books, writings, shoes & nudes

Tag: abuse

  • arthritis

    sharp pain shoots up my hand reaching my fingertips. it’s a particularly rough pain day. remember when you snapped my fingers like a carrot. they dangled there. you did it multiple times within 5 years. the knuckles don’t even exists anymore.

    i don’t take deep breaths without gasping. hiccups are a repetitive shock to my system. tears blur my eyes with every little blip. stops me in my tracks. remember when you gave me cpr when i didn’t need it.

    remember when you held me under the water until the bubbles stopped. my sternum still clicks in and out like your palms are still pressing. you never really let me go.

    collarbones pinned under your kneecaps as your open hands struck my kidlike face until they cracked unable to hold your weight. not stopping until I begged “like the annoying bitch you are”. and I begged. every single time. i begged my last with you.

    no one knows about the bald spot hidden in my perfect hair, your second favorite handle. i will forever have a side part.

    the body you had no right to wreck hurts more in the cold. little acts of rebellion like hating socks and not wearing gloves. spite warming the blood. i hate that our days together linger on my being most in the morning.

  • i will let the past have it

    I loved you deeply, as deeply as I think I could love a sister, but I had to love me more. I miss your curly hair and the tone-deaf duets of Christmas music we would sing in the car.  I think about you often. How I could change your entire existence with the magic of Thrive. But I must let you be lost in the tight grip of the past. 

    I wanted so much more for you. I wanted you to be great. I wanted you to be traveling some far off place and not have to keep you at least 500 feet away from me at all times. You chose the end for both of us. I will eventually paint over the blown kisses and butterflies. 

    I chose you repeatedly. I dropped everything and ran when you called. All I needed was for you to love me. I wiped your ass, canceled your cable, spent money I didn’t have, and you still chose to save your poison over me. 

    I broke myself for you. I lost sleep, I lost days, I lost time. You got drunk. I cleaned up your blood, your drool, your piss and your vomit. You got high. I looked high and low and every fucking nook and cranny in-between to fix it. You looked for an escape. I stressed over your daily being; you gave no fucks. You were perfectly ok with making a mess and having me safely clean it up.

    You made a mess of things. I trusted you without ever trusting you. I believed your buckets of trauma and sob stories just to kick those buckets over when I had enough. You were 6 feet 7 inches of territorial diaper wearing mommy issues. 

    I trusted you with my NDA.You weaponized my secrets. You went against the one thing you can not do. The one thing. “I know you.” You’re so careful to never say it. But you said it in the worst way you could have spoke it. I’d rather be strangled, because this was so constricting. Although I won’t be letting the past have you, I will be letting the past have the version of me that allowed you access. And you’ll never even know it. 

    I will let the past have it all.

  • Some people are held captive by their own minds.

    Some people are ripped apart and tortured by the person they see in the mirror.

    I can’t do that.

    I can’t look at you, knowing what we know and hate you.

    I see the x-rays, and I feel the shifting bones.

    I know the damage and the stories carved into this body.

    If I let you be my enemy, then I will be truly alone.

    You, my mighty protector.

    My house still standing after the big bad wolf came to blow you down.

    You still stand after the fire, the hurricane, the earthquake and everything else he threw at you.

    How can I hate these feet that keep me moving?

    These legs that spent years being cradled and sobbed on?

    I feel the divots and sharp edges of what’s left of your rib cage.

    You were crushed over and over but these organs still working.

    I’ll take the occasional pain as reminders.

    How can I hate Cleopatra when she still gives such pleasure, beauty and power after being brutally invaded and violated. Saving me from much worst warfare. Being the sacrifice.

    How can I hate these arms that protected my face from becoming a billboard of my past.

    The dark memories are vandalized on the wall of my skull.

    This mind of mine was once my safest, happiest place to live, how can I hate it?

    It’s where I hide the treasures.

    The things just out of everyone’s reach.

    The only place he had no key to.

  • your heart is an empty room.

    The piano sounds Apple says I listened the most to in 2024.

    Her hyperness when her meds wear off.

    The green of his eyes I see every time it rains.

    Good morning texts.

    Holding of hands that once shielded the abuse.

    My blue couch.

    The tone of her voice when she says, “GUTTER BITCH or titty baby”, her fake Italian grandmother’s accent.

    Blue

    Showers too long.

    Giggles, stories, jokes.

    Seeing her face walk through the door, knowing she won the war of getting out of bed.

    Cinnamon Tea, and coffee, Hallmark movies.

    Doris Doloris, who will be the biggest heart break of all.

    The shock in a broken face meeting strength for the first time.

    The Professor getting excited to tell me about the girl he likes or the sex he had.

    Books in The Nook.

    Blankets and hockey sweats.

    The end of the day when I lay my head down and remind myself this life is real, and I will wake up still safely in it.

    Smells of honeysuckle, sugar plums, and favorite flannels.

    Lovers that forever stain the walls of this heart.

    So much feminine rage and way too many damn shoes.

  • i spoke

    Early Tuesday morning I sat in a crowded court room.

    I remember practically nothing.

    Only two people knew I was there.

    Neither being my spouse or mother.

    I’ve never disassociated so well as I did when the attorney pointed the remote to the tv.

    Probably 40 people.

    Dressed nicely.

    Watching my rape like it was the morning announcements in high school.

    Just another Tuesday.

    For the judge, the attorneys, the accused.

    “Is this you in the video, Lindsey?” The attorney asked.

    Snapping me out of my safe disassociated state.

    She repeated herself.

    “Is this you in the video, Lindsey?”

    I couldn’t speak; an issue I rarely have.

    I looked at my shaking hands placed in my lap.

    The writing that covered the left palm read “Today, you become his nightmare.”

    I lifted my head, stared right into the cold eyes I once felt not good enough to look at.

    And spoke the biggest thing I’ve ever said.

    “Yes.”

    11.9.23

  • you can’t have the winter

    I won’t let you take this one from me.

    I love snow.

    I love the winter.

    Hockey games & sled riding races.

    Every year since the first year I stepped into snowboard boots, I have counted down the days for the moments on the mountain.

    Snow boots and big coats.

    I won’t let you take this one from me.

    My skeleton screams.

    Like old rusty gears.

    My nose burns sharp spikes of pain.

    My fingers throb from unhealed bones.

    The cold doesn’t work for us anymore.

    My ribs stiff and sore.

    I won’t let you take this one from me.

    Snowflakes on your face.

    Chilly nose while breathing in the smell of hot coco.

    I love cozy blankets.

    Seeing my breath as I run with spikes on the bottoms of my shoes.

    Shoveling driveways for a quick 20 bucks.

    I love the crisp cold.

    I won’t let you take this one from me.

    I will suffer.

    I will freeze and I will ignore, because I love the cold and I won’t let you take this one from me.

  • hsk&t

    Head.

    These memories would cut you and leave you bleeding on the floor.

    Throat.

    These scars would traumatize you and make you incapable of grasping reality.

    Ribs.

    These broken bones would tell you the story you never asked to hear.

    Scars. Memories. Broken bones. Voice. Passion. Intuition.

  • use it as a weapon

    You’re welcome for making you strong. I created the trauma you are profiting off of now. Without the cries, pain, and fear where would you be? You should be thanking me. You should be grateful I still show up in your dreams to keep you from forgetting. I’ll never let you lose your edge or passion because I’ll never leave.

    Use it all. Use all those loud emotions in the quiet lonely times. It’s the only weapon I’ll ever allow you to have. It’s the weapon you’ll never get rid of. Just remember who taught you how to use it.

  • i am just so fucking angry

    Anger is the powerful mask my fear wears. It’s easier to be angry than scared. The memories and torturing moments still live in the attic of my mind, but I pretend they don’t. When I see something or have an experience that resembles the secrets, I get scared.

    No, oops. I mean angry.

    Hello triggers, it’s always nice to see you out of your cages, care to rage?

    I go zero to one hundred because I can’t relive it. I can’t be so out of control of my body and mind again. My eyebrows get low, my blood gets pumping. Ready to fight the ant hill I can only see as a fight. Kill the threat, end it. Fight and rage until we no longer fear.

    No, oops I mean anger.

    Sitting alone, broken, putting the pieces back into place, cleaning up the mess. I can’t feel that again. I can’t tiptoe around this life. So we rage. We rage before we need to, because I am just so fucking angry.

  • voices

    My own. Just because in class I always say it’s my favorite weapon, but it’s not. I think I portray this powerful outspoken warrior that never has a problem using her voice. It’s all bullshit. I hate my voice. I can’t sing and it’s always been an annoying sound. It’s also the thing that has caused me the most trouble. Lies when I was younger. Verbally attacking my dad. Demanding answers from him when my brother stayed quiet. I’m the loud girl. Always in trouble for talking in class. Words come out sometimes I don’t mean. I stood up to Him one too many times. He would attempt to shut me up, when that didn’t work, shit got scary. Your voice can be powerful, but also dangerous. I also never say the right thing and people don’t like the loud girl.

  • dear weak-minded lindsey,

    I thought about writing this 1 million times, but I guess since She’s making me, now is a better time than ever. (PS: you blame Her for a lot of things, so you don’t have to think about you.)

    I know you’re scared, and alone, confused, and pissed. You have no idea who I am or that you’re capable of becoming me.

    I’m sorry for letting this happen to you. For choosing this for you. For us. I’m sorry it got so far. I knew those choices were the wrong ones, but I ignored them. I should’ve saved you way earlier, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t fight my way out yet. I wasn’t strong enough. I need you to hold on. Hold on because I promise it’s worth it and you do make it out of this. I so badly want to pick you up and hold you and tell you about the world you eventually create. You’re loved, like real, healthy, not scared loved. Like the kind of love you’ve had to work hard for. And he’s your best friend. You laugh all the time. You have a home and it’s safe. It’s your favorite place to be. You’re close with your family again. And our friends, oh Lindsey, our friends are amazing. You help people, women like you right now. You’re funny and people like you. You’re a business owner and Lindsey you’re strong, you’re so so strong and you don’t ever question that. And girl you’re happy. Like legit happy.

    It’s there and you’re gonna decide it’s yours. Just keep it together and keep your eyes open. We’re in this together.

    I love you kid.

    Love,

    Strong Lindsey.