When does the seething emptyness come to an end?
When does depression cease to depress?
What time exactly, I need to set my clock.
When does it get better momma?
You said I would fit in, find my slot,
that people would understand,
or at least it wouldn’t matter so much anymore.
So when’s it get easier?
When do I stop feeling like death,
black dyed hair streaking my face.
Death obsessing me,
turning every bed into an early crypt?
How long till I stop picking men and people
who’s vampirism sucks all the life force out of me?
How many more will parade through, take what they wish,
leave me, not what they wish.
How many more that will see me as such
a deflated usable plastic?
How many that will still hate, laugh, loath?
When does it stop hurting?
Why the long face momma?
Think I would never discover
that the bullshit, the cliches that you threw at me
were nothing more than the dust that we tend.
Nothing more than this American dream that we lust for.
What will be our end?
Will it be our ideals? Or ourselves?
When will I find the masses of people to rise,
to stand up,
and flip off the world.
Were there ever any companions who would do such?
Or was that another dust storm?
What of myself? What of what I’ve become?
How much of it is the original?
How much of it stands up to the weather?
Or does it melt,
the rape did much to make me,
did much to shape me.
made me leary, weary, weak.
made me distrust all those familiar,
rethinking the faces, rethinking all thoughts.
but I recovered, as all wounds do,
and found a new lie to believe.
thinking I was immune,
that was my burden,
my one cross.
then the abduction ruined me,
the second slap,
god’s way of laughing
god’s way of crying
maybe god wasn’t there at all.
he missed the show, so to speak.
the abduction did much to ruin me,
did much to seer me.
made me angry, broken, bitter.
made me distrust strange ones,
rethinking actions, habits, and needs.
and I didn’t recover, as all wounds never do,
and found everything too false to believe.
thinking I was plagued,
that was my burden,
those are my crosses.
pain doesn’t settle on me,
it burns in,
scarification marring all of the original design.
alone in the experience,
alone after the fact.
never seeing justice,
just his face, and that car,
and the field, always the field.
who knew that grass would bust open a face in a memory,
or that it all tears so easily.
but it remains, it is me, it is in me.
and that’s it they say.
except the anger, the blood,
the guilt, the secrets,