Fat Bottom Girl Said What

When my ass talks, people listen.

Archive for the tag “abuse”

Elimination

It was the smell of old beer exhaled from lungs passing across a dip of Skoal that brought it all back. . .

hands tightening around my throat

threatening to stop the flow of precious air

knowing that he thought so little of me

that he didn’t care whether I lived or died

and that if he killed me he would feel no remorse

because he would believe

until his last breath

permeated with the smell of Bud Light and chew

that I deserved it

 

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Whitewash

It all comes back to black

the color of rot and death

and a murder of crows

and of my insides

since I came across you

I want so much to shed the cloak of it

and experience other colors again

like red

the red of your blood

flowing from your nose

as my fist connects with it

gushing from your head

as the perfectly timed swing of my bat unites with your thick skull

dropping a trail from your bottom lip

as the back of my hand meets your lying mouth

but still

the red cannot compete with the black

so I wait for a source of light

to wash over me

and dilute it

and make it gray

The Hex that is You

smoke

 

you’re all just smoke and mirrors

and I choke in your presence

fearing you’re

a mere reflection of the worst parts of me

and that

maybe

I’ve conjured you into being

like some sort of voodoo priestess

I have drawn you to me

by being broken and bent

and you

seeing all the worst in me

know what I will do for love

or that thing

you disguise as love

dress it up

teach it to speak more better

(the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain)

take it out on parade

regardless

it never fails to be what it is

a sick, twisted display of your narcissism

 

What Lies Within Us

What is the flaw within us

that doesn’t believe we are good enough

for good love

Why is it easier to accept

the love

which isn’t really love

but merely sickness masquerading

We give them the benefit of the doubt

because we believe

we can see the possibilities inside them

of which there are none

and even if there were potential

it’s not up to us to nurture them

Brother of mine

do not make the same mistakes I have made

it will not get better

but only worse every time

until it will culminate

into something she can’t take back

Run away from her little brother

as fast as you can

as far as you can

It may be lonely for awhile

but not as lonely as a tomb

 

 

 

No Escape

The knowledge of it was too much

the pain and the shame it carried with it was too much

and it was like you didn’t even care

you didn’t care because you were too much too

it was all more than I wanted to deal with

drunk

fed up

I drained the last drink from the beer bottle

and I smashed it against the sink

you did nothing

as I stood there and began cutting

with that sharp piece of brown glass

I didn’t so much want an end

to my life

as I did to the knowledge

and the pain and the shame

cut

slice the skin and make me feel

some other type of pain

the physical more bearable than the emotional

the blood ran down my hand before you noticed

there was no comfort to be found in you

since I only wanted release from you too

I will never escape what you did

no matter how much I slice off

 

Flashbacks

I hear the frantic yelling and I look up to see her attempting to usher kids out the front door, with tears running down her cheeks, and shame and fear written on her face.

An icy hand grips my intestines and squeezes because the scene is all too familiar.  I have lived this life.

I ask if she wants me to call anyone for her. Does she have a place to go and take the children.

She tells me she can go to her mom’s as she tries to get a pair of socks on the bare feet of her young daughter.

I stand and I wait while she gets her purse from the house; the children’s father throws it out the door at her.

I’m ready to call the cops if I see him make any gesture towards her. He slams the door.

She leads the children down the steps to the car.  Two are without coats, all are without shoes, and one is without socks.

I tell her it’s okay, I have been there.  She doesn’t respond and I understand the embarrassment.

The little boy looks at me and I tell him it’s going to be okay, and he smiles.

I smile back.

 

 

* This took place last night as I left my mother’s house.  It brought back too many memories. It left me with a huge rush of adrenaline–fight or flight terror.  It left me grateful I am no longer living that life, and even more grateful my son never saw the really bad stuff.  It also left me knowing she would go back to him, and I was right, her car was there this morning.

 

 

 

an arid wasteland

lead my parched heart to an oasis before it dies of thirst

i have sand coursing through my veins

i cough dust and choke on the inhumanity of man

as i wash down the deceit with dirt

my body an empty shell

filled with the salt of the Dead Sea

bring me water on your tongue

for my shriveled soul

heart

Threadbare

pick

pick pick pick

at it

pull

pull it apart

threads woven

unraveled

destructed

ripped

yanked

frayed

tattered

holes remain

which you hope can be

patched

Friday Mind Fuck

vase

I learned a valuable lesson today. I will never step foot in another gun range.

I was raised in Kansas. I grew up around guns. I have enjoyed shooting guns.

I don’t enjoy it anymore.

I’ve been “on edge” since my first go-round with abuse. I don’t like people sneaking up on me and touching me. I don’t like people jumping out from places and trying to scare me.

And after being beat up this last time, I really don’t like loud noises. They make me jump. They make my heart race.

I tried to go to the gun range with some co-workers today. I put the ear plugs in. I picked up the weapon.

Someone fired next to me. I jumped.

I fired. I jumped. T

The person next to me fired again. I jumped again.

I laid the weapon down and walked quickly out the door, escaping to the street.

I’m still shaking inside. I want to go home and lay down in my bed, where I still keep a baseball bat at arm’s reach, and sleep and forget how the sound made me feel.

I don’t want to be broken. I don’t want for stupid shit like this to mind-fuck me.

But one thing I’ve learned since going into therapy is that broken can’t be fixed.

Broken can only be mended.

Hazardous Waste

Photo Credit:  nutracenter.com

Photo Credit: nutracenter.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

like a broken thermometer
so many tiny balls of poison(my insecurities)

scattering
rolling

hither and yon

hurry
gather them before anyone sees
the malignancy
dividing
growing

it seems impossible to contain them
just when I think I’ve got them all gathered
the pieces shatter

into more pieces

the number seems. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . infinite. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

hurry

run and fetch the eyedropper
to suck up the toxic little balls
before they infiltrate
what’s good

sprinkle the sulfur and contain
every minute trace of the
contamination

seal them all up in a bag

dispose of them

properly

like the hazardous waste
that they are

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