When The Music Leaves

We're always running on the edge of crisis

Like Trump and ISIS plus Dionysus

Trauma-Joy mad poetry seethe in our brains

As we writhe through the cracks just try to maintain

It spills all over everything we ever try to touch

And some days every moment seems like it's too much

The voices in the chorus of the vile doomed and damned

Will whisper whoop and holler like a stubborn rubber band

Always bending back when you deform it try to push it away

Because we know that there's no logic in the things that they say

But no matter how we struggle the best we get is a reprieve

When we take a couple moments pretend it's easy to breathe

It's too easy to believe that we can find an easy answer

In a person, place, or process which can extricate this cancer

Expel it from our minds as if it was a faulty sandwich

And the stomach of our consciousness would puke it up in a ditch

So we could walk away and pretend the meal of venom never happened

Never caught the bottom side of an abusive power imbalance

And had it ground through our souls that we're really just worth nothing

But the idle toy and plaything of a dark and scary monster

Which long ago abandoned ever living in the closet

And instead became the person that we thought that we just might get

They sure seemed a dream or at least a pleasant... nap..

But a honeymoon rush can obfuscate some dreadful facts

And here it gets harder to try to keep the language playful

As we're digging dark emotions out of closely guarded safe-rooms

See the thing about real monsters is they're not simply coming here to kill you

No, they lock you in a box whose walls are built completely out of evil

Dehumanized and "dealt with" told we're burdensome and useless

Fucking with our minds until we're convinced we're always clueless

Fat or Scrawny, Lazy, Stuck Up, Witless, Dumbass, Airhead, Stupid

They'll find some way to make sure that we know we're nothing to them

We're the bitch for crying when they grabbed us by the arm

As they screamed "I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!" for something we hadn't done

And it's our fault that the money's gone directly up their nose

Because we didn't stop them when they stole it out of our clothes

We let them drive the car to things that turned out to be a lie

So it's our fault they were fucking someone else and getting high

They say we approved a lot of things we don't think that we had

But by this point we know that... we really shouldn't... get them... mad

Not that they need much of an excuse to fly off in a rage

After all they've lots of practice bending anger into a cage

Even now we're dancing around their tantrums...

Not wanting to dive into the middle of that deep hole of pain and anger and...

That's part of why it's so hard to talk about.

It's hard to put in the words what it feels like to be the focus of all that hatred.

Oh, where did the rhythm go, you ask? What happened to the rhymes?

It's lost.

Gone.

And that's as close to the feeling we can get.

The music leaves your soul.

There is no joy.

There is no comfort.

There is no happiness.

Our existence has three settings.

Sleep.

Anxiety.

Pain.

That's it.

That's all we get.

If we're not unconscious we're either worrying about the next time they'll hurt us or we're being hurt.

It doesn't always involve physical violence, but it does sometimes.

They don't need violence to destroy us psychologically.

We're sorry.

We're always sorry.

Apologizing has become so reflexive for us that we can "sorry" back and forth a dozen times.

Not that it always or even often worked, but saying it helped us feel like we were at least trying to calm them down.This isn't everything, not by a long shot.It's just a slice of it, a tiny sample.But maybe it'll give someone a glimpse of what someone they care about has been through.

So, please, cut us some slack.

If we're anxious, or paranoid, or need to get away from everyone or be held close by someone, just...

Please be patient.

We're trying.