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The Pen


With one giant breath and a red faced scream

You came into this world and erased the word “woman” from me

Like cheap lipstick off the face of a child with a thumb wet with mothers spit

Replacing it with the word “mother” before your tiny hands had even unclenched,

Holding a pen no one could see but me.

You defined me in ways I never knew I could be defined.

I held on to that word like a badge of honor,

Like a life raft in a drowning sea

And every time I thought of all the things you would grow up to be

“Mother” was the word that defined me.


Over the years you would write one word then the next across me

Like a kindergartener who got a hold of a marker or a pen and went to town on the pristine white walls of my heart.

Scrawling words like a tirade of posters plastered against subway walls.

Rewriting who I was to you with every change of your mood.








See that’s what kids do. You become whatever they need you to be.


But with each word scrawled across my visage, sometimes erased and tried to scrub clean there was always a little bit left

A hint of the word you once used peaking through the new white wash

And a part of me was defined by the ghost of those words,

Both the ones written in bright new ink

And the ones faded and forgotten

Or scribbled out and erased

Those words became a part of me.


So when you started to grow up and the words became harder

The lines you drew them with became harsher

Digging into the walls and scarring them instead of just writing on them

They became harder to erase.

The mental illness that altered your brain and made you shape a reality that only suited you made you lash out at the one person close enough to you to hold you anyway.

And you started to stab the pens into the wall, rather than just write the words on them







Get out



I’ve had to learn how to gently take the paint brush myself and wash over the walls of my own heart

Crying out at the pain as the bristles sink into the wounds you’ve carved out with lashing tongue,

Wiping away the blood that was drawn with sharp pens and smoothing out the edges of plaster that was broken and gouged

And even though I’ve painted over the words, time and again

I can still see them there underneath the paint,

Still feel them there,

Left on my heart.


There are thousands of resources for children who are dealing with the trauma of having narcissistic sociopaths for parents.

There isn’t one thing about raising a sociopath for a child.

The resources for children talk about cutting ties with the abusive parent and getting on with your life.

How do you do that with the child you gave birth to?


So I dip my paint brush in, white wash over the pain and the hurt

You’ve erased so much of me over the years

Contorted me into what you needed/wanted/begged for me to be

In an attempt to make you whole, to grow you into the person you were meant to be.

There is nothing left of me for you

except this blank white wall

And a pen.



Quirky, eclectic and as alternative as Opelika, AL ever thought to produce. I'm a Yoga for All yoga teacher, a belly dancer, a mom, an out queer woman (Yes, really, in Ala-freaking-bama!) and a crafter extraordinaire. I'm constantly on the go, always making lists and I love to offer a helping hand and a unique insight into my strange little world.

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