Posts Tagged ‘hate’

You don’t want to hear
the truth
so you kill the messenger.
Block out anything
unpleasant to your ears.

Does it work for you,
this way of not dealing with
your fear?

Growing piles of dead friends
littering your past,
your present, your future.

You can’t see them;
eyes closed tight as
you swing the blade.

Red rains down in
clotting gore

stains you and
everyone near you
painful crimson-black.

There are other ways
to cope with loss,
instead of ruthless slaughter.

Hate
yourself.
Hate everyone.

Truth won’t stop for you.

Like cold wind,
it will find you.

No matter where you hide.
No matter who you kill.

My sister says she misses you.
I wish I could agree.

I don’t miss you.
I hardly knew you –
at least any “you” I liked or respected.

To me, you were The Bogeyman;
origin of my self-loathing.
I’m relieved that you are gone,
happy that you’re dead.

Not because
I hate you, though, and
I thank God for that.

All those nights, alone with you –
You could have been my victim too,
a bitter role-reversal.
But I made a different choice.

I rubbed your back, held your hand,
changed your bedding, clothes and diapers.
I loved you when you were helpless,
because you couldn’t love me when I was.

When you died,
I was happy that you’d escaped the pain,
free from that worn-out body.

I too, was freed:
released from a lifetime
of hate and fear;
your whipping post, no longer.

We went our separate ways,
finally at peace.
Who could ask for more?

Then why do I feel so envious
that my sister had something to miss?

That darker dawn is coming.
The light of remembered lies;
lies I was told, lies I told
to protect my innocence.

It’s gone anyway,
shattered in a hundred
different ways.

I hide in the shadowed warmth
of the old bathtub,
shower curtain half drawn
to keep out the light,
the eyes.

The lavender curtain
turns skin to bruised petals,
soft and wet,
as if from spring rain.

The faucet drips constantly,
accompanying pain.

Nothing will wash this away.

© Coin and Feather Press

Is it possible
to become
human,
after all this time
as a beast?

Learn to walk
upright,
speak
with crooked tongue.

Can I forgive
and forget,
move on
with my life;

learn
to stand tall
in ill-fitting shoes,
wearing the garb
of a traitor?

Or am I condemned
to run
barefoot
through grass so tall
it hides
what I really am;

makes me look
almost real?

Stand casual,
alert,
beside humans
sleepwalking.
Compare myself
to them.

I am full.
They are hollow.

We are different
species.

Photo credit, Brian Snelson

Eyes,
two.
I have them:
blue –

or grey
depending on
the day.

Grey hair
at my temples,
blends so well
with blonde,
few can tell
how old I am.

Two lips too,
do what lips do.
When they’re
not uncertain.

Other pieces,
fairly standard:
just one nose,
two arms and legs.
Things line up
correctly.
From an outsider’s
perspective.

Inside’s where things
get tricky.
There are more people
in here
than there should be,
and that’s not counting
me.

Who am I?
I’m one of many.
All sharing the same
crooked smile.

Same lips
have other
voices,
and these ears
hear singular things.

We all share
this body.
But we have different
friends;
unique habits,
age and gender.

Figure that out,
if you can,
and if you do,
tell me.

The whole thing
has me puzzled.

With so many
we’s in me,
I’m not even sure
who’s confused
anymore.

Is it only me?

The color
of grape Kool-Aid;
purple with swirling blue.

Umbilical cord tight
around his neck,
he strangled
with every contraction.

Heart rate dropped
so perilously low,
a pediatrician was called
to be on hand…
Just-In-Case.

Pushing then swoosh
there he was,
my blue baby.

They removed
the cord from his neck,
and handed him to his father.
I stroked his face;
the same color as my nail polish.

Suction of fluid from lungs
then oxygen followed
until he grew pinker,
more human.
Still, a bloody little thing
always held by someone else.

I felt no sense of attachment.
Just crushing weight of responsibility;
knowing he was mine
completely,
at for least 18 years.

I didn’t want to get too close,
terrified by my year-old nephew’s
repeated clinical deaths.
I spent the night awake,
trying to devise ways
to make a break for it –
despite the pain.

Morning came
I was still there,
unable to figure out
how to flee into the darkness;
leave him to his father,
my mother…anyone
but me.

Then,
around the corner;
a clear acrylic bin.
I looked in –
my fatal error.
I never looked back again.

He was mine.
My child.
The one I’d waited for.
I loved his little turtle face,
strange mewling sounds,
his smell.

Through the years,
there were problems.
Bad lungs kept me afraid
that I’d lose
the only thing that mattered.

A sweet child,
beautiful, charming.
He always had that gift.

Then pre-teen,
cocky, sullen
but sometimes mine
again, at night.
I would read to him
or sing
and he would forget
that he was not a mama’s boy;
nestle into the crook of my arm.

Teenage years
spent learning how
to kill with his bare hands:
martial arts
obsessed.

Now he’s an adult.
I look back
on years
that went too fast.

All the changes
all the chances
I had to make a difference.
I messed up
most of them.

He has no need,
now, for a mother.
He wants me far away.
He’s just a cold stranger
but I love him, anyway.

If you were to ask me
what he wanted
where he lived,
or how he felt,
I could give you general answers,
gleaned from other sources.

My own son
is as alien to me
as any stranger on the street.

Looking at his baby books,
I pause at this page,
and that. Remember favorite pastimes.
They’re all past time, now.

All I have is memory
of the son I brought to earth.
Cherished as well as I was able
then let go, at his request.

People say
he loves me.
But I know it isn’t true.
He wants me to disappear
as much as I want to.

Embarrassed
by me; my scars,
my insanity;
by that fact that I exist

I am embarrassed too,
for loving him as much as I do
when I’m simply a source
of shame for him,
my former Little Boy Blue.

I suspect
when you were young,
you liked to play God;
withering insects
with a magnifying glass,
under hot summer sun.
Watch them writhe
and curl.

I think it made you feel
powerful
to hurt other living things.

I am willing to bet
that you nailed live frogs
to trees;
watched them squirm
in mute agony.

I think it made you feel
less alone;
less a lonely little pawn.

Your turn to be the sadist.

It seems not
much has changed
in the last five decades.

You still amuse yourself
impaling fragile things:
beings incapable
of sound.

You suffered abuse
in silence too.

You had the choice
to tell someone.
Animals lack that option.

A childhood
littered with dead things,
slowly killed by you.
Your soul
was dying too.

First, mauled by abuse
that left deep, hidden scars;
later, by a programmed choice
to trade yourself for gain;
be it drugs, cash, or property.

You still long to repay
the indignities suffered
at other hands –
Your own self-betrayal
of accepting a life
you abhorred.

Too old, now,
to burn insects
with magnified heat,
or nail frogs to trees.
Laugh while they struggle
against the spike
in their guts.

You satisfy
the urge to torment
with emotional cruelty –
physical too, if a hapless
victim wanders by.

Spider can’t resist
a fly.
Inject just enough venom
to paralyze.

Take your time.
Extract all hope,
potential –
any sense of self-worth.
Savor the power
to annihilate.

Turn them into
the same empty shell
you are:

Hollow, Heartless Echo.

Cigarette butt, red
blood
not lipstick.

Crouch on the curb,
at 3 AM,
flick sparks
at the ground,
like God.

Leaves bristle
by my bare feet,
shoving past
pushed by wind;
that external violence.

By virtue of hundreds
of dead geese,
your jacket
keeps me warm.

That,
and blood,
dripping down my heart.
It doesn’t work anyway,
can’t feel a goddamn thing.

Speak in tongues,
I don’t listen.
Words, a blizzard
blurring by,
soothing like a lullaby.

You sketch me,
asleep
but I never am.

You sleep,
curled like a child,
in the icy embrace
of my silence.

You like me to be quiet.
Speak when spoken to.
Do puzzles
while you paint.

I don’t mind.
Don’t care at all.
I am just a puppet.

Beat me,
I will cry false tears
because it makes you
happy;
not because it hurts.

I don’t feel a thing
when you pull
the chain
around my throat.

Later,
you’ll count bruises
with a gentle touch,
kiss each one.

All better.

There is genuine
affection;
part and parcel
with abuse.

And love –
It’s just a word.
Unreal
as Santa Claus.

You, who’s
betrayals are old-hat,
fat-cat, expected –
Even welcomed
because you prove me right.

Pernicious,
you slice blood in two
like sickle cell anemia:
heaving through
tight veins
with a swinging scythe.

A bow
when you are finished,
face flushed with angry glee,
narrow, piggy eyes
red behind thick glass.

You want to see me
fall down;
crawl on hands and knees.
Lap milk
from your cobra’s cup,

say I’m sorry
for not loving you
enough.
Not touching you
correctly;
harden you
to a sharpened point

so you can plunge
that knife into my heart.

Again.
        Again.
                Again.

I’ll never say
I’m sorry.
I’ll never crawl
or beg.

Punish me with silence;
fists, impotent
as the rest.

My blood has learned
to mend itself.

With that,
I walk away.

Audio Reading

***Caution to viewers. This video can be triggering/upsetting. It contains images that can be disturbing. Be safe.***
This is to provide information about this very misunderstood disorder that affects aproximately 1% of the world’s population.
The disorder is very real. As someone diagnosed with it, I know for a fact that it is.
(for those who are going to ask which song this is… it’s “About her” From the Kill Bill soundtrack)
Video & caution by MaxP0wer25 on youtube
Song Scarlet by Brooke Fraser, video by Bcciliz
video by castorgirl
Directed by Trevor Sands, posted on youtube by InsideShort
This is part 1 of 8 of a series called MPD / DID – Trauma based Mind Control – it’s well worth the time it takes to watch, if you want to understand DID.