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The Poetry of a Fifteen Year Old

by steff (follow)
Courtesy of Wikimedia


When I was 15 I wrote a poem called "The voices like blades and guns", it reads:
I need some sleep to kill these voices,
Or I'm gunna end up killing you.
I know the voices are right,
I know they speak the truth,
But death is too good for you.

I need some sleep to kill these voices,
Although they do talk sense.
They tell me to kill you,
They tell me to hurt you,
But death is too good for you.

I need some sleep to kill these voices,
'Cause my hands nearing the blade.
I'll grab it in my hand,
I'll slice you to peices,
But death is too good for you.

I need some sleep to kill these voices,
'Cause they're telling me where you keep the gun.
I will load it up,
I'll even pull the trigger,
But deah is too good for you.

I need some sleep to kill these voices,
Else I'm gunna kill myself.
I'll slit my wrist with the blade,
Blow my brain with the gun,
But if I die, you'll get what you want.

I need some sleep to kill these voices,
'Cause the knife is digging into your heart.
Theres blood on my hands,
You're dead on the floor.
But death... it was too good for you.

I don't need sleep, the voices are gone,
The silence is unbearable.
I'll pull the trigger,
On the gun,
Place it it to my head,
Boom, I'm gone.

See, 15 year old me could write a poem that was incredibly sad because I was exactly that. The poem speaks of murder and suicide, it's themes revolve around them and around abuse and insanity - a desperate need to change whats happening in my head.

I am sure now, with my improved writing skills I could turn this into a daunting poem, but I think 15 year old me did a good enough job that it doesn't need to be touched.

I cannot write like that anymore. I'm not entirely sure why. Maybe I am healed and don't need to vent in the way that I used to, maybe I just don't have the teenage angst that I used to. Though, obviously I dealt with more than the average teenager had to.

Even now, it's not clear to me who "you" is. It could be my mother, or my stepfather. Now, almost ten years later I could add a few names to the list. There were - are - many demons in my head that I had to slowly learn how to deal with and I am still learning how to deal with. Some days are still harder than others and just a few days ago I broke down in tears doing the dishes, emotion overwhelming me from the lyrics in a song.

I still deal with the same emotions on a daily basis, but ten years later I have gained a better hold of them. Today, just like every other day, I have laughed and I have cried. I have been happy and sad. i have been angry and frustrated. I've been nostalgic and optimistic. I have kicked myself for my bad decisions and patted myself on the back for making some good ones along the way. Every single day I go through these emotions, just like many other survivors of abuse do, and victims of abuse.

I wrote that poem in the middle of the night, in a small room in my grandparents house, whilst packing to move to the other side of the world. I was moving to escape all that had happened in that country, with that family and those people. I understood that my grandparents, though the most amazing people that I had come across, were unable to keep helping me and looking after me, even if they never admitted it.

At fifteen years old, I understood things well beyond my years and even now people say the same of me. I look five years younger than I am, I act thirty years older. See, both survivors and victims of abuse (whichever term you use, it is your choice, I use both personally) have an insight into this world that others don't. Sure, they can read about it, they can hear about it, be friends or lovers with someone who has experienced abuse. But to have the kind of knowledge we do... you must have suffered.

Courtesy of Wikimedia


Though to have suffered... I am grateful. As strange as it seems, if I were to turn back time I would not change one little thing. One hit, one scar, one emotional outburst, one mistake, one fuck-up, not one little thing. Because although I have been beaten, raped, assaulted, emotionally battered, psychologically torn, lifted up high and slammed into the ground, I am Me. And the Me I see in the mirror is strong and independent. She is beautiful, intelligent, resillient, a fighter, an activist, a lover, a mother, a daughter, a woman who knows her worth.

And the fifteen year old girl who wrote this poem? She is strong and independent, beautiful, intelligent, resilient, a fighter, an activist, a lover, a daughter, a woman who will know her worth ... she just needs to listen to those voices in her head.

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