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“Derby girls don’t cry”
Dad says placing a glass of spitfire in your hand.
They slowly but surely, die.
You think to yourself.
As the weight of the world that only weak people are allowed to feel,
Grows to heavy for menthol cigarettes and spoken word poetry to heal.
As yesterdays trauma, that you didn’t know you had implodes you.
Until you explode into burning blood-red rage.
That’s what your sister wanted.
“Hey look mom, she’s lost it again.”
And the pain starts all over again.
If you have never been gaslighted before, then you will not understand this part.
The part where you are made question your own sanity.
Family confidentiality, be quiet.
Great lesson to teach an eight-year-old, hey.
Oh but that sister is too precise, protect her.
Pacify the other one,
And if the only way to do that is to convince her she belongs in a mental hospital.
So be it.
Like it sit for a while.
Let it sink into your skin.
Believe everything they say, cos rocking the boat means throwing it all away.
That picture-perfect family photo.
It is going to come back harder.
The clock is ticking.
Skipping your childhood.
Fourteen going on forty.
Smoke the pain away.
You don’t care.
Procrastination is key.
When you are living in a home that would prefer you suicidal, then to write your story, your own story in first person.
Your version of events is homicidal.
But it is true.
The only thing that hasn’t betrayed you, the page.
It is failing you.
You are going nowhere.
Anywhere as long as it is away from here.
They say you cannot pour from an empty vase.
But you have to be the contradiction.
You are renowned as a healer.
Your personality is based on having your vase full.
But hey maybe it’s not so empty.
Your pouring from a different vase.
A vase full of knowledge and advice.
Insights where you got them, that’s hazing.
Cos your childhood was all sunshine and daisies.
You say you don’t know where you get it.
Say it must be a reincarnation thing.
But that’s only cos it is buried.
The source of that knowledge is a secret that should be left that way.
Then the day will come along.
The day that someone dugs it up.
The day you find out that abuse doesn’t always leave scars on skin.
No, sometimes it leaves scars on your soul.
Destroys what you think you know.
You thought it was normal.
But that day will be the day that you will feel the swords stabbed against your spine.
Finally, notice that for the past six years you’ve been slowly but surely bleeding to death.
Then go look at those in-depth overflowing vases of advice.
Aren’t so hidden are they?
Not when you overdosed in one of those iffy alleyways on something a little stronger than menthol cigarettes and emotions you didn’t know you were allowed to feel.