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?