dear dad
it is not okay that you weren´t there. even when you were there it was rare that you actually were there.
where were wear ware
now it is okay. now I understand. now I can muster the strength.
then it was not okay. the ways that I developed to cope have become patterns. now I am only mad at the patterns. at myself. not at you. I missed the moment to be mad at you. I missed the opportunity to muster all my rage and express it. from me to you.
but rage demands direction. that is why it went somewhere. there was no where so it went to the only one available: towards myself.
dear dad.
it was not okay that you were sick. dealing with pain instead of dealing with me. i am small. i am dependent. i am dependent on you. i had to get sick for you to be there.
first i get sad. then i get pouty. then i resignate. rage never appears. not in my memory anyways.
dear dad,
just three days ago someone led me to this place of rage. i was barely able to touch upon it. i was fucking scared out of my mind. when i felt it, it wasn´t pure. it was mixed with despair and grief and abysmal sobbing. i wanted to rip her face off like a mask. or smash her against the wall. roar in anger like a dragon threatening to destroy her. gobble her up. rip her head off the shoulders and make her appear. make her present. make her mine. make her stay there. make her come to me. make her a real person.
the voices saying it wasn´t all that bad are my rage´s biggest enemies. they handcuff, silence, gag and mask my rage. pull a veil across it and muffle it. suffocate it.
my rage is like a dangerous animal that is said not to exist. it eats my cells and mutes my life force. and because i don´t know it i can´t use it. it uses me.
it is not okay that you weren´t there. even when you were there it was rare that you actually were there.
where were wear ware
now it is okay. now I understand. now I can muster the strength.
then it was not okay. the ways that I developed to cope have become patterns. now I am only mad at the patterns. at myself. not at you. I missed the moment to be mad at you. I missed the opportunity to muster all my rage and express it. from me to you.
but rage demands direction. that is why it went somewhere. there was no where so it went to the only one available: towards myself.
dear dad.
it was not okay that you were sick. dealing with pain instead of dealing with me. i am small. i am dependent. i am dependent on you. i had to get sick for you to be there.
first i get sad. then i get pouty. then i resignate. rage never appears. not in my memory anyways.
dear dad,
just three days ago someone led me to this place of rage. i was barely able to touch upon it. i was fucking scared out of my mind. when i felt it, it wasn´t pure. it was mixed with despair and grief and abysmal sobbing. i wanted to rip her face off like a mask. or smash her against the wall. roar in anger like a dragon threatening to destroy her. gobble her up. rip her head off the shoulders and make her appear. make her present. make her mine. make her stay there. make her come to me. make her a real person.
the voices saying it wasn´t all that bad are my rage´s biggest enemies. they handcuff, silence, gag and mask my rage. pull a veil across it and muffle it. suffocate it.
my rage is like a dangerous animal that is said not to exist. it eats my cells and mutes my life force. and because i don´t know it i can´t use it. it uses me.
No comments:
Post a Comment