Read Poem: How to be open is complicated and family doesn’t help, by Sarah Bellum Mental

How can I be open without restrictions?

A door that never closes

a breeze allowed to pass by

and through your insides

like you are a ghost within this home.

Speaking words into the sky

to materialize the trials and tribulations

of what you’ve lived

and how your body

is more like diamonds

than it is permeable sheets

of paper because your body refuses

to be torn so easily by words

actions, dictating your heart

to beat like that of a rabbit

to escape your abuser’s words

their mentality to crack your skull

then resurrect you to repeat the process

before your mind can react

to the pain spreading like blooms

blossoming upon your body bruises

like the various colors of the rainbow

you have denied, and maybe that’s why

they choose to harm your body

in ways that don’t color your skin

as much as they metaphorically

twist your body into a contortionists

cartoon rendering of rubber limbs

trying to grasp at what they said

to throw the words back at them

so they can see the harm of their foul.

Open means breaking

it means binding my body

so close to their words that I have

no way of protecting myself

shedding diamond for the epidermis

that efficiently cuts and I just can’t

live that way. I was a sensitive child

it was never a compliment but always a crux.

It was a cross for me to bear

weight distributed over shoulders

too broad to be made for a woman

I don’t look weak,

then why do people hunt me

with callous words and those

I love end up hurting me the most?

My mother asks me what I’m doing,

responds that I don’t have a life

it isn’t a question but rather her answer

to a question, she keeps repeating,

answering before I can take a breath.

I would never allow anyone

to hurt me as she does,

people say she’s your mother,

giving you flesh and blood

a pulse to pump in your chest

a heart weakened by a hereditary

glitch I took from my father’s family

even that fact is an argument

she tries to win, even though

winning is still failing.

How do I become open

when anything open is broken

and the pieces I pick up

aren’t so easy to glue

or bind together like last time

did you try to break me?

I would never let a person

shatter my insides to pieces

quite like my mother does

and even though she created me

out of clay and a borrowed rib

from my father, this doesn’t mean

she lays claim to who I am,

how I live, or the love I choose

to give to those limited few

who deserve it in my lifetime.

How do I stop allowing someone

to open my door inside

when they keep vandalizing me

as if my insides don’t need

the same care as my outside skin?

I choose to hit mute

when she speaks finding that

the sensitive girl in me

is still hiding in the closet

waiting for her mother to see her

and hurt her for how little

she’s loved, her existence

a crutch that I will not

bear my weight upon it

any more and the open door

is now closed to heal

the past crimes that you

denied were real,

but dear mother,

they are as real as your anger,

your curiosity, your sentiments

and I am not the clay

you made, and that is

not such a terrible thing

to realize when

these indentions were mine

for the prevention

of another crime to my skin,

no, mother, I will not let you in.


Author: poetryfest

Submit your Poetry to the Festival. Three Options: 1) To post. 2) To have performed by an actor 3) To be made into a film.

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