Poetry: Sip and Paint
Title: “Sip and Paint” | Written: 2021 | Originally Published: Spring 2022, Avalon Literature and Arts Magazine
“Get in the car
We’re going home
You’ve done enough
And you don’t deserve to see the sun again
For a long long time
So shut it.”
Your words rattle my skull
But at least I have my headphones this time.
You don’t say that to a child
But yet you felt it was appropriate
Reteaching the lessons your parents wrote
But in a different font, from a different pain.
Your trauma influencing the brand of abuse
You were supposed to think it was cute
But it was the beginning of world war three
But it was all for you, it wasn’t for me.
Paints carpeted my bedroom floor
All in sacrifice for you and your birth
Hands stained, and back tired
Canvas covered, sealed, and signed
But it wasn inconsequential
You keep it in a box under the stairs,
And tried to take away my latrine
Eight hours of work flushed down the drain
Birthdays make my heart hurt
Mine, yours, and everybody elses
Sometimes from fear, sometimes from abandonment
You did things that people get arrested for
But it remained hidden, because I stayed silent
The threat of death on the horizon
And the fear that you would never love me again
And more, that you would finally leave a bruise
Drink disappeared during dinners
But the talk remained
Unadulterated by the liquor,
And the judgment of others
You kept your circle small, weeded out the unloyal
Only kept those who would excuse your behavior
Allow you to beat me, curse me and cheat me
And join in if they felt it was needed
It was a horror show, crying in the bathtub
Trying to take a shower, but my body too tired
To hold myself up after being belittled and burned
Hurt to the home, and the disentanglement from parentage
I never cut my skin, no scars to be found
But I opened previous wounds, made them bigger
I drew masterpieces, to infect my bloodstream
And burned my hair till it crunched louder than crackers
I dolled myself up, created a mask of colors
Red, yellow, blue, and pink, too bright too saturated
To be natural, and yet they were an inherent part of me
A fake persona, a knight in shining armor
It hurts to remember, but it hurt more to experience
The people you were told loved you more than life
Ripping your ribcage out of your chest and twisting it
Till it splintered, and then refused to acknowledge the blood
Your hands held my throat. how hard would you press
Before I would cry out, pass out, fight back?
But then you’d spike my drink with rum
And tell your friends I was a psychotic drunk
And I was, drunk on fear and adrenaline,
Them pretending they didn’t see the bruises, the pain
As if I wasn’t crying in corners, while you smiled and danced
Making memories without me, though I was central to them
How is this love?
How am I supposed to believe you genuinely care?
Like all of the adults tell me, because all I feel is genuine hate
Bubbling from your chest and into my body, sticky and suffocating
Because parents are supposed to love their children
Not break their bodies till they cannot function
Without ten separate doctors, physical therapy,
And two sessions a week in your grippy socks
You burn in your fire, lit by your guilt
And you ask for the river of my forgiveness
To wash you clean, to snuff it out
But you haven’t even taken the time to change your underwear.
