False Matriarch
by Lindcie Tisher
You are a stain that hides
underneath my skin,
behind the real, chewy scars
You painted on me.
I remember the fear that hung my eyes open
with sharp hooks digging into my lids.
My head splits apart
with a dull wedge
every time I remember
what You did.
It drills. Deeper.
For every hit of the mallet
which drives it in.
And why did You
lock me away,
in my bedroom,
all day?
Was it just so You could
escape
into Your world
with Your drug of the week?
Did You ever hear me scream
and beg to be let out when You did that?
Do You even remember?
I wish I didn't remember
so much
To flinch at the open hand.
To cry at the sound of a raised voice.
Have I been damned?
Why do You make me recall
the time You pushed me
out of Your car and onto the conrete?
You ran away from me,
that night you disappeared
for weeks before you came back.
Hiding from who you made.
You Coward
You lamented the sound of a martyr
to keep your firm grasp
over the pen that wrote my voice away.
Why must I wake up with a dream
reminding me about te time
You abducted me from my home?
Where I struggled to crack
my nails into the carpet,
like a tick's lone head
piercing into my skin.
While You pulled,
You popped my joints,
tearing the seams of my pants.
The same clothes
That I wore when we
Took family pictures.
With false smiles
and hidden tears.
Those photos are gone now.
Just like You.
All I ask
and all I can do now
is to hope that one day,
I might just be
Over You.