In Abuse love ceases

There is no feeling; the feel of a tear drop is quite romantic to the soul of my cheeks because in this moment I do not know how to feel. I do not understand the balance between who I am and who I know I am and the way these men perceive me. For my relationships, I have bared all from skin to heart, open and laid for the liking to blossom into love but with the rare luck that love has appeared only to fizzle before my heart can comprehend what I have done to destroy it.

 My vocal cords in a knot, my thoughts climbing to my heart. Was it the way I raised with the scars that tattoo my skin from anger of abuse of what tantrums a child threw and my mother could not handle. Or the times when my brother threw chairs at me and I stood there trying to save the intimate parts of my body from being bled. The way my family dragged me through the rigged layers of concrete, kicking and screaming of the failure and disgrace I was. I don’t remember the cause for that, nor have I kept count of the instances in which my body could not be saved. I do not know how to feel this all in my heart. How to create an equation that finds the answer for my existence.

I was a mistake for my birth right stolen from me. I should have never been born she said, nor did she ever hold me, kiss me or caress my hair as she did to my brother. To not feel my mother’s touch gentle against my skin, is something that became a norm. She didn’t love me, no moms loved their kids. Breaking skin to where blood surrounded everything was a  way she showed some feelings for me. If my own mother did not show me love, who would? To bear a child out of your body, to hold it and beat down over the course of the years with words, handles of anything within reach, disgusted by the mere existence of dirty curls on your daughters hair �" who would love me? 

Reviews

[Marianne Rose]

Your words move me, reach into my heart and light a fire- of love, for what you did not get, and of fury for what you did not deserve. I know it would be a long poem if you set it in a structure like a poem rather than in paragraphs. But I believe if you tried it, there would be that much more impact and rhythm to the story of abuse:
"There is no feeling
The feel of a teardrop is quite romantic
To the soul of my cheeks
In this moment I do not know how to feel.
I do not understand the balance
Between who I am,
Who I know I am,
And the way these men perceive me . . ."

Keep writing- you have a story that the world needs to hear.

[Nadiya]

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