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Don't Send Me Away Again
Afternoon began a blast, with my brother and I actually hanging out like we used to, playing mindless Guitar Hero until the late hours.
Interrupted by a phone call, I picked up anyway, traveling back into my room, abandoning my brother.
'Twas my girlfriend. We spoke, played around.
That was when she imitated this hideous 'laugh' by some girl on T.V and we both cracked up.
All was well, but when I refused to do the laughter I was then called a wimp.
For hours I sat with the phone in my hand, listening only to be insulted, brought down even more.
The insulting was but a contributing factor that hit my depressive state.
What I was also told was that I am weaker than her ex boyfriend.
My body and mind are sick of being labelled female. Do not give me this comparison bullshit, especially to a real man.
So I sat heard every negative word said.
I listened while my palm caressed the knob of the joor sat beside me.
I listened while pulling open the joor, rummaging through every item, searching.
And, I listened, while my knife slid deep into the opposite wrist, emptying self-pity onto the carpet and bed.
Shaking on the rug, my mother intrudes by barging into the room.
While handing me the laundry, she shouts, "What you kids are doing is sick! You're twisted! And realize this: that you both now, most-likely, have given each other AIDS and hepatitis from exchanging those weapons and needles."
When she exited, I lost control, bashing my head against the bed posts.
Now on all fours, this position abled me to watch every tear drip onto the hardwood.
Every shout made me collapse for a few minor seconds.
Was she on the line concerned? No.
More insults, more horrifying name-calling, more accusations.
"I can't take it anymore...I can't take it anymore...kill me, please, kill me..."
"Awww, is the little baby a quitter?"
"Stop. Please, speak to me like a normal human being."
Even a simple request such as this was never noted. Forgotten and lost.
Shivering from fear, worry, and the loss of blood that had seemed to slip mind.
Another entry from my mother, who finds the blood so carelessly covered.
Any attempt to cover failed, that notebook wasn't even thick enough to hold the blood that seeped through it so easily.
My mother snatched the phone from my limp hands, shouted at my girlfriend, and hung up on her. This has happened once before, but with a different girl. I knew what was lying ahead, but refused to believe reality, once again.
So the screaming grew, which attracted the attention of my brother and father. You could feel the disappointment in their cold eyes, which seemed more of ice tonight than the oceanic color usually seen. They could not cry for the icicles could not fall by such a repulsive incident.
Set, in a puddle of my own blood, I listened again. To what now?
How pathetic I am/was. How much of a disappointment I am. That I am infested with AIDS. And all the bullshit my mother concocted about her own daughter.
Since I was just told so by my girlfriend, I simply stared, occasionally throw in a nod or two.
My parents threatened to send me away, as my ma ripped the carpet up from underneath me.
Since covered in blood, she reminded me that it wont need to be cleaned to where I'm going to.
She then said, "A mother is supposed to want to die for her children. I'd rather have you dead. You cause every problem. You keep threatening to kill yourself," she handed me the scissors she had yanked out from in my desk while not looking and continued, "do it already!"
No response from me.
Only nodded, got introuble for that too.
"Look! That's the face of 'evil!'"
I sat and listened to their insults for 3 1/2 hours straight.
The only lies I could not stand when they told me I was never abused nor neglected.
When I was the one who taught myself how to read and write, when I was the one locking myself in the bathroom at home, or the bathroom in the oriental church a couple streets down to stay safe, sleeping on the stained floors.
When, at 5 years old, I learned how to barricade my own door so my alcoholic parents would not throw themselves in and touch me.
My dad (my dad, of all people) waited until my ma became fed up and left to inform me that my abuse is in my head.
In my head!?
I had proof.
I also have memories.
And I might have had more if my mother did not bash me against that wall when young and defenseless.
Were you trying to make me forget?
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