The Day I Died

The Day I Died…

I died the day my mother was informed she was having a girl and burst into tears of disappointment.

You may even say I died before I was ever born.

I often wonder, if I have ever lived at all.

I died the day my parents fought over immature disputes.

I died the day my parents divorced.

How so? I was only two.

I died the day I saw my mother struggle to be a single mom.

I died every day she hurt over my relationship with my dad.

I died every time it all continued to all fall apart.

I died the day my mother shattered her turquoise blue mirror when the electric was shut off.

I died the day I consoled her as she cried.

I embodied all her pain.

I died the day she remarried a deceiving love.

I died every day she tolerated his terror.

I died watching her not know how to leave.

Believing she chose him over me.

I dissociated my soul away.

I died the day we moved.

I died the day we couldn’t stay.

Another divorce. Another delay.

I died the day my grades dropped from Perfect A’s to Bs.

I died the day we had little to eat.

I died the day I posted a lemonade stand in the middle of January.

Would we ever afford ends meet?

I died the day my grandparents took us back in.

I died the day my mother restarted college.

Her Saturn return, I suppose.

I died the day my mother started drinking.

I died every day her hometown haunted her.

I died living with her ghosts.

I died the day I found myself and was humiliated.

I died the day I wished for black hair and was met with shame.

I died every fight for an authentic aesthetic that was purely mine.

To be myself not only failed, but poisoned the bloodline.

To be like me, is to be a diluted fool.

I died the day I had my first childhood boyfriend.

My taste in boys was gross. Wrong and impure.

My girly desire for kisses and love, labeled me a slut.

I was in 5th, 6th and 7th grade.

I died the day I became suicidal and there was no one to listen.

I died the day my mother overwhelmed and intoxicated screamed at me to follow through with it.

A strike she denies. Whether alcohol related or shame? I cannot decide.

I died the day I sought God.

I died the day the church told me I was suicidal because of who I chose to be.

Not because of any trauma nor abuse. Abuse with telltale signs but too repressed to acknowledge.

I died the day my youth pastor discontinued responding to my emails.

I died the day my mother found another man.

Observing destructive relationship.

One after another.

I died the day I watched her let a good man go.

I died the day I saw her demons glow.

And she killed me with every punching bag blow.

I died the day my brothers were allowed, but I was not.

I died the day it was because boys will be boys and girls are harder to raise.

I died every moment I competed for justice against my siblings.

I died every occasion my Mother pitted herself against me.

Drowning in her projected self hatred.

Losing against her spitfire competition.

I died with every friendship that ended over petty jealousies.

I died every time, I had to over explain myself and beg to be understood.

I died every crowning as the destructive one.

I died having to hide my accomplishments.

I died begging for them to be seen.

I died the day I wrote my first poem.

I died the day I spoke it to the public.

To receive 2nd Place. Not for a true reflection of work.

But for notes of “Being Too Controversial”

Notes that dim the power of speaking from the soul.

Criticism and punishment for an intimidating perspective.

I died the day I began High School.

I died Homecoming week when I met him.

His murderous charm could not reach a fill.

His jealous embrace toyed with me like a doll.

I died the day I was assaulted by a man who claimed to have loved me.

I died the day I was repetitively raped.

And blamed for being drunk and flirty at sixteen.

I died the day I was told that saying “No, I am too drunk, we shouldn’t” was not enough.

I died the day I was told wanting him to kiss me meant he deserved to take all of me.

I died the day I pretended it didn’t occur.

I killed myself the day I let them all lie to me.

I killed myself the day I allowed them all to speak lies on my name.

I died every time I stood alone in silence.

I conquered through it all and remained to the outside world.

Unstoppable. Cold. Impenetrable.

They could not decide whether I was so worthless to allow such pain.

Or if I was so empowered to exalt it.

I died colliding with the fate to meet my first true love.

I died the day he had left.

Rotting under the harsh imprisonment of my home.

I died the day I graduated high school and committed to a college path of desperation.

I died every attempt to freely express myself in a world that required professionalism.

A world built on hypocritical judgment and masks.

I died working five jobs to accomplish my degree debt free.

I died juggling a misaligned situationship and allowing such distraction.

I died proving myself to everyone that I would be fine.

That I could be as successful as they wanted me to be.

I died moving to Michigan.

I died leaving my family behind.

I suffered immensely risking it all.

All for a man... For a delusional dream of true love and happiness.

A man who manipulated me to believe he would be the one to save me.

To be the one who not only showed, but proved to me that people could be trusted.

I died the day I showed him my vulnerability.

I died the day I let him in.

I died every time I sacrificed myself for him.

I believed to be the problem. I always had been before.

I died the day he left for another woman.

I died the day he married her.

At the ripe age of twenty-two my heart physically broke.

I died forcing Michigan to work.

I died with every failure to ground roots in this life for myself here.

I died the day Covid shut off the world.

I died, left to be alone with my thoughts.

I died and embraced myself as a practicing witch. A Magician.

I burned at the stake of all who fear me.

Who misunderstood my magick.

I died the day I began healing.

I died the day I confronted my family with my wounds.

They slaughtered me with their lack of emotional intelligence.

Their projections targeted to gaslight the horrific truth.

To deny my attempts at uniting us as a healthy family.

I died the day I met my husband.

I died the day I cried trying to tell him I loved him. Intimidated by such a love. An unworthiness I burdened.

I died the day I knowingly felt his love to actually be.

I died realizing I may never accept it to be true.

I died the day I was in my car accident.

I died the day I wished it killed me for real.

I died the day they arrested me with a weapons charge.

I died the day they judged me as a criminal.

Not as the human standing before them.

I died singing Sticks and Stones.

I died accepting the judgment of others.

I died upon their cross of truth.

I died the day I yelled at my grandmother to the point of making her cry.

I died the day she last hugged me.

And I died the day she died.

I died the day I realized the disconnection within our species.

I died the day I was taught the laws of the corrupted land.

Every waking moment of knowledge incited a death within me.

I died with every obstacle, every luck by every dart.

My life weighed with sorrow bestowed deep within my heart.

I died from every envious crone competing with my youth.

I died from every belittlement of my “naive” courage.

I died from every intended offense to knock little ms perfect off her feet.

I died the day I discovered such offenses to be sent down from my peers above. The pedestals of liars, thieves and facades.

I have died for all those I have loved.

And for all those I have lost.

I died the day I became myself.

I died fighting for her to stay alive.

I died the day my spirit broke.

When the world gave you all confirmation of your doubt in me. Left wondering why should I even try.

Only to die once more.

Have I ever been alive, ever at all?

I died the day I questioned if I would ever be worthy of an existence. Of a peace to keep.

A love to have.

All my very own.

To discover the joys of sentience. If there ever was such a thing.

I have died every moment of life that I have been granted..

Maybe physical death is my only way to live.

Perhaps the day that I cease to exist, is the day that I finally come alive.