even though my father slept two bedrooms away from mine.
I was raised to keep my mouth sealed shut
and refrain from saying things aloud,
such as 'my father's words are written in the form of scars all across my arms'
for the time he held me with a tightening grip and threatening eyes,
yelling at me that if I ever tried something of that sort again,
he'd make damn sure that the job was done.
People keep asking me why would I write about that,
how can I say these things in front of a crowd?
My response has always been 'why not?'
They brought me up in a household were secrets had their own space to spend the night.
By the time I hit 9, I realized they weren't about to leave and they had their luggage scattered all across every room.
On the coffee table, on the kitchen counter.
Not even places that I considered sacred were saved,
I still find them sticking out from under my parent's linnen and my mother's night stand.
I grew up with the stinking smell of booze,
with the habit of checking if I sensed it in my father's breath every time he punched with his voice at night,
as if if I found it, I could use it as an excuse.
He didn't mean to say it, it was Whisky cause he'd had too many.
He didn't really think it, because lately he hasn't been thinking straight,
Alcohol filed a restraining order for Reason to keep its distance from his veins.
Society is keen on broadcasting every sinner's misdeed,
so why wouldn't I plaster every surface I can find with my testimony?
I don't care if it makes you feel weird.
I couldn't give less of a shit about how awkward you are when this kind of words depart from my mouth.
I've named every bruise he left on my heart.
If you look close, I can point you to November,
the mark that I get from the time he pushed me to vomiting every bit of food that was layed in front of me at the table.
He takes his name because it was the time he said he couldn't say Happy Birthday to me cause his mind was somewhere else.
And there are plenty more.
I stare at them each time I take a shower.
I count the stories that I never wanted to be written on my skin.
I was raised to be a walking novel, such as everybody else.
You'll find my rough edges every time you turn my page.
They forced me to have a story,
and everytime you ask me why would I say these things aloud,
I will stand up as straight as I can and say back:
I'm a book that you judge by its cover.
You can tell the plot by looking at my spine.
I was given a PhD on keeping secrets and telling lies.
I threw it away the first night I had to take out the plastic bag stacking up empty wine bottles to the trash.
tangentwithtanner
jbbartram-illu
dailybridgerton
blakekathryn
titsay
kaledo-art
