POEMS BY DANA

I identify deeply with being a poet and a mother. They are both powerful motivators for me–

To listen deep down inside for what’s most loving and true, and then choose, the best I can, to Go in that direction.

My biological father, was a fighter pilot in the Air Force, and my abuse in the cult (in addition to being abused by him) happened in conjunction with that branch of the military, mostly for the purpose of being sexually trafficked.

Poem #1

No More Perfect Poems!

Today I let go of

polished poems

for

simple

disjointed

messy

honest

Truth

Poem #2

Writing What’s True

I’m wondering today

Why I don’t write

When I know how writing

helps me See myself

and my world More clearly.

It’s that little menacing cloud of

SHAME

That blankets my days

Saying:

don’t you dare

Think that you matter,

Think your words are meaningful,

Think struggling to lay them

Down on the page is

Worth the effort.

* * * * *

Do I really want to hear

how my long ago

lied to,

Hurt, raped, tortured, hidden,

Lost, buried

Smeared away self

left To bang it’s head

Against an uncaring wall

Perpetually—

Was silenced

Until the effort became too much

And my little girl spirit

Drooped,

Gave up,

and even Died?

* * * * *

My soul,

that place

Of hope that never stops

whispering My name

until I’m ready to

Hear it as

beautiful,

Helps me Open,

say yes—

embrace what’s

True.

* * *

I know why I don’t write.

Because I don’t want to

face

That I’m often a liar.

A fake,

A person trying

To write a good poem

But instead

exposing

For all to see—

Inadequate

Trite,

Boring,

Meaningless

Words.

It hurts.

Why would I do that?

But my listening soul says

With her soft, kind voice:

“Keep trying dear.

Even your worst efforts

Help Brush the dust

Off your weary heart

And help it find its way

Home.

Poem #3

On the Eve of Choosing to Love Myself

I’m a little bit happy tonight

And I know why

I’m about to shoot down

A great big lie.

I don’t usually write in

Rhyme, but I think

That’s the happiness

Sneaking out

Of me

ME!!!

It’s starting to sink in

That

I’m NOT

A fucking piece of

Shit!

Which is what

I’ve secretly thought

for

54 years.

It’s what they

Wanted me to

Think

So they could use me—

No, not me,

But my body,

Since I wasn’t even there.

And to do that

They had to commandeer

My mind

Which wasn’t hard

When love wasn’t there—

To protect me from

Having to believe

The lies that swallowed me

Inside out

And kept me

Captive

Fear

And

Hate

* * * *

This is starting to just

Be a lot of words,

So let’s get to the point:

Am I ready to give up

my belief that I’m

‘A Fucking Piece of SHIT’?

It’s weird that I even

Have to pause there—

But I do…

Because an identity is

An identity,

Even when it’s wrong

Even when it’s built on lies

Even when it drags me

Down

Even when it swallows me whole—

Day

After day

After fucking

Day

Because it’s a

a blanket I wear

To protect me.

Every day and

Every night

and everywhere I am

I wrap myself in it tight

And mistakenly feel relief

That “now I’m safe”.

‘There’s nothing more that can hurt me.”

“There’s definitely nothing more

That can be taken away from me—

If I’m already a fucking piece of shit.

* * * * *

When you’re a

Fucking Piece of Shit

The bar of failure is

So low

It doesn’t hurt so

Bad when

You’re falling

Off

And smashing your head,

Getting kicked in your gut

Having your heart twisted

And squeezed

And yanked right out of you.

Constantly.

Because if you’re a

Fucking piece of shit,

That ’s just what you do:

You fail at everything

And remind yourself of each and every one

over

And over

and over…

* * *

Which brings up another point:

It’s

P-r-e-d-i-c-t-a-b-l-e.

When horrific

Violent actions,

Lying words and

flat out evil are coming

At you from every turn

The mind makes up this little

Lie that says:

“I’m safe if I know what’s coming.”

And damn good thing it does create that

Lie,

Because it helped,

Even if only a little,

For me

Survive.

And when you’re trying

To just survive,

asking questions

Isn’t the tiniest bit allowed.

* * * * * *

So,

here I am

after 10 years of excruciating

Labor

And I’m Sitting on my

living room couch,

surrounded by the mess that

People who think they’re a

Fucking piece of shit

Are inclined to make,

eating

Strawberry Hagen Daz ice cream

From the 76 Station down the street

Which I just drove to with my puppy Lily

before sunset

Because I was feeling so surprisingly hopeful

About beginning to

think about—

About being ready to ask—

this

All important question I’ve answered

And believed in and

In too many ways to count

lived out,

And am still believing now…

Even though the

The believing is beginning to have some

Holes in it.

Halle-fucking-luyah!!!!

* * * * *

Some signs of hope:

1. the King size Reese’s candy bar

Which I bought at the gas station,

ate most of,

then threw the last 25%

In the blackberry bushes

(if it’s in the trash, I can too easily retrieve it

If I want to change my mind)

2. I chatted happily with the gas station attendant,

(a man, which usually means terror),

Commenting on what a nice view he had

From his gas station register,

And he suddenly seemed a bit animated,

Saying:

“Yeah, that’s true!

It IS a really nice view.

The palm trees,

The sunrise and sunset,

The hills,

on Saturday

Where the balloons with tourists

rise up

And over into our

Valley,

And they look so cool…

And beautiful.

And he pauses on that word:

Beautiful.

* * * * *

When I write that word,

“Beautiful…”

now,

I pause and wonder:

Might there be some of that in

Me?

* * * * *

At least I’m contemplating it.

Questioning it a little bit,

Feeling a tiny bit

Happy inside—

“Beautiful?….me?!”

Wow,

That seems WAY

too good to be true.

* * * * *

But when the pain of 54 years

has seemed

Too horrific to be true,

It’s starting to make sense

That happiness

might at first

feel

That same way

Too.

Poem #4

I think when the sun rises

Each morning

It says hello

And reaches out its arms

To hold us

So that the pain

We can see

And know

Who we really are

Poem #5

It’s a stare down with the page

And I wonder—Who will win?

Blankness,

Or blank, empty words?

I feel my tummy breathing.

I think choosing to breathe must mean

Choosing to be alive.

Whoa. Me?

Choosing to be alive?

That’s way too much to think about.

It just feels good to breathe

And feel it.

So that’s what I’m going to do.

Pushing out against tight muscle and skin

And Letting go

Pushing out

letting go.

push, let go

eyes soften

Soft whisper inside:

“My body sees me”

I see me.

Finally, some peace.

Finally, a safe place to rest

* * * * *

“I’m in here after all, you Slimy, Sick, Dick Sucking Fuckers!!!!!”

Poem #6

it’s too much for me, but not them,

So I’m letting my teens

look through our eyes

at all the little traumatized parts

inside of me…

Whose heart at this moment

is pounding in terror,

whose rolled back eyes and

muscle memories twist until I wince in pain now

at their efforts to get away back then—

which of course doesn’t happen

when you’re 3, or 9, or 5, or 7,

or a fucking 2 years or 2 fucking months—

controlled with straps

on a table.

* * * * *

When the teens in me look—

something different happens.

Something new.

* * * * *

An I emerges

Who isn’t scared of those

slimy evil dick-sucking fuckers.

suddenly I have power inside

a ME to fight back—

Our rage channeling

Into something profound,

Something beautiful,

Something good.

* * * * *

Halle- fucking- luyah!

I start to say—

I’m a little bit here!

* * *

But then

the moment

Grabs me–

And I just pause

in wonder,

feeling

this wordless

Miracle:

Me.