Useless Beautiful Beings

you move me.

In more ways that anyone can imagine. sometimes, it’s physical other times it’s emotional but you do it. you always find a way to bring me to tears. I’ve only seen so many years but my eyes look twice that age, big and white. darting about in their sockets. i’m waiting for you to attack, maybe this time i can muffle a scream before i’m punished for it… maybe this time when I bite down on the pillow and the tears begin to form, I can imagine that i’m dreaming and that i’ll wake up as soon as your done and you’ll be gone. maybe one day, you’ll move me to tears of joy and smiles instead of shredding my dreams to dust , taking my hand and leading me to the edge of the bridge life. sometimes, when i sit in the quiet of morning. holding the knife you used to burn my tongue, i have foreplay with the thoughts of jumping. i think then ‘d know what it feels like to feel alive. before i am no longer… alive.

                                                                                            i’m sorry. 
i’ve been told i say it to many times. pardon me, it’s habit, it seems the only time you’d stop raising your fist was when i uttered sorry about a hundred times over, when i sounded sincere enough. I guess i began to sound like a scratched record in a continuous leap.

On some days i’m sorry must have sounded like hit harder. it must have sounded like I hate you cause you’d raise you hand even higher and bring it down even harder. Ten times harder. i’d feel my flesh get stamped with marks, lines mirroring wires bend to the right size. Long enough to reach me but not long enough to hit you back. I’d feel my upper epidermis layer burn like i just spilled some hot water on it. Like my skin kissed steel that had been left too long in the sun. i’m sorry i don’t look broken enough, there is always something in me you have to fix , so you whip out your fist like i’m a car in your garage and you need the right amount of force to hammer some sense into me

i belong here..
after a while the way you think begins to change. you shrink your dreams to meet the situation you are in because it never looks like there is a way out, the path seems to get narrow and your eye sight is extremely shortsighted so even when you would wear glasses you could only see as far as your fingers could reach. you could only think of surviving today, then maybe tonight  make plans for tomorrow.

i’ve been here almost all my life, what makes me think i’m going to leave.. maybe if i work really hard at school i’ll get a scholarship and leave, but i’m too stupid. you taught me that. i’m not going to amount to anything so i should just come back from my ‘day care’ and do my chores. make your pots look like they were just unpacked from the box and your floors sparkle like they were glass. my fingers don’t feel anymore. i’d spend eight hours at school gripping a pen so hard as a write compositions filled with butterflies and castles so when i’d return to the dungeon. i could pretend my fingers were outlining those stories. 

where do i go from here?
he told me that i’m useless.

Tell someone a lie enough times they’ll believe it. i’ve started taking your pain as my pleasure. so every time you push i feel a shove and it feels a bit like love. your slaps are gentle caresses on my cheeks so don’t stop. keeping finding your error 2’s in me when something is clearly at fault with what you did. punch your words even harder into my flesh. i want to be an artist one day. i know i cant paint but i can hide these bruises forever, i can hide them well, so yes, i am an artist. even when i sit in the corner of my room with steel against my wrist, i’m carving the shadows  of your past on my arms, legs, thighs, hips and belly. You rarely held my hand , but when you did you left imprints of your fingers etched into my skin, my wrists would tingle as blood flowed and i’d let my soul ooze, give it room to breath.

i’d pretend that our hands were touching, palm to palm, big against small.

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