I Try Not To Cry, Mom Poem by A Kal

I try not to cry mom
I try not to cry, mom but it's so hard
They just won't stop. Who caused this, you ask?
I did. I said something I shouldn't have said
What did you say, you ask? I wish I knew
Everything came out before I could register what I was saying
He hurt me, worse than ever before
I am writing this after he beat me unconscious on the floor
He just left me where I was. Didn't move me at all.
Just left me. I had to pick myself up. I could barely do it
As I look down, I notice there is blood on the floor.
I grab a mop and start mopping up the blood that has spilled from my
broken body.
I start to cry again and stop mopping up my blood.
They just want to stop so I just let them flow...flowing down my cheeks
Eventually they quit and my face starts to dry
I don't want to face him again but I know I have to or he will beat me
harder than last time
I start walking...walking towards my death and I start to wonder how I escaped
death for so long
I feel that with each step, a piece of me is going with it. I do not hold
those pieces back. I imagine that those pieces are like jigsaw pieces
floating in the air. I hold out my hand and a piece falls into my hand
and I shove it away as far as I could. I also imagine that piece is me
fleeing for my sorry life but those pieces is not me as I start back into
reality and watch the pictures pass me by. I start to remember all those
times, happy times, when the both of us were happy, before he became an
abusive husband. I try to remember those times, times before the abuse
started. It's been too long for me to remember them. Again, I imagine
those times that we were both happy. Now I start to wonder if those times
ever existed. I just made up those images to keep myself and remain
happy. Those images from my past never existed and I just made them up. I
now realize upon looking back into my past, how perfect those images
were. Perfect enough for me to believe them. I now stood outside his
bedroom door and I prepare myself for more beatings from him. I wonder if
this one might knock me unconscious forever. Never opening my eyes ever
again. I raise my hand to knock, gently at first, then harder. I imagine
that he is the door and I am him. Once I am him I realize the power that
it gives me and I realize the exhilarating power that consists in it. I
also realize why he beats me the way that he does. The overwhelming
dominance against each and every soul that is around you. To make people
hate and fear you. Is that is goal, for me to fear him? I realize that he
is winning. I fear him. I can't remember the time before the abuse
started. All the time I am thinking about the times that never were, I am
still pounding the door senseless with my newfound power. I suddenly
stop, realizing that I am just asking for one more beating that will end
my life permanently. Upon looking at the door I find that there are
several dents in the door. The dents that I made while pounding the door.
I can't keep myself from inspecting the door that was once beautiful but
is now misshapen and grotesque. I run my hands over the dents and I am
unusually happy with what I have caused with my bare hands. The door has
dents in it but yet the door hasn't been opened yet. Surely my banging on
the door ought to rouse him from his unconscious state that he himself
induced upon his self. My hand slowly goes from the dents to the door
knob and my hand slowly turns it so slowly I can hear it click as the
latch opens. The door is opened and a crack slowly appears large enough
for me to look inside and see what is beyond the door. I push the door
forward, hard. The door hits the wall as it swings on its hinges
violently. I see him there, my abusive husband, on the couch sleeping or
so it seems. I pay him no heed for the moment. Right now I have to look at
something. I pull the door back, far enough for me to see and feel the
dent in the wall that I have just created with the force of my anger on
the door. I once imagined that he was the door and I am the abuser and I
could feel the power coursing through my veins. Now, I will make his goal
back fire and make him fear me. The figure on the couch is still hasn't
moved and I go to see him. Is he dead or alive? If he is dead, I will
leave him alone and if he is still alive and breathing, I will kill him
but only in self defense for I don't want to go to jail just yet. I will
save that for a later date.