Raising funds for Women's Aid
Trigger Warning
You may have stumbled upon our page, you may have QR coded yourself here from our poetry collection 'Synonyms for Living'. However you got here - welcome!
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Please be aware that this page is for honest and raw poetry, which include themes of violence, sexual abuse, and domestic violence. You may find the language used in these poems triggering, so please prioritise your mental health if you choose to continue reading.
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This is an uncensored space for writers to express their own experiences or feelings. If you would like to read poetry which may be less triggering, but covers similar themes, please consider purchasing a copy of 'Synonyms for Living' where all funds will be going to Black Country Women's Aid.
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Thank you to all the poets whose work is included in this section. You are the embodiment of strength.
The Power of Choice
By Emma Jane Paterson
"Please help me" I say from the core of my soul,
Which is battered and bruised from the hideous control.
Domestic Violence is terrorism in the home and heart.
It is the most supressed kind of torture I know.
Abuse doesn't always come in a loud roaring tone
Its sanctimoniously delivered as he whispers in my ear.
Its not sweet nothings as though it would appear.
Its horrific . It's cruel. Its crippling and mean.
Its destruction, dysfunction, all controlled by fear.
The silence is piercing, terrorism is imminent.
Like waiting on the plate for the ball to be pitched.
No idea of direction, speed or strength.
On guard I wait, to cover my base.
The curve ball from left is what I expect.
The attack so severe, the defence so weak.
Moments of fear, destruction and torture.
"Your tears are a weapon"... as I cry and not speak.
Strike one. I'm down and nowhere to run.
Face the onslaught of what's about to take place.
Reading the play, as it churns in my soul,
"You have no credibility"... i miss again to save face.
Strike two. I beg, yet not on my knees,
Time ticking by with anticipation high.
Power and control are reigning supreme.
"You will not scream"... but I will not lie.
Strike three. I'm out. It's time to go.
The punishing silence, the push the pain.
Game over, I choose life over death.
"Its MY life" I say, my safety will remain.
It starts up again as I leave the ball park.
The memories, the injustice, the right to survive.
In the loungeroom, the bedroom, the courtroom, I pray.
With children and scars, I thank god we're alive.
With dread, fright and panic that his lawyers instil.
These bullying tactics are no longer to be.
Change is essential and focus I must,
As others have sacrificed the ultimate before me.
Entrapment beckons with lawyers in tow.
But no one to stand up and say "this is wrong".
Only me to decide what is to be,
The road being tedious, tumultuous and long.
Growing tired and exhausted, weary and sore.
With no money left to pay the huge legal bill.
Nothing to hide and proud to be me,
All I have is my children, my dignity and will.
With chains and roadblocks, it doesn't matter any more.
I've been through the tunnels of torment before.
With my children alongside in the darkness of horror.
Change on the cusp of what is in store.
A writer I am, no fear in my words.
Erin Brockovich, Bono or Geldof I'm not.
Just a brave little person breaking the silence,
On a life of fear, intimidation and violence.
With courage I stride, gathering kindness from many.
Speak up i will for me to grow tall.
My heart in tatters, my spirit crushed.
Trying to stop the pain of it all.
For my children and me
We wear no shame
We are wholesome and good
Not scapegoats for blame.
The silence is broken; the wisdom is known
The barriers removed, the door no longer shut.
There's no turning back in the darkest of tunnels
Its too dark to reveal the deepest of cuts.
In a world of self battles, delusion and grandeur.
The terrorist lives on but not on TV.
It takes strength, courage and the will to survive,
Plus the power of choice to say
"NO" ... he's not living with me.
Strike me once, I chose to cry in pain.
Strike me twice, I chose to run and save face.
Strike me three times, I chose to walk the path of safety with my children, my pride and my battered soul to fight for our freedom.
Strike me never again.
Wounded
By Brandi Smith
I feel a deep piercing inside of me. Something tears and the squishy flesh around the inside of me is being scraped with something sharp and metallic. There is warm blood. I can see colors behind my closed eyes. I can smell sweat and fear and I know I am here, but I don’t know I am here. There is so much pain. Digging into my soft pink insides and there is no one and no thing and I hate. I hate with every fibre of whatever I am and I can’t.
It never happened.
I dreamt it.
It isn’t real.
Just like nothing else is real in this world and sometimes I can feel how unreal it all is when I am quiet and it is dark and the expansion starts. I am space and stars and I am tiny and I am immense and I am everything all at once and nothing at exactly the same time. I ache.
The digging continues and it seems it will go on forever and ever. I can feel it in the back of my head, but this isn’t where it is happening and somewhere in my head I know what my head will not allow me to know because it is too much.
The world will explode and crumble and nothing will ever be real again and I will disappear and if there is Nothing, I will be Nothing.
The Nothing is worse than the digging. The Nothing scares me more than he ever has, so I squeeze my eyes tight.
I eat all the food. I run away in my mind. I create escape routes as I ride in the backseat of the car. I burn the names of the streets into my brain and I see the map. I learn to ride my bike so I can use it to get away, but I am afraid of the strangers more than the familiar monster who does the digging. He waits for me in the dark. He lies and he sneers. He is a child monster. He hurts me and he hurts my brother and I can’t.
I do nothing.
I tell no one.
I hide inside myself wrapped in a blanket of black. I tie the strings around every hole so the light can’t get it. I pack all of the blood and the hurt and the scabs in this black blanket and I tie it tight and I stuff it down, down deep in the bottom of whatever I am and it sits and it festers and it stinks of rot and it is who I am and who I am not.
It will never go away. I can’t run from it any longer. It is coming to the surface and the closer it gets the stronger the aroma of flesh and gore and sweat and that sickly sweet bleach smell of moisture and his excitement and my fear.
Bitter
By Allison Grant
Will I ever stop feeling bitter?
Will I ever stop looking over your shoulder?
Will I ever move on?
It doesn’t feel like it.
Because life is about being bitter,
finally getting that piece of paper,
only to still be petrified with fear at what he’ll do.
In theory, I should be over it.
“You got him kicked back to his home country!”
“He wound up paying you money!”
“You took his entire future away!”
But he took away my past.
Every day for eleven years, I ended up on my back
because of guilt, fights, and fear.
I’m not on my back anymore, but I still live in fear.
But I should be over it by now, right?
I have a self-imposed pressure to be over everything:
the lies, the cheating, the bruises,
but I’m not.
Life’s about being bitter.
It’s about being bitter for a while.
It’s about being bitter for longer than you thought.
It’s about being okay with being bitter.
Breathe
By Philippa Richardson
I held my breath for years
For a good man
To come into my life.
I was nice to you
All day as we worked
As a team together
You mistook me for
A lady of the night
And I stopped breathing for a while
Fertility and versatility
What happened was really bad
Couldn't keep it in your pants
Forever traumatised
Forever dramatised
Forever dead inside
I need to breathe again
A deep breath for sanity
A deep breath for stability
There was no consent
You may have never meant
Drugged and hell bent
The festival was on
We worked all day
Partied all night
I really wanted love
From the other man
But he looked petrified
I over did the drink
I couldn't find my tent
You were hell bent
I need to breathe again
Motherly Advice
By Rebecca Haven
My mother only comes out of her room at night
When my brothers and I are sleeping
I never know if it’s ok to knock on her door
What state she’ll be in
Blood running down her arms
Or quietly meditating
So I knock softly
Half hoping she doesn’t hear me at all
“Come in”
I am hopeful
Standing before her in my leotard
7 years old
“Do you want to see the gymnastics I learned today?”
“Yes darling”
I show her and end in a pose
Down on one knee, Arms spread out overhead,
my smile full of anticipation..
“Show off” she mutters
A blow to my chest, hot pain that spreads towards my limbs
But my smile does not fade
I don’t let her see the anguish
Not because I’m scared of her reaction
But because after being neglected for so long
I know that my needs will not be met
Will never be met
So I ignore my needs.
Quietly I stand up, I hug her, and I leave her to her solitude
I learn not to show excitement, to not to show my talent.
But I escape criticism at school by being perfect at everything
Mom teaches me a new perfection one day that same year
“Do you want to go for a walk?” She asks me
My heart stops beating
That’s what normal mom’s do with their daughters,
I assume.
“Hang on, I’m gonna change”
I sprint to my room and try on outfit after outfit
Like it’s my first date
I decide on shorts and a crop top,
I think I look really cool.
I walk by her side but do not hold her hand
She asks me if I think I look good in my outfit
“Yes,” I say, “why else would I wear it?”
“I think you’re too chubby to show your stomach”
I swallow her words and suck in my belly.
When we return home she invites me to her room
Another first.
There she teaches me how to eat less & less
How to stick tiny fingers down my throat
In case I eat too much
“I used to do it” she tells me “No man will ever love you if your stomach isn’t flat”
The next day I fake a stomach ache
So I can stay home and exercise
All day.
At least this time she gave me a solution,
This I can be perfect at
And when I am thin,
Maybe she’ll love me.
But she doesn’t know that men have already loved me by age 7
First it was her father, the preacher
When he reached his hand under my covers and up my nightgown
And then it was the babysitter
That tossed me to the floor when I wasn’t good enough at giving head
And then my uncle, the other preacher.
But I liked the attention
That I never got from her
Siblings
By Eileen Hugo
More insidious than fighting
under covers I lost my innocence.
The pause in his teasing and fighting
tortures me forever now.
I took on the burden of silence
secrets guilt, and shame
The question hangs around my neck
Maybe it was my fault?
I took on the burden of silence
secrets guilt, and shame
Mother, Why Didn’t You See?
Didn’t you see what he was doing?
Did you wonder, where the silence was coming from?
Didn’t you check your kids?
Quiet can be dangerous.
This was the quiet of manipulation and control
it wasn’t the Saturday cartoons MOTHER
it was what was happening under the blanket
that brought you an extra hour of sleep.
It was the only time he was nice to me
he was older, stronger
I was a little girl, it felt good
For him to be nice to me
he liked me
Pills for my despondency
Vanessa von Mollendorf
“I understand how you feel.”
But could he really?
Sitting there, script ready.
“Take this.”
As if that would change
the image range
that ran through my head?
I did scream no;
just so you know.
“There, there.”
I don’t want to share.
It was invasive, unfair.
I had to submit-
Bullets in the clip.
“But it’s over now.”
It will never be,
don’t you see?
It drags me under
this female plunder.
“Try to forget.”
I’m still upset
and carry the debt.
I sigh.
Just hand me the script,
I’ll dig my own crypt.
Survival
By Stasha Strange
My body was never my own
Not when my uncle poured candy
on it as a sick and twisted game
to show me what I could do
Not when my mother told her sister
she caught me masturbating at age 7
and they sat around the Thanksgiving table
discussing my body - my sexuality
wondering if I’d hump doorknobs now
while they all laughed
No one asked how I learned to do that
I wanted to shrink into nothing
Not when a high school senior
taught my 14 years old self
how to suck dick on a spiral slide
at the local park
Not when a 45 year old man gave my
15 year old self lsd
So he could “make love to me”
Not when I confided this to a family friend
who then threatened to tell my parents
about the drugs if I didn’t pleasure him
I was wild then and told him I’d bite it off
I would have
Not when a 50 year old British man
made me fuck him when I was a 16
year old runaway - for a place to stay
Not when I dated a 27 year old
when I was 17
Not when my best friend of 5 years
made it clear we were only friends
because he was waiting for me to
give him my body. I was 23.
Not when a piercer at a tattoo shop
across from Mann’s Chinese Theater
tried to hold me down so he could
eat my pussy. I was 33.
Not when a massage therapist I was
seeing after surgery raped me
I was 38
Not when being stalked for 30 years
by a man I gave one date
Not for late night walks
which I love
Nor evenings alone at the beach
Not now that I live in Ohio
where they’ve stolen
my body autonomy from me
Catcalls, pussy grabbing bad dates,
threats and name calling
Dick tease! Bitch! Cunt!
When I was baby and darling
the second before I said no
I use to call my body Judas
but I’ve finally seen
and forgiven myself
She was never the problem
Dealing with the repeated
traumas of men
is ptsd inducing and daunting
Now I treat her like the temple that
she is
Rather than a house haunted
by the ghosts of predatory men
Observing
By Ananya Balike
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