By Arya Murali
Note: This poem contains descriptions of childhood abuse, both physical and emotional.
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You remember, I told you?
Which one do you want? He asked when I was nine.
Choose any
Small, medium or large, he said,
pointing at the three sticks behind the window.
My father asked me to CHOOSE
the size of my own punishment,
as if I were picking out a t-shirt.
And today, I have to wish HIM
Happy Father's Day?
Why?
For letting me wickedly choose how I must hurt?
For locking me in the bathroom for hours where I ran and hid for my life?
For throwing me out of the house when I was a few minutes late from playing?
He taught me pain before I learned to crawl
and fear before I had words to say “STOP!”
He broke me before the world had a chance
and left me to fix myself on my own.
I wish I could shake him up and confront him
I wish I could ask my lost childhood back
But most of all,
I wish I could wish him today without hurting so much
Just like my friends on Facebook
I know how hurt I am
at the hands of my daddy-dearest.
Yet when I see all the other daughters,
I cannot help but wonder...
Is this because of me?
Am I the bad one?
Am I the one hurting him
with my silence?
Do you understand?
Ahhh! I must sound so deranged.
But I’m trying
you know?
To find compassion for him,
but without letting myself down?
You’re doubting yourself again
This is the cycle of abuse
We've been through this dear, remember?
says my therapist
I leave the zoom session
twitching and turning
restlessly in my bed.
Mind racing, nail biting,
stomach churning and heart throbbing,
The little girl in me is shattered
and I’m putting her back, piece by piece
I rock on the bed
as if I’m rocking her
It’s okay darling
It’s not your fault, I assure her
I hug her and soothe her
and slowly
this bitterness dissolves in my salty tears
leaving behind the silence
of a storm that’s past.
Then I open my phone
and I wish him.
Happy Father's Day.
I lock my phone and
let out a sigh,
settling into myself,
finally at peace.
Next week, she asks.
Sounds like you had a hard time.
Why did you decide to text then?
Because you’re right, I said.
This is a cycle of abuse and
I choose to end it.
I choose me.
If I hadn’t texted
my inner child would’ve felt bad.
MAYBE he’d have felt bad too
But more so, I'm certain he'd have asked
questions I’d rather not face
“STILL HUNG UP ON THE THREE STICKS BEHIND THE WINDOW?”