Contains material regarding childhood sexual abuse, morbid material,
Deep rooted extreme emotional trauma, suggested mutilation, Multiple types of Abuse. Please Read with caution.)
I have had very minimal contact with some of my extended family recently on Facebook. In some twisted hope that perhaps someday…maybe…I don’t know.
Anyway, I received a friend request from a cousin maybe a week ago, if that.
Then a few days ago, out of the blue she asked me some very personal questions about past abuse with my father, and if it was true.
I was honest with her, and warned her, as any half decent person would do.
I noticed the next day, that she had blocked me.
Out of all the times I have spoken my truth, and made my story known to warn the extended family about my monster asshole dad…I have not gotten ANYTHING but doubt and criticism!!!
I am the laughing stalk of all my blood relatives!!!
NEWS FLASH!!! Monsters are real!!!
They are called Child Molesters, Rapists, Murderers, ETC!!!
And unfortunately, they always have a family, and sadly their family ends up hurt!!!
And the famous last words are ALWAYS “We NEVER saw the signs!” and “How could we have been so stupid?” or “How did we miss something like this?” or maybe even “Well we knew he may have had his issues, but nobody’s perfect.”
All I have to say to you is Good riddance, DUHHHH, and Deuces!!!
I fuckin tried man.
I really did.
Like I said before, I’m done trying to save victims that don’t want to be saved.
I’m no savior…
and I’M NOBODY’S MARTYR IETHER!!!
So I don’t even wanna hear that shit when your lives come tumbling down,
or you face charges for being an accessory or whatever.
Funny part is, I won’t even need to have anything to do with it.
Karma is a Bitch!!!
I’ve been pretty upset over this incident and I’ve been reeling ever since.
It’s almost like I’m several different people all wrapped up into one.
But one person has surfaced a FUCKIN LOT lately:
The little girl inside me screams.
She’s trapped in a soundless room filled with everyone she should, and desperately needs to trust.
But they will never hear.
Her skin is porcelain, and she appears untouched.
She is only a baby on the outside.
Who, pray, has deflowered and bent this child?
Eyebrows permanently furrowed. Acid teardrops scar her cheeks.
Her shoulders bear a guilt-load that scrapes at her heart.
Her whimpers are scrutinized, and turned inside-out.
A dark figure with scary eyes lurks in the shadows.
It knows just where to stay hidden.
There are nails, barbed wire, chainsaws, hammers, zippers, and knives.
There is blood.
Her fear is twisted and used up by the dark figure, making it stronger.
Her screams echo.
With their painted on smiles, she is patted on her head and told:
Big girls don’t cry.
Big girls don’t cry.
Big girls don’t cry.
Confusion swirling around in her head.
She crumples to the ground.
They sway like marionettes, and turn their backs.
…IT swoops in.
She is offered up.
Again and again.
Sometimes she cries, but then she gets better.
It has no weakness.
It has no feelings.
Like a robot.
It eats fear.
It eats acid-tears.
It’s whispers reach her bones, licking her core.
Telling her she is bad.
She was born like this.
These insidious words are a cleverly implanted time-bomb,planted caressingly through the well rehearsed compassion and deceptively slipped into the part of her heart she should keep most guarded.
The bomb is designed to go off randomly, its debris intertwining it’s darkness into her insides, repeating it’s slimy whispers incessantly throughout her entire, little body.
She is oblivious.
It loves her, but she made it be this way. She must try harder.
They love her…right?
Love is a confusing thing.
She must bleed more and talk less.
Let us paint you a smile, they say.
“Screaming is bad, talking is bad. I must pretend.
Big girls don’t cry”
In the silent room with their pasted on grins…
they bless the blood.
She doesn’t die, yet she cannot live.
They never hear, they choose not to.
The dark figure thrives on in the daylight now.
Only she can see it.
She is the crazy one.