on self-sabotage

there was a time when i was better at poetry. i think i was on better medication then. i think i did talk about it, kind of, in the ways i knew how.

i think part of what makes it so hard is that it’s not over, and it will never be over. still a little kid, still thrashing and kicking, choking on snot and tears, whistling sobs. did you know it isn’t better when you can fight back? it doesn’t stop. it doesn’t make it feel better. it isn’t less shameful to remember.

i cried so hard it made me sick. that’s what happened, actually, i think. i got so scared and so tired that i stuck that way, like they always warn you is gonna happen when you make a face. and now it’s over, but it’s not over. and i’m always tired like something’s holding me down. like someone’s holding me down. and they are.

sometimes i think about it, about whether they should get in trouble. nobody’s ever going to court for this. nobody remembers me. sometimes i’m ashamed. i couldn’t have been the only one, no matter how much it felt that way. who else did they hurt? who else have they hurt since?

it’s such a niche thing, is all. when you say he touched me or she hit me that’s clearcut. when you say a normalized institutional form of violence there’s a bit of a dawning lack of comprehension. and it can be more understandable, to say they held me down. i was crying, i was screaming, i was begging for it to stop. but then you get to no, nothing else. no, you don’t understand- they just held me down.