Teeny Tiny Head

If I could gather everything I love and enjoy
into my hand
and hold it together and be certain I could do that whenever I need to
I wouldn't fill up with familiar hate.

It is like things repeat.
Because they are.


It's shameful but it is true. The fear so long ingrained in me
about certain people overpowers everything. Proof, experience, truth. That's a useless word.
Because, like the hard scientists know, if you ask the right questions you will get your answers.
So I ask the right questions.
And again again again I'm proven right! I'm right! I'm Right!

When does it transition into being my fault for asking the damaging questions.
Can I get extra time for repetition and intensity of negative experience? Does it compound or is it only
additive.

The thing is: it isn't at all like that. The horror is that I have been shaped by these things.
When a cock got shoved down my throat at three, along with a hold in my throat, it opened up a logical order for me that I needed and
still live within. I know it, I know I should stop, I know I am trying.
Because now it makes all of you my violent enemy.

I hear voices. I just noticed. Not my own voice telling me what to think. But a bright heated voice that screams
so loud my head rings to kill, to run, to gather weapons for the impending attack.

I