i wonder:
if real fathers do this to their boys,
if he would have done this to his real son,
if my real father would have done it to me.
i see:
a body like mine – but oh, so different,
bigger, stronger, harder, darker,
that fascinates and repels,
that I want to forget,
but cherish in memory.
i long:
for arms that embrace
and protect
and support.
i hide:
my bruised body,
my bleeding emotions,
my self inside myself.
i love:
the abuser,
the sensations,
the illusion of significance.
i loathe:
my response to stimulus,
my need and aversion,
my past, my difference, whatever-i-am.
i leave:
a family that is not a family
feelings that cannot feel,
memories that are a blank,
a me I cannot trust or understand.
i crave, i hate, i fear:
to be touched,
to be touched,
to be touched…
- lee
Edited by traveler (05/21/12 07:02 PM)
_________________________
They have greatly oppressed me from my youth, but they have not gained the victory over me.
Plowmen have plowed my back and made their furrows long.
But the Lord is righteous; he has cut me free from the cords of the wicked.
Psalm 129:2-4
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