C-PTSD Coping.

Lyrics

everything anymore makes me angry, mad,
and sad,
I can’t call my mom, she’s absent and my dads always working, never home to have a chat,
and my therapist says it’s all my fault,
I don’t handle change well and I’m just prone to lashing out with a verbal assault,
of course…
it’s always me…
never the objects, hands, weapons used to beat,
when I’d say these noodles feel too wet to eat,
or I didn’t like how I felt like I was eating a friend when I’d eat meat,
or how I’d get told I would die if I played dolls with my gay friend down the street,
or how when every time you’d push me I’d scream and you’d send me away with the police,
and then you tell the world you loved me…
but you don’t tell the world these things…
you don’t tell them you wanted to slap my dad when I was 5, missed, and slapped me,
he called the police,
and you cried your way out of any trouble because your white and can fake it well,
don’t play me like this couple years ago you pulled a gun out to kill your husband and played the victim card as well,
intimidated us all into lying for you,
and if we even speak an ounce of it,
“Don’t listen they’ve always been a lying fool.”
and you wonder why I don’t ever trust you?
why id rather live across the country than on the road next door to you?
you don’t even let me travel with my own daughter,
you blame the emotion running wild in the water,
but refuse therapy as if to refuse God’s presence at an Altar,
and then you claim to pray, if you prayed, you wouldn’t behave in 95% of the ways you do today.
you’d self reflect and recognize,
“oh shit, I caused her a lot of pain.”
“I still chose my father even though my child he fucking raped…”
and I gotta wake up and remember that every day…
you don’t…
but I know you remember sitting alone at lunch,
you’d always say it felt so cold. crying alone…
that’s what I’ve done every day since I was probably 4, and you think I won’t sit here attacking with a fake smile like we’re in active war.
Ma, I love you, but only because you’ve manipulated me so bad it’s impossible for me to close that traumatic door,
so don’t go bragging when I do finally buy you that new coupe and your husband a 4 door,
because I didn’t want to,
I just couldn’t sleep without feeling like I left you feeling the same crushing weight of being poor,
that you made me carry because you’d rather pop a pill than file sort…
I mean shit,
what else you want me to say?
thank you?
for neglect?
malnutrition?
and rampant abuse?
you’re god damned lucky you’re alive,
I’m paid by the same people who paid your husband to eliminate people who act like you…

goodnight…
it’s 3:30…in the morning…
I still haven’t slept dude…
it’s C-P-T-S-D,
gifted to me,
from you.