Child Abuse Victims Experience in Poetry

Daddy... It hurts 

My name is Chris

I am three, 

My eyes are swollen 

I cannot see, 

I must be stupid 

I must be bad, 

What else could have made 

My daddy so mad? 

I wish I were better 

I wish I weren’t ugly, 

Then maybe my mommy 

Would still want to hug me. 

I can't do a wrong 

I can’t speak at all 

Or else I'm locked up 

All day long. 

When I'm awake I'm all alone 

The house is dark 

My folks aren't home 

When my mommy does come home 

I'll try and be nice, 

So maybe I'll just get 

One whipping tonight. 

I just heard a car 

My daddy is back 

From Charlies bar 

I hear him curse 

My name is called 

I press myself 

Against the wall 

I try to hide 

From his evil eyes 

I'm so afraid now 

I'm starting to cry 

He finds me weeping 

Calls me ugly words, 

He says its my fault 

He suffers at work 

He slaps and hits me 

And yells at me more, 

I finally get free 

And run to the door 

He's already locked it 

And I start to bawl, 

He takes me and throws me 

Against the hard wall 

I fall to the floor 

With my bones nearly broken, 

And my daddy continues 

With more bad words spoken, 

'I'm sorry!', I scream 

But its now much to late 

His face has been twisted 

Into a unimaginable shape 

The hurt and the pain 

Again and again 

O please God, have mercy! 

O please let it end! 

And he finally stops 

And heads for the door 

While I lay there motionless 

Sprawled on the floor 

My name is Chris 

I am three, 

Tonight my daddy 

Murdered me 

And you can help 

Sickens me to the soul, 

And if you read this 

and don't pass it on 

I pray for your forgiveness 

Because you would have to be 

One heartless person 

To not be affected 

By this Poem 

And because you are affected, 

Do something about it! 

Tie a Knot

Your days drag into night

All filled with doubt

You’re in way too deep

Can’t find your way out

This doesn’t seem what life should mean

Where did it all go wrong

Something inside of you makes you hang on

You just don’t know for how long

I know where you’re at my friend

I’ve walked in your shoes

Please believe in what I have to say

Life is the only choice you need

To get you through this day

So when your days are filled with darkness

And your nights caught up in fear

Please hang on with all you’ve got

To this life we hold so dear

Look to the simpler things

And clear your mind

Solve your troubles one by one

And peace you’ll find

When you feel you’ve come to the end of your rope

Tie a knot and hang on

Better days will surface soon

Just tie a knot and hang on 

Respect is a Word

Respect is an essential word.

People need to respect themselves, others,

their possessions and the natural world.

Building a healthy respect for yourself

makes you feel good about who you are,

what you’re capable of doing,

and enhances your value as a human being.

Self-respect creates a set of personal guidelines

that help you to make solid decisions,

conduct yourself honorably,

and present yourself with poise and confidence.

Having respect for other people is also essential.

It enables you to keep an open mind

to alternate ideas and opinions.

It reminds you to interact with others

as you want them to interact with you.

It opens the door to acceptance and camaraderie,

and it fosters reciprocal respect.

By respecting one’s possessions,

people learn to appreciate their belongings.

Clothing and homes and vehicles

last longer and offer years of comfort and security

when they are properly taken care of.

Special acquisitions provide decades of enjoyment

when cared for in a respectful way,

adding to their value and reverence for future generations.

And finally, practicing respect for the natural world

is essential for the continuance of life on Earth.

Natural resources must be used conscientiously.

The purity of the air, the land and the waters must be sustained.

Living creatures should be allowed to live free

or cared for in sanctuaries or other appropriate settings.

The bounty of the land should be treasured and shared.

Respect is a universally beneficial word

to practice, to hold onto and to give away.

Respect is a word

meant to enrich the quality of life.

Perri E. Hogan

Ms. Onondaga

I pass by your obscured, damaged loveliness and wonder why you’re hiding – downcast – faint traces of bruises mar your haggard visage. What has he done to you? You remain broken, ashamed and abandoned while Man has moved on to abuse other watery bodies.

For years you’ve suffered slights, insults and mockery. You’ve been downgraded- your spirit pushed deeper into the toxic muck. Your bright joyous bounce has been battered into a slow-lapping sludge.You became stagnant – no sparkle across your surface, no glide in your movement – shut down, shut in, shut off and shut out. Heavy metals weighed you down and trampled your exuberance.

Man first hid you away to keep you for himself. Later, you hid yourself – a horrid, scarred, poisoned, shocked and used up body – until the destruction ended.

Just lately you’ve been peeking out from behind those reedy curtains - your liquid skin is clearing – the scars are fading, and a slight playfulness sprints across your white-capped waves.

Laura Peer

The Sands of Time

the sands of time are slipping through the cracks

these moments flying by so damn fast

I'm trying to hold on be strong before it unravels and fades away

because how long will serenity, the happiness last today?

cause i don't know we're standing on a tight rope just waiting to fall again, fall again, fall again

i look into your eyes so filled with love not a trace of the hate I've seen before but it won't last

you're a ticking time bomb just waiting to blow. So try to hold on be strong before this unravels and fades away.

because you don't know how long the love, the happiness will last today.

We're standing on a tight rope just waiting to fall again, fall again, fall again. We fell again.

Our little girl walks in so forgiving and her eyes usually so bright

but not this time her heart is burdened watching her parents fight

and I don't know what to say watching the tears stream down her face then i realize

the serenity the happiness never lasts. and now i know the stakes are much too high.

standing on a tight rope waiting to fall isn't worth the price it's time to say good-bye

the sands of time are slipping through the cracks these moments flying by so damn fast

now I'm trying to move on be strong letting the tight rope unravel and fade away now the happiness is bound to stay.

These are My Pieces

These are my pieces, but not my whole.

I am more than this flesh and blood.

My skin does not portray who/what lies beneath.

My smile does not really show how I feel

and my eyes do not allow you to see my depth.

I am no longer an object of someone else’s will,

but a prisoner to my own body.

My body does not feel like it belongs to me.

For so long it was not given a say

and was forcibly maneuvered by another.

Even my mind seems to be dictated

by my own body's sensations.

A simple touch of my arm can trigger a memory.

My hand hesitates to make contact

with even ones I love.

All of these pieces while built together, feel disjointed.

My lips long for a long compassionate kiss,

but my hand will freely push it away.

My arms cry out to be wrapped in another’s,

but my body quickly tightens

responding to a perceived attack.

My body while flaunted is self-conscious

of how it will be judged.

It is a vessel of unknown.

Each touch is a switch

that triggers a new or old memory.

A personal home theater of years past,

many showing reruns that had long been forgotten

or simply waiting for the right time.

My home movies are nightmares

that give understanding to my body's reactions.

Unlike nightmares, I can not wake up

and say it was just a dream.

I have tried to rationalize

with both my mind and body, but it yields to the past.

They are a great puzzle

that I am slowly piecing together.

The picture of who I am

becomes clearer with each piece,

and like most children’s toys, the result is often

not as spectacular as you had hoped.

Can I see who I am becoming

without finishing the puzzle?

The pieces have slowly come together

to create a gruesome picture of who I was.

The pieces cannot be reconfigured

to change the ultimate image;

my picture of my past will always be the same.

The only difference now lies

in how I choose to view it in the future.

Heather Cutler-Young

These are My Pieces Revised

These are my pieces but they are not my whole. I am more than this flesh and blood. My skin does not portray who/ or what lies beneath. My expressions do not necessarily show how I really feel and my eyes do not allow you to see the depths of my soul.

I am no longer an object of someone else’s will. I am not a prisoner of my mind or body. While a simple smell, touch or sight may trigger a memory I no longer allow my senses to control the me that I have become. I seek affection from the ones I love and now feel comfort in their embraces where before I felt shame and fear.

While all of these pieces built together may seem disjointed, they are the me I was always meant to be; the me I deserve to be. I am a collage of many pieces. Separately the picture alone has no meaning or significant worth, but together it forms a beautiful and distinct representation of something bigger and better than its original piece.

The puzzle is finally finished. It took 30 long years in the making.

It is an eclectic montage of who I am and all that I aspire to be. A survivor, a daughter, a wife,  a daughter in law,  a sister, a granddaughter, a niece, a mother, a teacher, a pacifist, a perfectionist , a romantic, and a bleeding heart liberal. I am the me I was meant to be.

The pieces have slowly come together

to create a gruesome picture of who I was.

The pieces cannot be reconfigured

to change the ultimate image;

my picture of my past will always be the same.

The difference now lies in how I view myself and my future.

Heather Cutler – Young

Shattered

I was made shattered.

A ruined soul now exists

where a whole person

once

was.

I break plates and glasses,

smashing them for release;

The fractured pieces litter the floor

and I can’t help but relate

to each broken fragment.

I’m the broken vase that lies on the floor,

the spilled water decorating the tile

with the tattered roses

begging for

life.

The body is soft and supple,

able to absorb blows.

Identities are fragile

and difficult to repair.

My self is destroyed.

I’ve put the pieces back together with glue-

that’s progress-

but the glue is still curing and the pieces

don’t fit together quite right.

I’m not okay.

We work with

available light

to mend the fractured soul.

Like plates, I am the

product of human efforts.

You made me shatter.

Prisoner

A captive, hostage of his vicious anger.

The facade of his caring baby blue eyes

now contorted with vicious cruelty.

My once unbroken body

now a mess of tangled hair,

busted and bloody lips,

fist and finger-shaped

bruises.

My former fiery soul missing in action,

his prisoner in this agonizing tango.

Our war.

Breath, hot enough to melt me.

Fists mold my flesh into his putty,

knife caressing my throat, prolonging the agony.

His violent words, stab me,

force me hostage, as the

bombs explode around me

and my life fades slowly

before my eyes.

Please don’t kill me.

I beg, like a bloody wounded doe.

I’ve change my mind…

Please, just kill me.

His refusal to spare my death

propels him, the tortures continue.

I see his bed, the puddle of blood,

as my final resting place.

Though our battle rages in the darkness,

when the sun begins to rise,

the yellow rays bring promise of life.

In conceding to his war tortures,

a treaty is forged.

He gently kisses my cheek and whispers

this tug-of-war is our little secret.

Blind Date

Big, brown, bottomless eyes in the mirror.

Mine

and never again mine.

Pleading.

Needing.

Any reprieve from this brutality,

his inexhaustible hatred.

My once graceful dancer’s arms

now churning

in desperate and sloppy cartwheels.

My impotent blows

no match for his rigid steel frame.

My rapid breath escapes my body,

taking with it my simple life.

But I need it back.

So I struggle to catch it, claim it again;

take it down to the deepest part of my soul

where I will be safe,

before I am consumed inside the insatiable oven of my rapist’s rage

The Kindness of Strangers

Bloodied and broken she rises

Hands clenched, her face pointed up toward the sky;

Tears sting her eyes but she wills them away,

Resolving once more he will not see her cry.

She looks in the eyes of her children,

Knowing her pain has become part of them,

With soft words to offer them comfort,

She gives of herself as she's dying within.

Swiftly she puts things in order,

Washes the blood and gets on with her day.

At least this time not much has been broken,

A small piece of her soul is all she throws away.

But each time is worse than the last time,

And it's getting much harder to mask how she feels;

Some make-up will fix up the outside,

But inside it seems like the wound never heals.

I promise you that she is frightened.

I swear to you she never asked for this pain.

Sometimes when you get dragged down too far,

It just gets so hard to get back up again.

Let us show her the kindness of strangers;

As strangers so often turn out to be friends,

Then, as friends we can guide her to freedom;

And rejoice in the person she becomes –

when the pain finally ends.

Leslie Root

who found freedom with a little help from her friends

Unseen

Trying to be their shining daughter

I polished and lifted saddles

Shoveled out stalls, carried water and feed

Sponged and wrapped bruised flesh

Brushed my bay gelding to a sheen

Handsomely costumed and schooled, my brothers

Bridled massive steeds through their paces

Presenting the judges sleek performances

That masked the boys who taunted

Disrupting my sleep like cobbles in the bed

Shelves of silver cups

Belie cold black hours spent

Stowed under the eaves of our farmhouse attic

Bound by brothers who

Threatened worse if I revealed my terror

Ignoring walls covered with prize ribbons

Mother mended breeches

Father just raised the bar as I

Rode through fields of indifference with a

Wound which has not bled

Sally Gould

Do You?

Do you think of us at Easter?

Do you think of us at Christmas?

Are you mad at yourself for going away,

or happy that you have moved on without us?

Do you get upset when you think of us,

and sad because you’re missing out on us?

Do you think of the pain you left us with?

Well do you?

Do you care about what you did?

Do you feel guilty for how you left things?

I hope you are good

because I am great - we are great.

Does it hurt you to know

that you had nothing to do

with our happiness?

Tell me . . .

does it suck to be you?

Samantha McCormick

My Children’s Eyes

You're the monster under my bed and in my closet

yet I can't seem to let you go.

You creep into my most private moments

and I'm not sure I could lose you in a crowd

if I tried.

I'm helpless to the hurt you've caused me

and the one I love,

as helpless as I am when you appear

in my nightmares.

Someday your memory will leave

the inside of my eyelids

and I promise you will not exist

in my children’s eyes.

Farah

Garden Elegy

I touch the broad leaves of the blue hosta,

inviting her to come with me,

explaining that she needs to escape.

Fennel, fragile and lush, clings to the fence.

Peonies bleed petals.

Hyacinth bulbs hide under dirt.

In an empty pot, I find a snakeskin,

coiled and glistening.

I memorize the contrast of bright and dark,

the rich clumping of flower and leaf.

I want to hold this garden safe inside of me.

We dig every hosta,

scoop loose earth to cover roots,

pile plants into plastic bags.

We work fast to save as many as we can.

I untangle the deep roots

of the rosebush she transplanted as a bride

from her grandmother’s house in Michigan.

We lift smooth stones

that came from the bluffs of Lake Ontario,

carried home on picnic days before

the marriage began to taste bitter.

Sweat blesses our necks, our breasts, our silence.

We pull plants from the earth, one by one.

The sage. The daphne. The bleeding heart.

Sometimes the safest

gardens are the ones we tend in our dreams.

I know these ferns

have heard her cry.

Janine DeBaise

The Attic

In the attic I hide,

Fearing the rage that keeps

banging on the door,

Knowing that outside the storm

gathers its strength.

Sweat mingles with tears.

I taste the dust in the air

as it falls upon me.

My face now covered with

darkened streaks of fear.

There is no shelter to slip away to.

With reddened face and glaring eyes

you pace before your prey.

I must face your wrath.

She arises within me to open the door.

You greet her with your fists of power

hitting, slapping, kicking,

And choking your punishment upon her.

There now on the floor, curled up in a ball,

Lies the little girl lost within my soul,

Bruised, broken and shattered.

Once again we have survived,

Only to be told, “get up, go wash your face”.

Bruises don’t wash away.