the fear of men who look like my mother

my mother asks me
on a regular basis why
am i so goddamn scared
of everything
she says i make it hard for her
to take me places and
seeing me have a mental breakdown
over a stranger on the street
is the equivalent to her coming to
one of my poetry slams only for her
to walk out halfway through the performance
when she realises it's about how shitty
of a job she's doing
she tells me she would never
let anything happen to me
and i have to fight the urge to tell her
about the man that followed me home
from school, everyday for a year
and how i still carry the panic in my backpack
or about her brother, my uncle
and the time he slammed me up against a wall
with his hand around my neck
how he told me to stop crying  
that he liked his women silent
like my mother
or all the times her boyfriend forced me
onto the floor of the rusted old toyshed
in the backyard that she built
with her own two hands
it still couldn’t or wouldn’t protect me

and none of this is to justify or rationalise
the tears that only come when the sun goes down
and i am walking an empty street
with no one there to see them except another
abuser disguised as boy getting home too late
i empty myself till the tears go dry
i do not want him to know i am scared of him
he might take that as an opportunity
to give me something to fear

it is not easy for me to see the faces of men who have
hurt me on strangers
and i am sure you are a nice man sir, but i do not want
to stick around to find out
if i am able to end the conversation before it has started
i can walk away
without taking the drink from you
without going into the backyard to “have a conversation” with you
without being too fucked up to say no to you
and i'm sure you wouldn’t intentionally
disregard my rejection, but i do not
want to stick around to find out
and so, when there is enough
empty space and silence to be occupied
by a strangers breaths
please do not ask me why i want to walk the other direction
or why i can’t stop crying
or why i can’t answer your fucking questions right now
do not point to all the places it hurts
as if you are offering me a bandage
for a bullet wound you created
my mother tells me she didn’t raise me to be afraid
of my surroundings
i think she meant to say
she can’t admit to herself that i am just like her
she attempts to read strangers
on the street and tell me why i should not fear them
as if shining a flashlight without batteries
into the dark corners is going to light the way
maybe they are just getting their mail mya
maybe they just stepped outside for a cigarette mya
maybe they are walking home just like us mya
maybe your abusers were just like you mya
when they couldn’t silence the voices
they just listened to what they had to say
sometimes the voices tell me to run
say i do not have to outrun the hungry man
i just have to outrun the bones of the girls
whose hearts he is feasting on
and so i am running and running and running
and i do not recognize the street i am on anymore
but i know it well enough
to know i’ve been down it before
i know these echos, like i know the
melody turned symphony of
“just breathe”
and i know i am not conscious
but i can feel him breathing
and whispering into all the places
i have let become numb since he’s left
i can feel my bones crack under the weight
of his body and let their dust become
my mothers look of disapproval
some days the voices tell me
to shower five times a day
to pour boiling water over these scars
and i know they have not healed
because salt water tears still burn
even after the lines have turned white
and walking home alone at night
still burns my insides
and i know i cannot tell her
but i am not afraid of the assault
i am afraid of the nights that will follow
to know that i may never not be afraid again
i am afraid that even with a knife under my pillow
and a gun in my top drawer
i don’t know if i would hurt you or myself first
and i will try to ignore my fears
for your wellbeing
but most days, i am a broken car alarm
i go off at the sound of fireworks, and drunken yelling
and gunshots, and anything that rings something like a scream
and there may not be any real danger
but i will certainly alert you of the possibility

mother, i know you do not want to see me
lose my breath when we go running after dark
i know it is not easy for you to see me fall to the floor
to collect the ruins i have let myself become
there is a reason the panic comes in attacks
when it knows i am an army of one
who’s only ever waged wars
against her own body
and you asking why i am always so scared
sounds alot like you are joining their side
but i promise you, i am trying
the days i leave the house
in anything other than my pajamas
i am trying
the days i eat fruit for breakfast
instead of fistfulls of sleeping pills or emptiness
i am trying
and the days i am trying my hardest are the days you do not seem to notice
the days i lose my breath, but do not run the other direction
are the days i am fighting back
it is not easy to see color in a world that has never been anything
other than darkness
it is not easy to tell myself the grass is greener on the other side
when nobody has been around to turn the water on for years
it is not easy to keep the safety on the gun
or to keep myself from pulling the trigger
but i promise you, i am trying