I’m Trash.
I’m Garbage.
I’m No Good.

But what do I MEAN by THAT?

Explain to myself, I should.

It’s hard to wrestle a meaning
when all I remember
is a 6 foot 4
200 plus pound gorilla of a
meth head
reminding me of
my worthlessness

on a daily basis

until I was 14.

He beat
and choked
that worthless reality
into me
as he bruised my body.

But that’s only part of
the story.

I learned to avoid punches
at an early age.

I learned to hate myself
at an early age.

I let myself get infected
with pain and misery.
I am infected.

I let this infection
lead me to believe
No One has my back,
even when I face Love
daily.

It’s hard for me to Believe Love.
But I swear, I’m trying.
I swear, I’m not lying.

Yet, it’s so hard to Love Yourself
when you’ve been molded
by fists, sculpted by cruelty,
chiseled by chokes that
lifted you off the ground
and slammed you against a wall.

I’m trying to escape that closed grip,
but  like a nightmare
I can’t run any faster
and, I fear, I’m slowing down.

So I run faster, from everyone.
From my past.
From people  who Love me.
Lest they see
the bruises on my body,
the cracks in my Heart,
all the bad memories,
and remnants of choke marks.

Lest they see
the war scars I’m covered in
and how I’ve let past pain consume
whom I’ve once been.

But, that’s only  part of the story.

There is more to this tale than
me being a victim.

But whom can I trust
to tell the rest of this tale?

You?
Well, maybe. But only
if you Love me.

But that’s only part of the story.
Because I’m asking Me.

I’m asking me.

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