Poem by a survivor’s daughter
written by a 13 year old daughter of one of our readers
Truthfully, I wonder why I try.
I know I should, I know it’s right,
but how can something so painful,
so destructive, be the right thing?
I shouldn’t list your faults,
I should look at the good things.
What good things?
I want you to understand what’s wrong.
How will you see that if I say what is good?
Please don’t be hurt by this;
you just need to truly understand.
Understand where I’m coming from,
how much I wanna just run away from this,
why I feel this way.
You say you’re praying for me;
why do I feel like you’re praying for me to be ‘fixed’?
How can you sincerely give me advice about god
when you’re not even following it?
Is that just how it works?
Does it only apply to me?
Not you at all?
That’s not fair.
You say to meet halfway;
halfway for you is halfway behind you.
You tell me I’m wrong,
all my faults and imperfections,
and then you tell me to fix them.
Do you not see your faults?
I might have a speck, but look at your log.
You’re going to fix things?
I’ve heard that before;
I know what “fixing” means.
It means you are going to ‘fix’ it
until you get what you want.
Love me, do you?
How can I believe that?
Are you sure you do?
How can you look me in the eyes,
say how much you love me and care,
but not act like it?
Who taught you that loving someone was all about yourself,
that if you said it enough it must be true?
Maybe no-one taught you;
maybe you’re just so selfish you don’t even realize it.
There’s a bunch of things you don’t realize.
You say give and take,
but who are you giving to?
It’s surely not me.
You tell me it’s give and take,
but you take and take.
You get angry when I say no more;
you say you give.
the only person you’re giving to
is you always you.
You say I don’t trust you;
what, in your head, tells you that you can be trusted?
Trusted with my life,
Do you really think you deserve that much trust?
I’d beg to differ.
I want to be nice.
I try to be mature,
But I’m just not good enough,
and I give up trying to be.
If I’m nice, you think you did nothing wrong.
But you did.
You can clearly see the scar.
If you say you’ll give me space, give it.
I get poked and prodded by you;
I’m sick of it.
Why can’t you get out of my life?
At least, for a while.
I would say thanks,
but I don’t feel you deserve gratitude.
I know I should care,
but it gets harder every-time.
Frankly, I’m about to give up.
I’ve spent too much time on you already,
and it’s making me tired.
Adieu, I pray you understand