patricidekid

[patricidekid]

Je suis son péché, sa chair, son erreur, son pansement foiré alors je l'ai gravé sur ma peau pour ne jamais l'oublier.

Elle défend les péchés du père seulement parce qu'elle est complice, elle aussi frappe dans mes côtes, m'écrase le visage contre le carrelage. Je sens mes dents s'enfoncer dans ma gencive inférieure, le sang abreuver ma bouche.

Ces larmes ne sont qu'un bruit quotidien de sa morne existence au travers des murs, décevante, fantomatique.

Ces gémissements brisé au travers des murs du mobil-home qu'on habite depuis des mois, je fait l'aveugle à chaque homme devant la porte, je tourne les yeux devant le verre de vin rouge.

Le sang de Jésus notre seigneur abreuve mes lèvres pendant qu'elle travaille, l'odeur du tabac froid. Le sentier et le pont rouge en métal au dessus de la rivière qui me mène à l'arrêt de bus.

Les champs dans lequel je préfère me perdre, les habits que je porte qui ne sont pas miens, mes cheveux trop long en batailles comme des épis de blé, les bleues mal caché sous le fond de teint trop orange pour ma peau de lait.

[patricidekid]

I live in my mother's heart and in my father's head as a reminiscent ghost of the kid they wanted, maybe i'll die there too.

[patricidekid]

And you're just a child, you're back in the car.

Kicking , screaming, biting, throwing yourself with rage, being pathetic.

Clinging to the backseat like it's the only thing that matter, you beg, cry, like an baby when you're 12.

While your mom is busy throwing you out, trying to make you leave the car to go to school, even when you're scared, even when you tell her , it won't be okay, you just wanna be held.

But it doesn't matter, you're guilty because you can't explain exactly why school scare you so much, why it's hard, why you hate other's, why you feel paranoid all the time, why you feel like everyone is laughing, why peoples aren't nice. You can't tell her that you cutted yourself last night, that they're mocking you and your flat tits , baby face, that you wanna bang your head against the wall.

She won't understand and even if she could, she would do nothing, school will close their eyes like they did the year before pretending to punish them.

I know they don't remember about me, if i talk to them now years later, no one would understand or remember how bad it was. Am i guilty to live with those feelings ?

Then i leave the car, i still cry, cling onto her arms and in the nurse office everyone is telling me that's i'm just throwing an tantrum, i'm begging her to not abandon me even if its just for today.

She said it be okay and she abandoned me everytime, choosing work over me, her life over me. I watched her leave while i was crying, struggling in my own drool, then i shut myself, went okay with the day, told nothing to anyone.

Cameback home, closed my door after dinner and sinked , sat on the edge of my windows looking into the void swallowing pill doctor gave me.

And on her side, she drink a glass of wine, pretend everything is fine.

Tomorrow we'll go back to the psychiatrist and she'll hold my thigh firmly, squeezing it, saying it's my fault, that I'm a difficult child every time I talk a little too much about home.

I'm just an bandaid, one that didn't even fulfilled her role, an child, something she wanted just to protect herself , something that got too big and complicated for her.

[patricidekid]

Dents, dents jaunes, troué, trop longues, trop avancée, trop écartées.

J'aime penser que mes dents sont une partie plutôt représentative de ma personne.

Dents de lapin corrigé par des dentistes avec hardeur quitte à y laisser aujourd'hui 4 trous symétrique dans ma dentition, quitte à ce que rien n'ai changé malgré leur efforts.

Canines pointus et aussi coupante qu'un rasoir.

Des années d'enfances à ne pas se brosser les dents, à avoir peur des dentistes.

Les deux premières dents que j'ai perdu parce qu'un enfant ma fait un croche patte à la maternelle.

Gencives saignant abondamment, les larmes à me les brosser.

La difficulté de croiser mon propre regard dans la glace.

Comme si aussi stupide soit-il le faire me faisais apercevoir le fantôme de l'enfant que j'ai était, sinistre souvenir.

[patricidekid]

Road

The road full of reflections from the previous rain, the faint yellow glow of the street lamps in the darkness of the night, the fine drops still falling, the silence, the 10% battery remaining on my phone, my earphones slipped into my ears, a random playlist in my ears.

The silence of the night, of solitude, of the few passing cars, of the male passers-by I'm avoiding, of the cool summer night air, of the sound of my solitary footsteps, of the pain in my wrist I'm ignoring.

It's nearly 4 a.m., I leave the emergency room despite the rain because I'm alone, an orphan, I have no one and I don't want to stay in a place that reminds me of my dark destiny, my suffering.

19 years old, I'm a 19-year-old child, a poor fragile thing in the eyes of the policemen, the nurses, the paramedics, the women in the waiting room who comfort me as I cry.

I'm all this for love, because I loved with my soul a person who didn't deserve it, who mistreated me, belittled me, isolated me, slapped me and finally tried to end my life, who tried to break my wrist and elbow one evening in July, the last night I laid eyes on him.

My mother was on holiday, my father hadn't spoken to me in years, any friends? I'm terrified of the future, I've got nothing, no roof over my head, no future, and tomorrow I'll have to make a statement at the police station.

So I walk this road through the city center all alone, with my sobs, my apathy, my denial, then I get back to this apartment, with this cat, the place where he asked me to marry him, where he pushed me, hit me, raped me, slapped me, the place where he loved me, desired me, this place of shared life that means so much.

I take a shower, I feel disgusting, I collapse into bed, I talk by message with a friend who supported me all along and who was the only light of hope in the darkness, then I sink.

The next day I wake up at 2pm, my mother not coming to pick me up out of selfishness, I pack my bags, I collect what I can take, my headphones have never left my ears, as if afraid of hearing the world passing continuously behind my pain, as if terrified of my insignificance. I'm on the verge of breaking down in tears every time I speak, when I have to tell the police station secretary in front of the rest of the waiting room that I'm here because my boyfriend who hit me has spent the night in custody, that I have an appointment with a policewoman.

The guilty, pitying looks of the people around me, the marks of those fingers on my wrists as if branded with a red iron by those hands, the bruises on my hand swollen like a glove someone had blown into, the pain I don't know about because no one was able to see if it was broken in the emergency room, the tears and the choked voice, the fear, the advice from the cop. Having to explain that my ex is only pretending to be sympathetic and calm, going over the whole night of horror, letting them take photos of my wounds. Leaving the police station, collapsing almost in tears, I'm alone again, my things fall out of my bag, I kneel down, pick them up, slip a cigarette between my teeth, cry, take the crowded tramway, take the bus, alone, alone, alone, trying to hide my wounds, wearing a long-sleeved -t-shirt in the middle of a heatwave, ashamed of the way others look at me.

I leave all my life behind, I'm finally at my mother's, I'm comatose, she doesn't want to hear or understand, I don't have the faith to talk about it, how traumatized I am, how startled I am at every door slamming, every tone rising, how certain male presences make me all the more anxious.

I'm dealing with it all alone, because no one is helping me, no one is trying, no one is there for me.

I'm struggling to get my belongings back from a cunt I'm still wishing would disappear because she treated me like a nobody, I'm struggling with the legal procedures - it's the beginning of August - when I call I get the secretary again, I don't dare call victims' aid associations because I'm afraid of not being considered as such, when some people have been through much worse. I don't have the faith to face up to what's happened to me, to the fact that I really was a victim, to the repercussions that to this day I ignore the pain in my wrist, I deal with it, I pretend to be strong when in fact I'm a sinking ship.

He was convicted, I wasn't the first and I certainly won't be the last, but at least I was the one who chose to speak out, he has a criminal record and even if his sentence was derisory and ridiculous, it was atleast a victory.

I won, but at what price? I would have loved never to love him, never to cross his path, to forgive him, to let him capture me like a lone fawn at the mercy of the wolf, but I managed to get away before things got too serious.

People tell me I'm strong, that it's admirable that I've managed, I don't know, I just did things mechanically, which I thought was right, but I'm not strong, I'm weak, traumatized with a constant desire to cry, terrified of maintaining a normal human relationship, of the looks of others, of reactions, who spends his time crushing himself by reflex and who apologizes all the more.

But at least I survived?

#domestic violene poem #trauma tw #poem #trauma recovery #original poem #my text #trauma related #tw abuse #emotional abuse #trauma survivor #abuse survivor #text post #my poem #original peoms

[patricidekid]

I took the slap, i fell onto my knees red and bruised, i cried, struggled onto my own tears and drool. I grabbed your hand and kneeled, i begged you to not abandon me, to not leave, that i would change even if i was never in the wrong, that i would shut myself for you. And you accepted it, you loved how beautiful i was begging you to kill me, to damage me.

I was the epitome of beauty and pity, pathetic pain.

I was ur art piece, the muse, the canva of ur dark urges.

You pushed me to kill myself, to crush myself beneath your person, to be the pretty trophy fiancee silent.

You loved me, how you could abuse me.

You proposed i said yes and god knows that if you didn't tried to broke my wrist, if you didn't pushed everything further we would be married, i be your wife, the mother of your child, the eternal broken doll.

But it didn't happened, i saved myself, a last time, i wasn't anymore scared of being abandoned, you lost the power you had over me.

And then everything became clear, you didn't cared, never did and started to protect yourself rather than admitting your mistake like you promised me you will, when you were still trying to capture me.

You'll be burning in hell forever, god maybe made me frail and traumatized but he also gave me sharp teeth and a strong jaw.

In the flames, i be your sins and eternal torments.

[patricidekid]

Je suis issue de la honte d'un pays.

De la caste que notre nation de liberté ne veux voir et admettre.

Des faits divers que les gens regardent avec perversité et curiosité malsaine avant de retourner à leur vie rangé.

Je suis issue de la petite fille rescapée de guerre, de l'orpheline russe envoyé en France à mort de ces parents pour rejoindre son oncle en France , seule famille, celle qui à vus les allemands raser ce village normand, tuer ces parents adoptif , lui voler ces chaussures du dimanche. Celle qui verra les américain distribuée des chewing-gum, celle qui sera séparé de ces frères et soeurs envoyé dans une famille d'accueil bourgeoise du sud après la guerre, violée, brillante jusqu'à ce que la société la renferme dans son rôle de femme.

Schizophréne, noyée dans l'omerta et la honte, machine à enfant jusqu'à ce qu'il la divorce et l'abandonne seule dans un appartement avec tout juste de quoi se subvenir sans aides.

La grand-mère ératique qui couvrait son sol de cartons , qui pensait que des gens la suivait, qui avait 5 loquets, qui détestais ces propres enfants convaincue que depuis la naissance ils n'étaient là que pour la tuer. Celle que les laboratoires noieront dans un cycle de médicaments et de rechute, celle que l'état placera loin de sa famille et qui mourra seule dans la chapelle de son institut.

De l'enfant espagnol qui traversa les Pyrénées en plein hiver pour fuir la mort, celui qui se retrouvera à travailler à 12 ans quand son père les abandonnera, subvenant au besoin de 6 frères et sœurs et d'une mère alcoolique. Qui se tuera au travail, qui n'aura que peu de temps pour ces passions, qui n'aura jamais assez d'argents pour vivre convenablement, qui n'est jamais allé à l'école, qui regardera ces frères et sœurs sombrer dans les addictions , qui se tuera à l'usine, dans les mines d'uranium jusqu'à ce que tout ferme, qu'il sois forcé de prendre sa retraite, que les substances toxique et inhalée le tueront. De ces racines migrants oublié , effacé, du racisme , de l'assimilation forcé, du sang resté en Espagne quelque part dans une fosse commune tué par le fascismes.

De ces racines migrantes oublié, bafoué, noyé dans la honte du système français.

De ces abus qui n'intéressait personne parce qu'ils n'étaient pas vraiment français, de ce sang versé pour faire fonctionner une nation qui leur crache dessus.

Pour que de paisible personnes puissent fantasmer une révolution, la précarité.

De la honte de la santé mentale, des origines, de la pauvreté, de mon arrière grand-mère qui se tua au travail chez des bourgeois en tant que femme de ménage jusqu'à ne plus pouvoir travailler.

Celle qui éleva ces deux filles avec la dureté et la cruauté d'une veuve, ces deux filles qui sombrérent dans l'alcoolisme, l'une d'elle aujourd'hui n'est plus capable de marché et l'autre est resté bloqué mentalement à ces 13 ans.

Je suis issue du rêve libéral de l'essor social, mais en vain. Des enfants poussée à la réussite, à la course à l'argent, il ne reste plus que des adultes brisés qui regrette d'avoir eu des enfants.

Certe ils ne vivent plus dans des maisons au mur recouvert de moisissure et au parquet croulant de cafard mais à quoi bon ? Ils n'ont plus rien, piégé économiquement, l'essor fut bref la chute fut éternelle.

Les conditions sociales , les maladies rampant dans le sang crasseux de l'immigration les rattraperons un jour et pourtant si personne ne crois au rêve de l'essor social il n'y a plus d'espoir ? Quoi d'autre que d'être méprisé par ces gens faciles qui fantasme la misère humaine, j'ai de la chance d'avoir la peau blanche mais celà ne fait pas de moi une fierté de l'état.

Je ne suis pas jolie chérubin, je suis issue d'une honte , d'un tabou, d'un fantasme, de générations de personnes dont personne ne veux entendre l'histoire.

De cette caste sociale qui prouve l'échec du système, la raison de la haine, les secrets honteux de famille, du viol à la mort.

Mais si je ne parle pas ? Si je répète le schéma, si je me tait, si je m'intègre, si j'accepte alors personne ne saura et nous continuerons d'être la caste haïs et fantasmé par ces paisibles gens.

Nous continuerons d'être les rats rongeurs de cette nation traître, de cette république fondé sur des mensonges, de cette belle nation honteuse de nous, ces enfants bâtards et je ne serai pas vu tant que je ne leur baiserai pas la semelle.

[patricidekid]

He once called me his lolita, making him my humbert humbert.

His little girl, "kiddo".

I lost my virginity the Halloween vacation, i was at my aunt house after my sixteen's birthday.

I just left and went to his place, without thinking much i just wanted to escape from my misery.

He was nice as he was in our text and call, he called me smart, beautiful, pretty. I was everything he wanted, an pretty doll , not like his bitchy ex the hag.

I was dumb, pathetic, naive an baby without anyone to care or ask after herself.

We went to his appartment, closed door, played assassin's creed odyssey on his xbox, he was 23 nearly 24.

He kissed me, i said to him that i wasn't shaved, that i was scared, he reassured me, i felt important for someone for once, he took my virginity on that crappy couch and then on his bed.

I felt no pain, no pleasure just nothing, i moaned i think, i tried to act like an grown girl, like the one you see in adult movies.

Arching my back, letting him do anything he wanted.

I looked at the roof, i felt myself absent but i liked what was after sex, his hugs, that silly feeling, the comfort, the care no one ever gave to me.

I smoke cigarettes, joint after that.

I ignored my mom's call, i was becoming an women on a wood floor being arched and played like an doll and he was my puppeteer.

It happened again, in secret, i always refused to stay for the night.

He asked me to not say anything about us when we met his friends, i just stayed silent on the side but there was no doubt as everyone probably knew. I didn't looked like an adult, barely a teenagers.

My tits were so small at that time.

It happened another time the next summer but after that i grew up, i realized , took my distance.

I wore makeup to look more older as he asked, i listened to him complaining about his old annoying ex while he was praising my young body and quiet smart behavior.

I was an good kid , he was my father, lover, everything.

It happened again, during summer, he filmed my body, covered it with mark, i hate hickeys since then.

I hate how every guy i dated during this period marked me, with purples , blue and green marks.

I wasn't myself property.

Then i grew up, stopped talking to him, i let that story being my secret for years, before i realized.

One night, i was drunk and I sended him an text telling him to kill himself.

Then the next day he sended a message. Saying he will always live with the regret of what he did to me, but that he really did loved me, that i was the smartest girl he ever met, and pretty.

That he didn't just loved me for my flesh, i cried.

I hated him, i died so many times, on camera, in his arms. Lolita is nothing more than an broken doll, that could have died.

But at the same time i trusted him and his words, he was my whole world for a while, he wasn't rough or violent with me never, i felt protected and loved but used at the same time.

It's silly but i don't hate him, i wish he just never did anything to me, that we never talked, that he never praised me, that he never was the one i loss my virginity with.

I wish i could be an pure lamb again, that he didn't slaughtered me.

[patricidekid]

Premier souvenir.

J'ai 3 ans, je suis assise sur le rebord du lavabo dans la salle de bain de notre première maison.

Les bruits sont sourd mais je pleure et tu le fait aussi, tu te renferme pour me rassurer, tu essuie le mascara, le sang sur tes mains due au coupure. Tu essuie mon nez qui coule et saigne, tu me tiens dans tes bras.Tu me murmure que tu m'aime que ça ira, je pleure, je m'étouffe dans ma bave. Papa ne sert qu'à faire des bruits sourds à l'extérieur de cette salle de bain, il cris, insulte, frappe dans les murs, la vaisselle se casse.

Tu efface ce souvenir, il n'a jamais existé, tu le protège plus que tu ne me protège.

Tu t'enferme dans un mensonge , dans une pièce de théâtre chaque jours jusqu'à exploser mais ce sera toujours jamais arrivé.

Je suis jamais vraiment sortie de cette salle de bain, le seul endroit ou ma maman me sauva vraiment, le seul endroit ou j'ai était un jour en sécurité.

Mais je ne suis que prisonnière de ton labyrinthe égoïste, attendant qu'un jour tu te retourne et rouvre la porte de la salle de bain.

[patricidekid]

And one night for an silly reason you scream at me, you throw object, you punch the wall, you knock your head against the wall, you push me against it, against the bed. And i sit in an corner of the room, i cry, i struggle in my drool, i keep telling you sorry i beg you to stop, to calm.

I was 19 but you made me 9 in the shadow of my mother when my father screamed and throwed glass at her.

You made me back into the frightened kid i was, begging , praying to stop.

[patricidekid]

I would always be the other woman, the girl they wanna fill up but never marry, i cannot bear their child, in an man's world my destiny is doomed, just an sexual fantasy.

[patricidekid]

Sweet year of my 15 years

A sweet teenager with no self-confidence.

The years before that I was the girl you wouldn't look at, the flat-chested girl, too juvenile, ugly, too thin.

The forgettable girl, the one you told yourself you'd never date.

"What about her? You're crazy, I'm not gay", said a boy in English class one day, after learning that I had a stupid crush on him that should have remained a secret if a girl hadn't ratted him out.

Then I turned 15, then 16.

I became cute overnight, my bangs, my round face, my almond-shaped eyes and canines, my pale skin, a chest that's not so flat anymore, hips so pronounced they're the perfect size for hands, and an ass you'd love to slap.

Little ankles that are easy to grab.

I went from the forgettable to the girl who even without paying attention was attractive, the one whose advances no one would ever really refuse.

The kind you couldn’t tear your eyes away from, a fantasy, a dream.

I'd like what I tell here to be nothing more than stories from my ego, but it's not.

The looks of all men on my body, whether they were much too old or teenagers, my father's prejudices when I put on a dress.

The "teen", "step daughter", "small tits" and "skinny girl" porn I found on his computer a few months later.

The homeless man who, after giving him money, told me I was cute and had a slutty ass.

The drunk who followed me down the street and showed me his penis when I was 12, calling me a tease.

The other who followed me through a whole tramway seat by seat, playing the nice man as he tried to block me so he could touch me and jerk off in front of me.

These boyfriends calling me a slut behind my back, stalking me... lusting after me.

The 24-year-old man I gave my virginity to thinking I was in love for money, attention.

All of them… who filmed my young body, took advantage of me, while i was high , drunk or just an dumb teenager, an stupid kid.

All of the man who are right now are you read that probably jerking off to those image of my younger self.

That video… where my eyes are empty , an older hand behind my head guiding my shy innocent move on his flesh, i wanna gush those eyes out, his vocal cords.

All these guys putting me on a pedestal for my beauty because I was "too good for them" they were all jealous, obsessive, abusive.

My body was beaten, raped, hated, filmed, shared.

The first man to hit me was my father, then my mother and then another boyfriend. I always thought it was my fault, I was an easy girl according to my mother, a bad girl according to her too.

Ironically, even the sorority didn't save me, each of the girls fantasizing about me as a way of redeeming their boyfriends or as something to be hated and belittled in public.

And so, the year I turned 15, I unknowingly and sadly accepted the fact that my body would never again be mine, but that of others, of fantasy and jealousy, of death.

[patricidekid]

And the worst things i loved them entirely, with all their sins, their flaws, their brutal behavior but none of them loved me for who i was.

[patricidekid]

Choses que des hommes m’ont dit

« T’es rien qu’à moi ? Haha tu vas finir par croire que je suis ton humbert humber et toi ma lolita… tu me rend fou toi et tes petits seins. »

« t’es juste à moi ma salope rien qu’à moi hein ? Dit oui , dit oui … tu pourra jamais t’échapper je t’aime »

« T’es sûre que tu veux pas recommencer ? On s’amusait bien aller… et puis ça me dérange pas si tu sanglote. »

«  je t’aime je t’aime je t’aime, baise moi, laisse moi te baiser c’est pas grave si tu dit non aujourd’hui tu diras oui un jour. »

« J’adore… tu ressemble à une petite fille en uniforme, allez s’il te plaît laisse moi te frapper »

« … je veux t’étrangler, je pourrais le faire jusqu’à ce que tu t’évanouisse »

« T’es ma petite copine sexy, jeune j’ai de la chance de t’avoir rien qu’à moi, je te mérite pas… je te laisserai pas partir. »

« Si on vois mes amies tu dira que t’a 20 ans hein ? Que t’es majeure ? »

« Peut-être que tu devrais te maquiller t’aurait l’air plus vieille… j’adore ton visage de poupée mais les autres doivent pas savoir »

« t’es la petite fille la plus brillante que j’ai pus rencontrer, je t’aime gamine … montre moi tes seins … j’ai pas envie que tu parte tu pourrais rester là chez moi, je pourrais t’enlever et tu serai à moi. Je me sens comme ton père, j’ai envie de te pouponner. »

« C’est pas grave que t’ai répété arrête t’a dit oui puis plus rien après, je suis un gentil garçon, j’ai rien fait de mal c’est de ta faute. »

« Je t’aime, je t’aime je t’aime je t’aime, je t’abandonnerais jamais promis. »

« Salope, larve, t’es le problème, tout est de ta faute, t’es faible et pathétique… tu me doit tout. »

« T’es belle quand tu pleure, touche moi. »

« … j’ai envie de te recouvrir de bleues, je pense que j’ai raison, j’ai raison. Je pourrais te tuer… où te mettre enceinte ? Tu m’appartiendrais comme ça ? »

« Mais tu comprends les autres mecs te regarde comme un bout de viandes… je suis pas comme ça moi. Non c’est bon ça me gave j’ai envie de rentrer. »

« Même mon pote m’a dit que t’étais giga bonne et que j’avais tiré le gros lot »

« J’adore tu ressemble à une enfant, tu peu faire semblant d’être ma petite sœur… s’il te plaît. »

« T’es qu’une gamine qui ne sais pas faire preuve d’humilité, t’es hystérique , je sais mieux que toi »

« J’ai juste voulu contrôler ces poignets promis monsieur l’agent. »

« Et t’a pas cherché ce qui t’es arrivée ? Tu devrais avoir honte »

« J’adore tes petits pieds de poupées, ta poitrines d’enfant … »

« Suicide toi »

« Sale pute »

« … j’ai envie de te faire saigner »

« ma petite chose précieuse »

« Épouse moi, ne m’abandonne pas pardon je suis un connard »

« Pardon je vais faire des efforts »

« Je doit aller consulter un psy promis »

« Je vais changer promis »

« Je suis désolé »

« Je te mérite pas »

« Salope »

« T’es rien qu’à moi… juste à moi »

« Par pitié reprend moi »

« eh tu sais ce que tu m’avais raconté sur ton passé… pourquoi t’a fait ça ? Tu sais si ça leak tu sera détruite »

«  Tu est si jolie avec ma queue à côté de ton visage lolita… souris à la caméra. »

« Montre moi tes pieds, petite poupée. »

« J’ai retrouvé les photos et vidéos de toi…tu sais ton enfance traumatisante dont tu m’a parlé j’ai était vérifier que ça existe »

«J’ai était lire tout tes messages et autres sur les réseaux alors que t’étais à côté de moi mais c’est pas grave je suis pas une mauvaise personne, je suis pas manipulateur regarde je te le dit »

« Désolé j’ai eu une vie compliqué »

« T’es la fille la plus géniale que je connais »

« je pourrais jamais t’oublier, par pitié reste »

« T’es brillante, t’a pas eu de chance »

« Je passerai mon couteau sous ta gorge et tu saignera pute russe du sud »

« Ouais mais c’est pas comme si il allait le faire en vrai »

« Tu veux bien ne plus rester en appel avec quiconque après que je sois partie dormir ou absent ? »

« ça te dérange pas de faire la petite fille ? S’il te plaît sinon je vais me suicider »

« Tu me comprend… t’es passé sous ma peau t’es juste renversante »

« Épouse moi »

« Tout est de ta faute t’es le soucis »

« t’es qu’une connasse manipulatrice comme ta mère »

« Teen, small tits, barely legal »

« Par pitié écoute moi »

« Hey , hey , hey , hey , hey , hey »

« J’ai besoin de toi, s’il te plaît écoute moi. »

« Eh on est d’accord qu’on s’est entendu t’en parlera pas hein ? »

« Tu sais ça à était compliqué pour moi, je veux bien te dire ma version mais promet moi que tu acceptera mes excuses… »

« Merci, je vais les screen. »

« Je suis une victime »

« C’est toi le soucis »

« … t’es mignonne quand tu pleure »

« Saute. »

« J’ai peur que tu rencontre d’autres mecs en hp »

« T’es pas différente d’eux, t’es pathétique, t’es oubliable, une larve , faible »

« Salut Mélu ne raccroche pas »

« T’es qu’une menteuse j’ai pas forcé »

« Je suis sûre que tu serai super baisable même morte haha. »

« je t’ai suivi jusqu’à chez toi »

« Je suis désolé, je t’aime. »

Je les tous aimés comme une idiote, je les ai laissé me recouvrir de bleues, de morsures, de sangs, de larmes et de baves.

Je les ai laissé me diriger comme une poupée, comme des marionnettistes tirant sur mes fil.

[patricidekid]

The frustrated child

When you grew up in chaos, with an frustrated kid , an angry man there will always be one in ur house or atleast for some decades.

It's always an frustrated kid, one with trauma, and sad life and many reason to explain his behavior. You also had an shitty life, maybe way worse than him, but you didn't chose the abuser way and yet you try to comprehend, to listen.

It start with screams and you know how scream are the worst things, screaming make you cry it bring you back to when you were an scarred kid praying spiderman to save you and your mom in that bathroom at 3.

Then it's throwing object , punching wall...it's the chaos you always knew and it hurt but you can't help to try to apolozige because when everything is okay, he's nice, he's kind and sweet.

You don't wanna be abandonned, you're tired of getting used and treated like an kid he just want to supress, to opress. Always playing the adult one, the mature one with an calm tone when he's only capable of screaming and hitting things to express his feeling.

He start holding your wrist, pushing you, abandoning you in the appartment after screaming at you rather than talking with you.

It's frustrating right ? You can't build or talk with an wall so you end up destroying yourself, shutting yourself, crying alone again and again.

It's not rare after an fight that your pale wrist are covered by red mark of his finger over it , you fell on that bed too many times, you cried lonely in that bathroom when he was sleeping so many times.

You even tried to stab yourself, to cry, to die. And even when you admit that he won , he still play the liar, telling you that it's not what he meant again and again.

You're an whiny kid , one who don't have any humility or idea of how to live, an liar, an manipulator, sometime he even dare to call you the abuser. You're always in the wrong and him he's never wrong.

Oh of course he is sometime, when he realize he went too far, that he's gonna loose you. Then he cry, , he apolozige, he admit and promise he's gonna chance and do effort just like you but he's a liar, he don't think what he said. He won't budge, move a finger for you and he's waiting for you to change for him.

The first slap , still ur wrist covered in red, the love bombing to get you back, he even proposed to you.

In public he's the good boyfriend , the happy one, the respectfull one but behind the curtains, when the door is closed he's nothing than a puppet master trying to tame you.

He would never change or do effort maybe because he never really loved you entirely, he loved your body , the fact that he could control you, he hoped changing you rather than seeing you for what you are.

He's an frustrated kid but you can't save him , and you stopped because you don't wanna let yourself be killed by an Peter Pan who can't grow up or look at himself correctly, you're Wendy but let's be honest you deserve better than rotting while he''s abusing you, to buy the peace with sex, pastry and ur cries.

Maybe in the end you weren't the baby and he was, he was an liar , one that never took an good look on you, one that wanted you to change, one that never never and never loved you for who you are

#poem #trauma tw #domestic violene poem #my text #original poem #trauma recovery #trauma vent #toxic relationship

[patricidekid]

Letter to my mother

I hate you, I love you and so on.

I find you a victim and an executioner, sad and happy, a perfect liar.

I am you, a part of you that you consider inseparable but you don't see me.

When you look at me, you see yourself, not me.

An extension of your being, a younger version that repeats your mistakes, to whom you'd like to spare every misfortune while failing to protect her, while throwing her under the bus.

Your protection is futile, non-existent, a mirage and a childhood dream that I once dared to hope for, but in vain.

You taught me that I was alone forever, that no matter who loved me, it would always be my fault, the insults and blows would always be my fault, not the others', not yours, not Dad's ever.

Me, me, me.

Fautious.

I hold on to the past you want to erase, I grow up in your suffocating shadow.

I'm sad that you don't dare see yourself, that you don't dare face yourself, but I hate you because you won't let me see myself.

You refuse to let me see myself as a victim because that would make you see all the other victims, you drown me with you in the ocean.

For a long time, we've been like sisters, always with each other, unable to survive without each other.

The appointments, the separations.

I think I'm the person who knows you best, the one who knows how to see you.

And I pity you, pity that I was your only real friend, pity that you crashed with lousy men to express yourself once away from their male nonsense.

Pity your alcoholism, your cigarettes, the homeopathy, the drugs we once shared.

You passed on your eating disorders to me, we copied each other over and over again.

It wasn't my role, and ironically I was more of a mother to you than you were to me.

I was there, I didn't blame you and I listened to your pain.

You... you abandoned me again and again, I'm sorry I was such an imperfect daughter who today is no longer the child prodigy you wished for, I'm wasting my literary talents only to displease you, to no longer give you control.

The child who today screams and cries out her malaise and points at all the drowned wrecks.

But Mom, did you just teach me to be like that? If I'm a liar it's because you are one, if you think I'm easy it's because of you, if I'm depressed and constantly sad it's because of my melancholy mother.

I'm sorry for the helpless child, the young adult and the teenager you were, but I'll never end up like you, it's a fate I refuse to accept.

Never, never, never.

I'd rather die than end up like you, because you didn't survive, you're suffocating in silence and I pity you mom but with me you were never a good mother, you were just an unstable child.

#poem #trauma tw #text post #my text #writers and poets #mommy issues #my poem

[patricidekid]

My father tried to kill me , my mom multiples times.

I should have died, it’s funny how fates work ? In the end i should have died, i almost killed him too.

Every car ride during their divorces, every screaming fighting was the scary ghost of murders, he ran after her with an knife, she left, no one cared about the kids in the home.

No cops showed up, my aunt knew but just called him to try to talk.

They all abandoned us there, the only reason of why my dad didn’t do it was because he was scared of them calling cops, of not having the time to end his life, to be punished for his mistake.

Oh only if he knew that no one cared about the fates of broken bandaid child, all born for fixing an doomed relationship.

The only reason of me being a survivor is my dad weakness, an coward, an bastard, an perfect liar protected by everyone’s around.

If he didn’t killed us literally he did it mentally.

I prayed god, spiderman, everything.

I saw myself dying in his hand so many times, i learned the selfish scared of survivors, of crying in silence when he was beating my little brother because if we dared to speak… we would die, be abandoned, burned alive, stabbed.

I died at that dinner tables, every lunch, nothing was perfect everything was a reason to mock, bully, hit.

The bike day after my mom and dad broke up, my dad bringed me and my siblings deep in the wood with our bikes…. he beated, screamed at us for not being perfect.

Slut, bastard, bitch, asshole, mistake we were all that.

If my brother didn’t cried too loud, if those hitchhiker didn’t walked near, i would be dead.

One day on the side of an road if that guy didn’t stopped to ask if everything was alright… my mom would have died stabbed, we would have died locked in an car burned as gas was in our body inhaling it.

It’s an detail everyone forgot about but i remember it brightly, the car inside smelled gas.

One day before their broke up, he throwed my mom phones on the road and then he tried to run her over and then send the car into the ravine with us in the back.

But no one remember that ? Im the witness that no one want to acknowledge or see, he’s an great man, an cool dad right ? He bought my silence for years, my sister and brother don’t remember everything.

I wished it could stay like that, i be the only one suffering, the only witness, i would have protected and shielded them.

But it’s not true, one day their memories will comeback, all those horribles years buried would haunt them.

We were all broken, all killed so he could live, so he could buy himself an new happiness.

I’m weak too, i should have stabbed him, shot him.

Every time he beated or screamed at us that he should kill himself or abandon us, kill my mother, my stepfather, us, burn the house for guit tripping, keeping the control.

I should have jumped on him, i should have grabbed the rifle in the closet, the knife, the hammer, everything.

I should have stabbed his heart, his face so many times, his blood should had painted my face.

But i didn’t, i wasn’t an hero, an brave knights no i was just an scared child who learned to cry in silence so she won’t get slapped.

I couldn’t have done it, it wasn’t my roles, the system, family everyone abandoned us, doomed failed bandaid kid.

I wish he died, i wish he killed himself, i wish my dad wasn’t an coward bastard.

I wish my mom, family didn’t protected him, but they did.

« Poor bastard, he lost everything hes a good man, his pain is understandable »

Oh they all knew they just didn’t wanted to acknowledge it, all cowards, weak.

They killed us, he killed us and i couldn’t kill him.

#original poem #my text #text #poem #trauma tw #trauma