The same old bullshit
in the same old house.
Food in the fridge, but nothing to eat.
Dirt on the floor and chaos on the walls.
Fighting and screaming for nothing,
for me drinking the wrong water
because I forgot something like that
can exist in this familiar hell.
My name been yelled all day long,
as if I was a servant or a fucking dog.
Cleaning dishes not mine just because
I don't want to me screamed at.
Cooking and tidying not to cry
because tears are forbidden here:
nobody but her is allowed to cry.
And while my mind is fogged again
and my body is touched again
and my spirit is exhausted again,
after only three endless days,
I thank January me because at least
my drugs make me sleep at night
and take some rest from this circus.
I hate it here and I crave a way out
of the same patterns and responses,
the terror of been beaten as then
and the acknowledgement of being
surrendered by monsters and ghosts.
And when I ask myself how the fuck
I managed to survive for eighteen years,
I remember I almost died three times.
And I repeat myself that, if I did it once,
I can do it again and be free in a month.
Because no freedom is available,
but still I am a fighter anyway
and I'll never let them win over me.