Reminders
Day 2 and am posting another picture, not because I am looking for sympathy, but as a reminder. A reminder that I don’t deserve this. No one deserves this. Mostly as a reminder not to go back.
Fat Bottom Girl Said What
When my ass talks, people listen.
Archive for the month “June, 2013”
My Pants Are On Fire
I am at work. I didn’t want to come to work with this shit on my face, but what choice did I have? You can only hide from shit for so long, and it will take days for all of this to fade. Sitting and eating lunch, one of the guys jokingly asks if my boyfriend beat me up. I tell my lie, saying the patio umbrella hit my sunglasses, as I was trying to close it in the strong Kansas wind. My boss knows the truth, and maybe others will see through my lie too. I don’t know. I hate that The Cowboy has forced me to lie, because I am a truth-teller. I was born a truth-teller, and I shall die a truth-teller. The Cowboy has his own skewed version of the truth, soaked in Bud Light, whatever other beer he can get for free.
I am a mess right now. I am mentally and physically exhausted. My entire body hurts. I alternate between missing him and hating his guts and hoping he hits rock bottom and seeks help. I want to cry every few minutes, but I tell myself not to. I am replaying it all in my head; every cruel word and every second of choking. When I think about missing him, I touch my throat because it’s so sore from where he choked me and I hope this reinforces the fact I can’t allow him in my life.
***I want everyone to know how much I appreciate the outpouring of support!! You all are so amazing!! It’s quite ironic how supportive all of you, who have never met me, are so kind with your words, but The Cowboy, who has been a recipient of so much from me, can’t seem to do nice things for me.
He Ain’t Seen Me Crazy Yet
I am not a good liar, but I tried to lie to my son about how this happened. He didn’t believe me. He is a very perceptive boy, and always has been. I came clean with him about it. He told me, “My dad was afraid something like this was going to happen.” His dad worries that I make poor choices in men, I guess. My son wanted to know if I need his dad’s help. My son said, “Please don’t ever let anyone do this to you again.” My heart hurts tonight. I don’t know how I got back here again. This isn’t the first abusive relationship I’ve been in. I want it to be the last.
You know the worst part? I hit back. I was tired of just sitting there taking it, so I hit back, and then he choked me, right there in his pickup, while we’re sitting in a parking lot, truck running. Pretty sure you stand a better chance of encountering a cop when you’ve had a couple of beers and get behind the wheel, than when you’re getting choked out in a pickup.
I titled my post last night “Stupid Girl”, because I feel stupid. I am a college educated woman, with my own home, and decent credit, and a good job, but sometimes I am still a stupid girl. I should’ve never gone back after the first kick and subsequent bruise, I should’ve told him to pack his shit after the second shove and subsequent landing on my ass on the ground and my head barely missing the paving stones. You know what cut my cheek? A baseball cap. The plastic thing on the back of a baseball cap. He got pissed off at me and threw the baseball cap right at my face. I didn’t even realize that it had cut my cheek until I pulled my hand away and saw the blood. He told me it cut me because I am “weak”. That’s what he said—I am weak. He wouldn’t have thrown it, but I pissed him off because, I “don’t know when to shut my fucking mouth”.
I think that motherfucker better just be glad I didn’t call the cops. Not only would he have been arrested for a domestic, I am guessing he would’ve also gotten charged with DUI, and it would’ve been his 4th. Here in Kansas your 4th DUI is mandatory one year in jail. That’s a good long while to sit and think about shit, isn’t it?
Stupid Girl
So you thought it would get better? You hoped he wouldn’t do it again? Stupid, so stupid girl. Why didn’t you learn your lesson the first time? One bruise wasn’t enough? It took a cut on the face and a fat lip? It took his hands around your throat knowing he wanted to choke the life out of you? Maybe it did. I want to be done. I want to be done with it all. Why can’t I just be done?
Filters
“Why don’t you know when to shut the fuck up?”. I guess because I have a fucking mind of my own and I refuse to let you beat that knowledge into me. Raise your fucking hand to me again motherfucker.
Flop Houses of the Soul
I told you to vacate my premises,
but you don’t,
you never will.
You’re a squatter,
a dirty, filthy
squatter.
I don’t know when you moved in.
You’ve lived here as long as I can remember.
It seems you walked up the steps,
with bags in hand,
when I was around the age of 9 or 10,
but maybe memory fails me.
Maybe you were here all along,
hidden in the attic,
locked away from the neighbors and visitors,
because you weren’t like all the others.
You might be an embarrassment.
At some point you came out,
and settled in some room,
in my soul hotel.
“GET THE FUCK OUT!!”
I have screamed at you,
numerous times,
sometimes over and over again,
for years. . . . .
to no avail.
At some point I decided to just
let you be. . . .
Let you continue to occupy the space
I had hoped might one day be taken up by healing and hope.
I accepted that you were never going away,
you, like some piece of bad furniture
you can’t throw out because it belonged to a long dead family member.
Now I embrace you,
and leave mints on your pillow each night before sleep,
as though you were a guest,
and not
the squatter
that you are.
*I had never thought about it before, but I might possibly need to start saying that my poetry, and writing, are mine, and not to be used by anyone else. I have seen others doing it, saying their items are owned by them, and maybe I need to add that disclaimer as well. Some day I might like to take all this bad poetry, and put it in a little book for posterity, and my son. Some day, my son will be grow enough to see who I really am, and hopefully love me even more.
Ding-Dong the Witch Is (Not) Dead
The monkeys are flying again
They bring the doubts, the insecurity, the fear of abandonment
Who feeds you bastards??
The Wicked Witch is dead.
Or is she?
Maybe she is my alter ego.
She feeds you those everlasting tasty morsels of deceit, unfaithfulness, and verbal abuse,
And you take flight.
How do I clip your wings and keep you grounded forever?
Apparitions
Photo Credit: From the album cover “Sleeping with Ghosts” by Placebo
sometimes when I turn around
I almost see them
just out of the corner of my eye
ghosts
of your past and mine
they show themselves
then retreat
but always return again
at times they creep in
like a fog
lying close to the ground
making it difficult to walk
growing in size and rising
eventually making it difficult to talk
as they choke us with memories
of our pasts
intending to haunt the present
and the future too
ghosts
Fat Bottom Girl Said What 