Photo by Enrico Da Prato on Unsplash

A poem with disappointment

You, with me, were there

when the monsters yelled.

Under the sheets

hiding from darkness and scared,

you and I, trembling through a nightmare.

You talked about dreams so I would forget

we were children living in hell.

It didn’t feel safe, but I wasn’t alone,

or so I thought

until time made you grow.

You grew bigger, not wiser; I realised

when you made of me the victim of your crimes.

I wanted to be your friend,

but you only allowed me to be your slave.

I remember that day

when I couldn’t take a breath.

I was eight.

You were twelve.

And the weight of your body

pressing down my chest.

You were stronger and unfair.

You were my big sister,

and I, of you, was afraid.

You learned as good, even if it was wrong,

what every day they showed in our dreadful home.

Let me tell you: It was not okay.

You didn’t know it then,

and sadly, neither today.

Control was your greater desire

so you tight me up with this invisible wire

to make sure my mind wouldn’t wander far

without your voice pulling me back

to your particular doll house

at least till my conscious started to rouse.

With no heart walked, father.

With sharp teeth lorded, mother.

With indifference, ignored it, brother.

And between us, a war that we yet suffer.

Now that I am free

in pain, I still live

purging the suffering

in hopes one day I’ll be

the woman I imagine

lies inside me.

Here is a bloody wound

of a traumatic childhood

healing with the best tools

which are poetry and the woods.