Where a Child Goes to Die Inside

Please know the following post may be triggering to read for survivors of abuse. Also know this post is very brave and beautiful. Be gentle with yourselves. 

I lived in this place once.

It was an awful hovel of a place.

A mobile home, painted brown,

with a dented in roof from where a tree had fallen on it,

which was being held up by a two-by-four,

and with a carport that had been converted into an addition

simply by putting up 3 walls and laying down carpet.

When it would rain, the carpet in the addition would get soaked

and would eventually mold

and mushrooms grew.

The landlord was a rapist

whose youngest step-daughter was my best friend.

He probably gave my mom’s boyfriend tips on

how to molest me

without getting caught.

This place features prominently

in my recurring nightmares.

Not just the trailer, but

the land itself.

In one of my favorites

I’m in my bedroom in the trailer and

all my stuff is still there –

like we packed up to move,

but never left.

I find my favorite clothes,

schoolwork,

and most importantly

the little, ceramic bears I collected as a kid.

I’m trying to find myself –

trying to recover my childhood.

That loss neither began

nor ended

in that trailer,

but irreversible damage

was done there.

I lost the final remnants of my

innocence there.

Many parts of me died there.

I have shadows of good memories there, but

they’re tarnished by

the darkness

that oozes out of the place.

The landlord’s house is still on that land, but

the trailer no longer exists,

except in the minds of those

who dream

or have nightmares

about it.

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