You will never see
the woman I was supposed to
become.

You crushed her with your words
and drowned her in your alcohol.
You killed her.
You ruined her.
And she rose.
Again and
again
and again.

But she could have been special.
She could have been loved.
She could have been more
than the girl
who was shattered
and left ****** and
bruised
by you.

Just because I got
back up after being
pushed down
didn’t make me strong.

It made me afraid.
It made me a coward.
It made me selfish.

I am not forged from iron,
or steel.

I am not grateful for your torment.
The pain you crafted was not beautiful.
My trauma is not art.

I was a child
and I was scared.

You were my father
and you were
my worst nightmare.

My dad taught me
how to ride my bike.

And I rode
far, far away.

I peddled away from
the screaming,
away from the fists,
and the bruises,
and harsh words.

I learned from my father
that a house is not a home.

I learned from my father
that love is not
a given.

I learned from my father
that family
is not unbreakable.

Grief comes in waves,
lingering at the shore of my mind
before ebbing back out to sea.

There are hours before the tide
rises again.
and for those brief moments,
I am free.

I am free of loss.
I am free of pain.
I am free of the emptiness.

And then i hear something,
or see something,
or do something,
and the memories of you
come rushing back.

When I was a child

I thought
all my pain
would fade away
with age.

They say,
“you once dreamed
of being where you are now.”

And I did. I prayed
for time that
would take away my hurt.
I ached for identity
in the form of adulthood.

I once dreamed
of being where I am now,
but my dreams
were nothing like
this.

I’ve only yelled at you once
In the pouring rain
Under the light of the moon

I remember screaming so loud I thou
But you don’t even remember
How could you?

You were blinded by a bottle
That you cared about more than me

Everyone tells me
that growth is a process.

And I believe them.
I do.

But I have been waiting,
pleading with whatever god exists
to help me bloom.


I am growing.
but not upwards.
I am twisted and
wretched and ugly.

I am not growing.

I am rotting.