Photo credit: Flickr / Bill Rogers
Poetry

This is for you.

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For the women whose fathers

Never stayed,

Never poured the love

You deserved into your soul.

For the women who found love

With the men like their fathers,

Who fear finding a man

Like their fathers.

For the women whose love

Was constantly measured

By how much abuse you could take,

Hurt, tears and pain.

This is for you.

 

The days come so fast,

Where you wish darkness would

Plague you and take you away.

You hide under the covers in shame

That he could never love you.

That his hands were hard, cold.

That his eyes, dark and harsh.

That his voice shook you, filled you with dread.

You tried oh, you tried.

To be softer, to be quieter, to be better.

To cry less, to swallow the pain.

To smile in the face of his anger, hoping it will go away and finally, finally,

Maybe he would love you the same.

And he left you to die each time,

And maybe just maybe, that was love.

Death, anger, wrath, pain, in the name of love was love.

You hide in shame for when the man you gave your heart to for the first time,

You believed in his tenderness, his softness, his light, but oh when the night came, and his demons came out to play,

You pleaded, you begged, you tried to fight, but you were weak he said, you were weak – so there you were night after night, crawling back, with a trail of blood, claw marks trying to rip you to shreds and a tattered heart as proof that love was meant to be this way.

And once again, you are smiling in the face of his anger, defeated, bleeding in his name, hoping it’ll change things,

Be softer, be happier, laugh like an angel, walk with your head up, be less you, be more her.

Hoping he’ll love you once again, all the same.

He left you to die, hoping his words of love would be enough to resurrect the love you always gave, never received.

And you see it, you see him in his harshness, you see him in his coldness, you see him in his anger.

And it scares you beyond measure.

How could it be? You were so sure, so sure that the man you chose would never be him. You were so sure of the light, of the softness, of the tenderness.

Wasn’t it real? Wasn’t that love?

And you try again. Again. Again. Again.

Over and over.

And the love stays the same.

The love of death, of pain, of misery, of anger and wrath.

You hide in shame.

For you made the mistakes your mother made.

You hide in shame.

For you betrayed the little girl in you

That screamed at you to run.

You hide in shame.

For you allowed it to happen again. And again. And over and over.

Who told you? Who told you that your love had to bear such pain? Who told you that your love had to bear such wrath? Who told you that your love had to bear such hurt? Who told you that your love had to bear such abuse?

And as you hide in shame,

You will learn.

Your father could never love you because

He was a man incapable of love.

And that was never a reflection of you.

You chose a man like him, a man who sometimes carried the light your soul ached for, a man who sometimes could be soft, tender, giving, merciful. You chose a man like him, a man whose anger knew no bounds, wrath from his demon that he threw in your face every time you did something, said something that was not deemed valid by his highness. You chose a man like him, a man who only wanted to conquer, to claim, to own. A man who’s idea of love was you following behind his steps as his woman. A man who lived off seeing you at his feet, bleeding, begging, pleading. How powerful that made him feel. You chose a man who never wanted to be loved, my girl, he wanted to be worshipped.

And oh, how well you worship.

For that is all you ever wanted, wasn’t it?

To worship and be worshipped in return,

In the name of love?

And now you are hiding in shame,

For all you swore you would never,

You did.

But you will learn. You will.

That, that was not your fault either.

You were made with the pureness of the moon.

You were made with the softness of the petals of every flower that blooms.

You were made, so tenderly, with every colour that paints the sky, living in your soul.

You were made with the strength of the sun, the wind, the tornadoes that had the power to destroy, to wreak havoc at whoever burnt your skin.

It was never your fault that he only saw the lands he wanted to claim. It was never your fault that he bled your rivers dry. It was never your fault that he cut your roots, killed your flowers and started a fire that only burnt your essence.

It was never your fault for giving to him, for trying again the way you did for your father.

You will learn, you will.

That you loved. You loved, you loved.

And you survived. You survived.

And you left, you left.

And you won each time.

He could not love you.

Nor could he.

But you have always had you.

Hide no longer in shame

For now you know.

That when his hands turn cold, his eyes turn harsh, his love turns to fire.

You know now.

Close the gates to your lands,

Wash his footprints,

And burn his skin.

And know that the sin

Of ever staining your soul

Will stay forever

On his hands.

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