bella

I'm such a genius...before I knew my sound board was warped I wrote a song. The entire song is out of tune but I still like it. I just don't know how to ever play it again.
Since she's dead I hung her up on the wall to be her own monument :D

My Story Pt4

     After that my mom never let me meet anyone else she was dating until they were official. She made exasperated faces at me when I said I didn't like him. I never really did. They always smiled at me with their mouths and never their eyes. Who really enjoys beeing mean mugged by a child with sad eyes, though? I get that often still, that my eyes are sad. I try to smile even when I don't feel like it to avoid "what's wrong?" I went to daycare for a week. I won't tell you that story or you'll really think I'm just complaining. In the end I was sent to the "Service Station" with MamDean and Puda. That was best. I learned my colors, numbers, how to pump gas, what a spark plug was, and that drunk people literally pee anywhere they feel they can. There I learned more than what I would have at any daycare.
     Some days I never went home. I would wake up and MamaDean would dress in me in the cutest clothes, I wasn't allowed to take these home. "Ya Mama just gone let you ruin em. Look at these rags she sent back last time. This aint fit for a begga." She always worked her jabs at my mother into conversation as if it were normal to hear people talk that way. After we were dressed and she had brushed my ears to the side of my had, "tryna get cha edges", we would head to McDonald's to get "James breakfass" and coffee. Once we had this we would go and open the gas station. If Charmell, my oldest sister, was in school then we would drop her. I loved that part the best because she would let me carry her bookbag inside with the big kids and she smiled at me and seemed proud that I was her little sister. Then I would spend the rest of my day watchin MamaDean gossip about the people in town, seeing the regulars come and go, and watch "stowries". I was always quiet. I don't remember playing with toys. I remember watching the people come in and out of the building. Back then I had no idea how gas in cars worked and I was confused as to why the same people came back so often for it. MamaDean always wore jeans and a button down shirt. She kept her hair tied and one hand on her hip. I always knew when she didn't like someone because she wouldn't even bother to ask them how they were doing and when they left she told me ALL about how they had pissed her off.
     I always wondered why her word was the last in every argument and why people rarely tested her until one day. I saw a drunk stumble up to the gas pump, unzip his pants, and start to pee right on the side of it. I jumped around pointing and yelling her name. She marched right out the front door "Now stay right dere yaheah?" I nodded but I crept up behind her. It was a long walk to the pumps, not like now where you take two steps and you're there. It was probably three times the distance. Attached to the right side of the gas station was the body shop. In front of it and to the left was laundry they also owned and ran. She marched with one hand on her hip and not a second of hesitation in her step. I heard Puda call out, " Now Geraldine!" She didn't even turn to look at him or slow her pace. She marched. The drunk man, having relieved himself slumped up against one of the pumps. She walked right up beside him, unhooked a nozzle, and pressed the trigger pouring gas all over him. She went in her pocket, grabbed a pack of matches, and struck one. She said this and I never forgot it or saw him again, "Now ya look heah. I'll light cho ass on fire and blow us both to hell if you don't tell me right nah I won't see ya no where neah my gas pump again." She didn't yell it. She didn't have any venom in her voice. She just stared at him. He stuttered, " Aww Mrs. Griffis why you gone do me like that? I aint mean nothing! I swear I won't come round here no mo." She blew out her match and said, " and don't you fuckin Mrs Griffis me...pissin on my damn pumps." I turned and ran because I could see her coming back to the station. That wasn't the last time I ever saw her get wreckless with someone else's life. It got to the point where none of the bums even crossed their property to get to the other side of the street.

     The things that happened changed me but I try not to make them who I am. I'm not very good with emotions. I don't pass them out like flyers. I save them for paper. I often get accused of being cold, distant, and not where people need me. It's not that I don't care it's more that I don't know how to show people that I care. I have all these wonderful things that I want to say to people daily. All these ways that I want to communicate but I'm afraid that they may take it wrong and I'll be put in an awkward situation. I'm afraid to hand myself to them to drop and break.
     I call my emotional ineptness, "my crazy". I work on my crazy little by little. I will not force myself past what I can take, if I feel myself breaking I stop. I will not break me to fix me. It took years for me to learn where the breaking point was and how to love my flaws. I spent so many years crying because I wasn't normal that I don't cry at all anymore. I think I overdrafted the tear bank. Adolescence was miserable. I would smile all day in school and everyone loved me. If there was a party I was invited. If there was anything that had to do with happiness they wanted me in on it. They had no idea I went home every afternoon and cried myself to sleep. My smile was my armor. If no one knew I hurt then no one would hurt me more. If they didn't think I was different they wouldn't leave me by myself to tear my head apart.
     Now that I'm older I see the flaw in wanting to be something other than who you are. I see the suicide in it. Denying yourself love will kill you faster than anything else Earth has to offer. I do know that my thought processes aren't healthy but instead of beating myself mentally I find ways to adjust the process. I learned that when I figuratively fall on my face it's easier to laugh and look back to see why I fell than to cry and call myself stupid for not seeing the obstacle.
     I will not be my murderer. I make small goals and I praise myself for the progress. I embrace the fact that I'm clumsy, goofy, and have a strange way of viewing situations. I don't know all of the symptons of abuse but I made myself aware of the ones that I have. With the knowledge of the behavior, I can identify it and try to work through it. Right now I'm working on allowing people to touch me. I don't mean sexually I mean in general. I can't describe in words how I feel when a random person walks up and puts their hand on my shoulder. I always thought I could describe everything in words. Maybe I can but it's a breaking point and I've conditioned myself to stop. Either way I hate it, not like it's irritating but like I want to punch them in the throat hate it. Some people I even dislike on sight. Usually men just because I feel like they violate me with their eyes. The worst is the touch though. My mother was never affectionate. She said "I love you" only when I was going away for a long period of time or when she had made me feel like I wasn't worth pushing out. So hugs and kisses are kind of foreign to me. I make myself give and receive them. I'm teaching myself that I share space with people who lived different lives and they shouldn't be punished for what someone else did. I teach myself. That's all I can do

Can I breathe in the wake of your absence
Can I please have the rest of me back since
You're no longer making my heart your home
And all the fruit we bore foamed
Bubbled and rotted at our feet
Where the truth of our love and your lies meet
All we were was a broken lullaby and raw heat
Unnecessarily cycling and tearing apart on repeat
Flawlessly flailing flinching fornicating in the name of love
And if she had walked past us we wouldnt have known who she was
You still tell me I'm everything you ever were
I guess you're nothing 'cause I died when I saw you and her
Insensate to your love now I'm only feeling you deeply
It's a sin that you felt righteous enough to even try to keep me
There has never been a man deep enough to hold me
Fold me
Mold me into his thoughts and make me his eyes
You're only borrowing what I give there is no reprise
Bottling me in your mixed confused emotions
Doesn't mean the same thing as true devotion
It feels like deity remixed chopped and split to mundane
I will not knowingly believe or concede to you ever again
And if it's love you want and as you say, we're still friends
You'd have to give back what you took to make ammends
It would be exactly where our conflicted anecdote ends

My Story Pt3

      I gave you poetry again...I'm not sure how to face the facts because I usually let them fester somewhere near the back of my head, out of sight but always in my actions.
When I was born my mother was already terrified of my father. She said he started hitting her for the first time in her second trimester. Yes, I was "born in a pop." She said she took the beatings because she was scared to fight back while she was pregnant. My mother will lie about most things if asked directly except a wrong done her. I've heard the stories thousands of times and it explains so much of who I am. A fetus feels its mothers emotions, that is scientifically proven. I was beaten to life.
      As soon as she had me, they had an argument in the front yard and he hit her. She picked up a brick and told him his next blow to her would split his head so be sure to aim right. He never hit her again. One thing my mother is, amongst the flaws that complete her, is a vicious fighter. I've seen it and I wouldn't try her on my best day even though I outweigh her and I have her on the reach. They said I scared them when I was a baby because I rarely cried and I only laughed or smiled for one person, neither one of them. My mom says I just stared at people knowingly. When I was so small I could barely talk she came home from work one day and my father and his new girlfriend had packed her things and put them on the front porch. The new girlfriend went on to be his wife and my little sister's mother. My mom moved out with me and we house hopped until she found a small place to herself.
      My grandmother being the collector of children that she was convinced my mother that it was best that she take me away until my mom got on her feet. She didn't know the fight she would have to go through to get me back. By that time I was old enough to remember it myself, the courtroom and how intimidating it was, the fist fights between her and my stepmom, my father's distaste with my presence. She did get me back and I don't know if it was the better situation or if there even was such a thing for me as a child. She drank a lot. She also dated a lot then. One man in particular changed me forever. All I remember was that his name was Richard, that he had a beard and a goatee, he was usually shirtless, and the day I saw him and my mother naked asleep I cried all morning because I thought he had done to her what he had done to me. I was three years old and I didn't know that it was supposed to be pleasurable. I don't even remember much of it except how he taunted me in front of my mom and she just thought he was joking about birthday suits. She didn't know why I didn't like him and told me I was being selfish. She rarely listened to me so I remember thinking she wouldn't care what I said then. After all, she let him do it to her. I stood up for her not for myself. I yelled in my three year old voice and my mother talked to me in her irritated voice. She told me it was okay and explained things in her harsh "I can't deal with you right now voice." So I knew she would never take up for me.
     I remember the day he left and how he looked at me. I remember how many times he tried to come back and how many threats of death she issued him. I remember meeting him again when I was ten and the shame in his eyes and how I didn't understand it then. My therapists called it a surpressed memory. I forgot all about until a couple of years ago. I only remembered the morning I found them and the song that was playing on the radio as I cried my overgrown toddler tears "These Dreams" by Heart. I can't listen to it to this day without crying. When I had my son and he turned two I went insane. We couldn't sit in the living room after sundown. We had to be in my room with the door locked or I would have anxiety attacks. I've always been afraid of people seeing me naked and sleeping with my door open. After my son turned two I had to baracade us behind the door in order to sleep without nightmares. A few months later my mom visited and in one of her drunk confessionals she told me about a night. A night that she went walking around the neighborhood by herself like she did often. She said when she returned his pants were around his ankles and so were mine. She said he claimed he was taking me to the bathroom. She begged oh my God how she begged me to tell her he was taking me to the bathroom. She looked at me like her universe would implode if he wasn't taking me to a bathroom. So I didn't slay her. After all the years I've wanted her to hurt for how she made me feel as a child, I told her I thought he was probably just taking me to the bathroom.

Running art ingrained fingertips delicately over fresh bruises
Trying to create the pain away
His Judus kiss that sent jolts of pure pleasure down my spine has rotted the caramel essence to a burgandy
And all I long for is the gentle burn if his lips
Sanctifying my sex
That intoxicated feeling where all is real and slipping from memory as it occurs
His coal black eyes the only authority I ever bowed to
The only one I ever felt privileged to be under
Fingerprint scars on the insides of my thighs
Where he held me tingle with every missed touch or near brush
Purposeful contact makes my body vibrate to the rhythm of his heartbeat
When he absent mindedly puts his fingers on my hips
Guides me by the small of my backI slip awaySlip away to the time when I was his
He killed me lovingly each night

I want to say I don't believe in Love because I'm mad she abused my intentions
I want to slander her name but I know that it was mostly my misunderstanding
And that I chose the wrong one to read me her gospel
I want to deafen myself to her whispers because they came from lips that did not truyly speak her language
But Love consoled me through different arms as he betrayed me
Love grew around me as a sheild while I dealt with the turmolt he created inside in Her name
Love cascaded to a puddle at my feet and became stepping stones for my ascent from his crippling
Love held my hand and steadied me when I wobbled from his blows
On Love I rose
And bloomed into a flower he was too awed to pick