your toys
and didn't have to watch out for both girls and boys,
while I learned to face and to fake my disguise
to make it so that you could look into my eyes.
I don't know what I can safely let go,
or how softly I can trust myself to say "No"
to the fury that powered and saved me so long.
I warned you before: I'm not that much fun.
EDIT: CASCADING MEMORIES PROBLEM ONGOING. I wish I could cry but I can't so I'll write.
I looked her in the eye, which lent pain to my words.
"I'm not a nice person,
actually." I'm really not fun.
The therapist could not doubt my sincerity.
she could not believe my accuracy,
it's hard to explain in therapy;
but I'll try to show how I came to be me.
At First
My parents hated themselves individually
(and their marriage, which produced the littler me).
They hated each other and their life together
and my own life at times hung by a feather.
When She threw out everything that was in my room
I trashpicked my horses from their garbage bag tomb.
It's clear when She shouted "You're just like your father"
I had succeeded again at failing my mother.
When he said,"You're appallingly so like your mother"
I had failed at logic and Being the Other;
"You're just like a woman," he said with such scorn.
I couldn't help it, I was female-born.
Not talking to me, but only through me;
it was their way of living less dangerously.
I should have said this, often and loud.
I should have shouted and just cried it out.
He abandoned me (9) once in a parking lot,
left me sobbing after the car had pulled out.
She threw me (16) out of the car one night,
told the police I'd run away from a fight.
At Class
I was in school next morning,
and about it said nothing.
I'll never know what my sibling thought,
since between us words were but naught.
At New Years She picked up a knife and struck out
and I knew that I could not win in that bout.
And still the next day I was back in my class
watching the gang leader study my ass.
When the gang first came after me (12),
I faced them all down and we left finally.
The second time they came with rocks and with bats.
I don't really know how I came out of that.
I never told them about the gang's intent,
it didn't seem like something they would want to prevent.
They had their problems, I had my own,
I stuffed my griefs deep and silenced my groans.
Then She threatened to put me away
and said the judge would lock me lifelong to stay
at an evil place that had already closed down
a place that was known to drive intelligence down!
How did it happen that no one did die?
We had household poisons and weapons nearby,
He played the piano, She grimly hung on,
and I counted the years until I was gone.
And Here I Find Myself
From childhood I practiced invisibility
not being seen was necessary--
despite the red hair, the Brit accent, and brains
that marked me too different to ever make friends.
Never a boy and unlike a girl
I lived in a dream that wouldn't unfurl.
So I soaked in bitterness and matured in gall
and soured forever on understanding at all.
I do believe I don't exist,
except maybe once, as a uterine cyst.
I don't trust groups of any kind.
I'm not surprised at the state of my mind.
If I don't exist, but you still see me,
I'm unpleasantly aware of vulnerability.
I'm armed to fight, my weapons are words
and a furious rage that throws them like swords.
And now I can't fix it. Neither can you.
Some days I just don't know what else I can do.
Being hard has been the best defence
and in so many ways still makes so much sense.
Love your enemies. I got lots of practice
and never found any of them let go of their malice.
My black-and-white outlook is not just my brain,
it's the nature and nurture of a life spent in pain.
It doesn't end yet. It doesn't end here.
I have much in my life that I hold very dear.
This brain doesn't do social and doesn't connect,
but it's all that I have, my own to protect.
You still don't see I
cannot see why
I'd want to be more like you--
I've a lifetime of knowledge about what you're willing to do.
I battled my giants while you cuddled your toys
and didn't have to watch out for both girls and boys,
while I learned to face and to fake my disguise
to make it so that you could look into my eyes.
I don't know what I can safely let go,
or how softly I can trust myself to say "No"
to the fury that powered and saved me so long.
I warned you before: I'm not that much fun.
