PROCESSING THROUGH POETICS

It is part of the therapeutic technique, Cognitive Processing therapy, to have the patient write a narrative,  a descriptive account of their most traumatic event.
My trauma predates my ability to write descriptively, so it has been the challenge to find a way to channel these memories creatively.
I am utilizing poetry and art therapy as resources to address and process my trauma triggers.

My source of creativity is no longer a source of discontent.
Turn your pain into passions.
Don't drown in the darkness.

I. Play Pretend

How can your birthday be the worst day of your life?

How do you grow older when every year you wish to grow thinner?

How do you forget something that doesn’t fit in?

How do you go about coming out?

When you never really had a choice about what was cumming?

You used to say I and me, 

I used to mean the things I said 

and say what i mean

never get lost in-between

who’s going up or down

who’s straight or coming out

pushed up on your shoulders

flip me over

turn me up

put me down

turn me around

push me over

pull me up

flip me over

stand me up 

beat me down

yours to play with and pretend

we all play with knives.

II. Remembering//A Series of Haikus

it’s a sin if you say something

your dick was my death

stuck in time floating

i almost hear me

too drunk to dictate a thing

fumbling around

only silence, shame

(i only wanted to play)

hate me, a hostage

what i saw was ugly

i went home and it still hurt

what i saw was gross

what i felt was fear

i need more than hope alone

anything to hold

feel like a basket

Light, you could see through my cracks 

All empty inside

You choose to know me

Before I could even know me 

You saw within me

Kaleidoscope eyes

i under the microscope 

all that within me

its dark and dingy 

never a place to hide me

too scary to hold

i could never hide

what you put in front of me

it took hold of me

I stand tall and clear

He will live in avoidance

no longer scared; free

III. Call Girl

you’ll never go home

when home becomes a headache, 

a heart rush rather than a heart throb.

a street walker to a call girl. 

but i never called.

my elbow ow i mean my shoulder my wrist

my words, my notes, my cup

he just drank me up then spit me out.

i’m told, but no one knows, that god is good &

god is great.

but i’ve seen a thing or two or four or five that say otherwise

god is love, hate consumed love.

there’s a darkness lifted by fate.

the chance of knowing somehow, somewhere

things will be better and they’ll treat you better and you’ll know better

be better be bold

be a babe & bring me the soap

IV. How things used to be.

I used to like playing the victim,

until the victim inside of me

learned what it means to be vindicated,

a victim who

realized what it means to be a survivor.

I used to like reading,

until I was told what I HAD to read.

I used to love writing,

then I was told how to write,

what not to write,

where to write,

what I should write about.

I used to like feeling,

until I was told what to feel,

where to feel it,

when I should feel it

i used to like my hips, my lips, my teeth, my hair, my fingers, my toes

until I was told what to do with them,

where to put them, who they were for--

never for me.

I used to like the telephone,

until I picked it up to talk,

consumed by my own silence

hearing nothing but my own cries for help.

Oh a life should never be led on should haves

I went to school because I should of,

I was standing on a crumbling mountain of

should nots and shouldn't haves

doing all these things I should not do,

just to see what could happen.

I was reaching for the stars

into the light, too bright for my sight

into the downstairs

where you shut me off.

Turned off all my feelings into a lie,

a curse of knowing

what you do not want to know

and not knowing if it will end.

I realized in 16 years of NOT KNOWING.

that pain never left me

NOTHING TEACHES US WHAT WE DO NOT WANT TO KNOW EXPECT PAIN

sometimes we have to break before we can begin again

KNOWLEDGE COMES WITH SUFFERING

I wanted to be someone

I wanted someone to know me.

the real me to become reality

reality, realty

a neat experiment

There was  a moment when my writing became right

not meaning i was ever wrong.

But it was just not what I wanted to write.

I wanted to write my story,

but I couldn't do that until I made sense of that story.

They say the past is just a story we tell ourselves.

But when it's a story too scary to share we sink into sadness

a wallow-less pit of despair.

When my past came out to play

there was no where to hide.

When I finally fell to pieces,

AND felt all those parts of me that I tried to forget and

never feel.

I had words for actions now,

parts, my body parts,

too painful to participate

too heavy for words,

too unspeakable

for emotions to comprehend.

too ugly to see the light and say

it's gonna be okay.

I blamed myself

because I was socialized by this society

where we blame the victim

before asking if they need help,

we ask them what they did wrong

before asking who did it to them?