Twelve years old.
That's when I first heard it.
The harsh arguments,
words swinging hard,
sucker punches that left scars.
A reminder of nights with no escape.
Thirteen years old.
That's when I noticed the whiskey.
The blood shot eyes.
The silence.
The silence was worse than the yelling.
Because silence let the monsters in.
14 years now.
My mom left for a while.
Her absence is felt in the entire house.
Abandonment is a cruel thing,
especially when left to hands that left red marks.
When she came home, the damage was done.
15 years old.
High school was a great escape
from the weight of my home.
Theatre was so I could live a different life.
Choir was to cover the yelling.
Performing my poems was to give myself a voice.
Sixteen.
Divorce.
Years of marriage down the toilet.
Drowning in the hurt that choked off hope.
A sheet of paper.
A scribbling pen.
Something seemingly simple,
a life changed for good.
Skip ahead.
Twenty-two.
The divorce left its wounds.
I still drown in grief sometimes.
The tidal wave consumes me.
I hang onto the life raft,
trying desperately to stay afloat.
Their broken love.
It affects me for life.
But I am older.
I am twenty-two.
And I will learn to swim.
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