Onion

I dropped an onion in the sink today
I was cooking dinner and my crippled hands did what they do
They bungled, fumbled, and failed
Mechanically breaking down like old carnival rides
patched together to shit by drunk junkies and bandages
And I cried
Not because I’m broke and peeling away the contamination
Meant pissing away half the onion
But because of you.
You fucking cunt.
You.
The woman who crippled me
You who separated my wrists
All the knots and dings on my skull
The notch you cut in my ear
The gimp in my gait
And the constant pain in my jaw
And I still remember the way your hands feel
When they squeezed the air out of me
You who neglected me
Beat me
Did everything you could to reduce me
To ashes
To tears
To nothing
You.
I dropped that onion with the hands that you destroyed
And it set off the dominoes
In the Rube Goldberg Machine
Of my chemical disfunction
Bombarding me with memories I don’t want until
I’m a nin-year-old girl again
Forced into a flashback post traumatic
Hiding like I always did in that fucking closet
The only place I ever felt safe
Buried under old clothes
Tucked in a steamer trunk with a flashlight
While you tore the house apart hunting me
You paint-thinner corroder of souls
You smiling, lying bitch
No one would ever believe how evil you really are
With your false toothy grin
And your Betty Crocker cakes and cookies
With your Borderline bullshit
So perfect at hiding in plain sight
And I know. I know you’re sick
But it doesn’t mean you aren’t accountable for your actions
And just because you gave birth to me
It doesn’t make you my fucking mother
And father of mine, while I do love you
I will never forgive you
For ignoring my desperate pleas for help
For staying when you should have left
For choosing your comfort over my safety
I will never forgive myself for being broken
Because it’s up to the object wether it will be steamrolled
And I allowed myself to be flattened
Fattened up like a lamb intended for the killing floor

As painful as it is, I guess I feel good crying
Because I spent the first 25 years of my life too numb to
I spent a quarter-century walking the world as an angry ghost
And it’s only here, now, that I am able to mourn the little dead girl I buried
Her pale limbs stained with sub-dermal capillary explosions
I leave flowers on her shallow grave every year
To commemorate all the birthdays we never celebrated

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About Moly

Average, boring, self-involved human. Twitter: @CultOfCocktails Facebook: facebook.com/MolyTov
This entry was posted in Poetry, Written, Written Work and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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