TheBrokeRevolutionary

I see your darkness. It bleeds onto your clothes, your skin, seeps into your blood. You spread it everywhere.

Sometimes people think they are fertilising weeds when they are poisoning a whole garden.

See, my darkness doesn't sit on my sleeve. I don't wear it on my clothes or let it ride on my skin. I don't flush it through my system.

My darkness sits in a locked box in my heart, guarded endlessly by the compassion I feel for you all. My darkness doesn't seep from my pores because I understand that if I let those toxins flow you all suffocate.

You look at me as though I am delicate, yet you do not know how big this box has become or how many demons it contains- you don't know how dark my darkness is.

You don't see the scars.. and honestly it is not because they aren't visible but because you do not want to see them- you prefer the fantasy of untouched beauty like everyone else.

So I face my darkness alone. I stare in contempt into the eyes of mine own demons and fight for my life. I make peace with memories pulled straight from jump-scare horror movies and r-rated thrillers.

The Devil can hate me but he must respect me for walking through his hell and turning back with my head up just to flip him the bird.

And I could hate him back but every demon he has sent to hurt my feelings, bruise my skin or break my heart now sits in a locked box with my darkness and as it's weight grows- so does my strength to carry it.

My darkness doesn't own me... I own it. I am the dungeon master, the keeper of monsters, the mother of dragons.

So please don't assume that my darkness is less than yours, that it lacks mass, that it is not a threat.... my darkness is only not a threat to you because I take that burden on alone.

In return, I will offer you the same respect.

I think it's my screams

Trapped in my head, with my hopes

And my dreams

Twisting from his grasp she wondered how it had got to this, a perfectly good friendship thrown under the boat for a quick fuck... Whatever. She brought her knee up, angled on her side under him, she used her hands and foot to raise him up and throw him to the ground beside her.

He was tired so he let her go.

She was already bleeding, "bloody dickhead", she probably would have left him unscathed too if he hadn't been a coward about it and brought a knife. She elbowed his face as hard as she could on her way out from under the upturned dinghy. "What entirely is wrong with you?" she queried. It sounded naive, but she was only seven years old and "entirely" was her new favourite word that made her feel grown up.

She realised then, she didn't want to be a grown up today... she just wanted her Mum.

She found her young, single parent, passed out on the couch, half naked in a pool of her own alcohol with "Jimbo's" crusty hand barely covering her vagina. She wondered if her mothers vagina hurt too? God knows who "Jimbo" was, but it was a good enough name for him and for the rest... they never stayed long anyway. "Bye Jimbo, you'll be gone tomorrow" she whispered.

As for today, there would be no kidding around, no running to Mummy. She picked herself up and got on with it. She'd developed a routine now; cover mum with a blanket, give Jimbo the finger, pour the JD down the sink (the Wild Turkey, the Vodka and the wine cask too) find something to eat, have a shower... pretend she didn't exist.

Today she had her shower first though, scrubbing and scrubbing to get rid of the smell of him and the blood and the dirt. She'd felt like this before, the radiating pain of abuse, the feeling of inadequacy at not being able to look after herself, the frustration that her mother was too sick too care for her and the anger that noone was helping them. Where the fuck was prince charming, family, the police? Men came and went from their lives but they never gave more than they took, except for when one of them left her a little brother.

She finished her routine and curled up in bed with a book in her room. Her Mum would go off when she woke up, she would scream and call her names...

She would be ready to smile and say "Good morning Mum, I love ya"

I have urges too, I think silently... I have the urge to want to live again. I have the urge to get the fuck out of here.

Fuck, I have the urge to understand why it is so much fun for those who say they love me, to break me and the watch me falling apart.

Fuck this.

I'm done.

I might be running... I might not. I have the urge to go... seems that is enough to warrant action.

I have the urge not to rely on anyone, not to be suckered in... to accept I don't matter.

Dude you asked for your phone, not me.

I have the urge not to get my way because I pouted and sighed, whinged and nagged, cried and screamed... I don't actually want anything from anyone.

I have the urge to say "Stop asking me what I want when you already know, we both already know I can not have it."

Love is a sham.

First impressions... That look in your eye when you walk into a room. That look of admiration that makes me feel loved for a moment. It's quickly replaced by looks of guilt, pity and anger.

I have the urge for a hug... But I will not ask. I have the urge to stop talking so the words can't slip from my mouth. I tell him what I want and he dangles it infront of me just long enough to make me love him, make me stay. Then he takes all the nice things away again... Making me wish I'd left before it could hurt.

They are always so full of pretty words... men. And I sure do love pretty words. But they are also full of lies and I am tired.

I have the urge not to care anymore... about the lies, the games, the bullshit they all use to get their little kicks of adrenaline while they wound with my soul and destroy my body.

Fuck my life.

Fuck belonging to someone, fuck looking to someone to care when the reality is people only see me for what I have for them and what they can take.

I want to stop talking.. I have the urge to tear out my fucking voice box, so there is no chance of uttering something stupid. My emotions, my thoughts, my ideas, my memories, my dreams, my fears... Noone cares. When it seems they do, I find out later they had simply found another tool to manipulate me.

"Keep your fucking mouth shut bitch- you got a pretty face, bit noone cares what's behind it."

I have the urge to stop talking... to drink acid until every vocal part of me is dead. I want it too burn through my veins, touch my heart and kill my soul so the rest of my body follows suit.

See I have urges too...

Every morning remains the same

Hold it in, control the pain

Let it go, breathe, play the game

Don't let them know you're a little insane

Don't scream, don't cry or they

Will force feed you drugs

Ode to a country where our government are thugs

Power and control in the hands of the most ignorant fools

Ego-hungry maniacs with outdated books and government tools

You do what you can to abide by their rules and report

But where are these services that are meant to offer support?

The police, the shelters, emergency housing, child safety

Let us all down and then wonder why we can't get by safely

Then they wonder why their communities are falling apart

Perhaps it's because they are lacking the heart

And the brains to encourage and promote early intervention

These are our people, our country

It shouldnt be an expermentation.

So many cases of children abused and hurt in their homes

By parents who are lost and feeling desperately alone

I feel for these people because I've watched them reach out

Only to be shutdown, ignored, judged, abused and kicked out

And cases like mine, where we have parented the right way

Only to face the same treatment as the parents above each day

Every morning at the moment, remains the same

I hold it in, I control the pain

I let it go, I breathe and I play the game

Hoping one day I'll wake to hear my children again