the poem where you blame your childhood trauma









the poem where you blame your childhood trauma perfume stories
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(Trigger Warning: mature themes) A poem about trauma and salvaging love, for the Sexual Assault Awareness contest. Thank you for reading <3 (Song: https://www.youtube.com/w...>

the poem where you blame your childhood trauma

my lover took the teeth i spent years tugging

my lover took the teeth i spent years tugging and wore it as a necklace,

my lover took the teeth i spent years tugging and wore it as a necklace, my innocence strung the day he

cried

cried—gut trembling

cried—gut trembling—his bloody palm

cried—gut trembling—his bloody palm against my own,

locked in some sort of feverish sun,

locked in some sort of feverish sun, he crawls inside of me and the lines in his hand

spill like thousands of fireflies,

spill like thousands of fireflies, shaken by the perfume of blood,

spill like thousands of fireflies, shaken by the perfume of blood, tells me that the women in his life never seem to be lighter

spill like thousands of fireflies, shaken by the perfume of blood, tells me that the women in his life never seem to be lighter than the weight of his hand—

spill like thousands of fireflies, shaken by the perfume of blood, tells me that the women in his life never seem to be lighter than the weight of his hand— swarm as if feeding off veins

of light,

of light, hot,

of light, hot, sticky,

of light, hot, sticky, sweet—

of light, hot, sticky, sweet—until the buzz in his ears

becomes a scream,

becomes a scream, until the sun burns a grenade and

becomes a scream, until the sun burns a grenade and no amount of water,

becomes a scream, until the sun burns a grenade and no amount of water, none of it will wipe the red shadow,

becomes a scream, until the sun burns a grenade and no amount of water, none of it will wipe the red shadow, the smear on the wall—

becomes a scream, until the sun burns a grenade and no amount of water, none of it will wipe the red shadow, the smear on the wall— picking at its wings—

becomes a scream, until the sun burns a grenade and no amount of water, none of it will wipe the red shadow, the smear on the wall— picking at its wings— dissecting,

wrong place,

wrong place, right time,

wrong place, right time, let him starve him dry,

i wring my hands through his matted hair,

i wring my hands through his matted hair, slice my ring finger off with the kitchen knife—

i wring my hands through his matted hair, slice my ring finger off with the kitchen knife— a new one

i wring my hands through his matted hair, slice my ring finger off with the kitchen knife— a new one grows in its place,

i wring my hands through his matted hair, slice my ring finger off with the kitchen knife— a new one grows in its place, forked tongue—

i wring my hands through his matted hair, slice my ring finger off with the kitchen knife— a new one grows in its place, forked tongue— press it to his lips,

the flies on the wall bearing witness,

we sleep with our backs to the wall,

we sleep with our backs to the wall, your legs

we sleep with our backs to the wall, your legs become mine.

become mine.

(i.n.)

i thought i should vaguely explain this one, seeing as it's a bit chaotic, written that way because it's a poem about trauma and the confusion and the effect it can have on a person, even when they are an adult.

it's also written through the view point of a lover of the person, which seemed like the most natural, i guess, view to write it from, as they stick by their lover's side through it all. the flies are a metaphor through the poem, but i won't explain that. thank you for reading! x the poem in form:

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