step up

trying to stay active.
I have been doing this shit
since I was ten,
writing poetry about how my
stepdad thought I was a piece of shit
and he wanted me away.
I would have loved to have gone,
but my mother wouldn't let me.
the first chance I got,
I got the fuck out of there,
away from the sick drunk
and his fucking opinions.
always trying to teach me a lesson,
never letting me be.
always something new, no matter
how hard I tried to stay the fuck away
from him.
if it hadn't been for my grandparents, I'd
be dead by now. but you're only allowed to suffer
just enough so you don't fall.
but that's bullshit, and we all know it.
if the universe only gave you what you could endure,
there wouldn't be such a thing as suicide.
it was whatever he could do to humiliate me,
make me smaller, take away anything
that resembled joy.
sometimes, he would sit me on my bed while
he went through my room,
questioning me on everything.
he went through my writing ( not the
good stuff I hid in the rafters of the attic )
and told me how pointless it was. he laughed
at my drawings and said I was a satanist
because I had a thing for skulls.
"No, Joe. I like skulls because they remind me of death.
They remind me that one day, I'll be free of you
whether you like it or not."
so I got out of there my first chance and ran away
when I was fifteen.
I came back for a while when my mother was dying,
but the time was short lived.
I've gone as far away from him as I could.
and at my age, I still try to move farther than he'll
ever be able to follow.
catch me if you can, motherfucker.