I leave you with an original poem I wrote myself after many years after I stopped writing.
This is the first explicit poem I have ever written.
Helen Pavlotski 2012 COPYRIGHT
HELEN PAVLOTSKI
Initial Draft –
5:25am 6th November 2012
Slowly dragging a rusty blade into my skin;
Tortured body, tortured within.
My soul is damaged and always has been.
Those with faith – is it really such a sin?
To mutilate oneself with a livelihood, a
childhood disposed.
When the unspeakable, repeated exposure to
the unthinkable..
Trauma imposed upon the purest of innocence
– a child with no assistance;
A life lived with not a moment of respite
with only but her pillow to hold between her legs and a bear and her shadow as
her only friends..
In the coldest of nights.
With not a trusted soul nary, awry in
slight.
She lay there, ill omened. Alight with the uttermost of fright.
Somebody, won’t you tell her that
everything is going to be alright?
Forthright smite, for the youngling, not a
fleeting sight of slight light.
Fight or flight, they say..
Fight or flight..
She just laid there, as she did all day and
all night.
Motionless, conditioned emotion caused by
the constant commotion and in turn, she as a child, a human, is demotioned.
Where did her expressive emotion go?
Oh, she always suffered from woe perhaps
that is why she loved, adored and related to Edgar Allen Poe.
She suffered in silence; she was labeled as
‘defiant’.
She was just a diamond, a diamond in the
rough.
A diamond who grew up to be brusque, surly,
and gruff.
A cynical bitch.
Once a diamond in the rough.
She spent so many years longing for a cream
puff.
Anorexia Nervosa - Self-starvation.
Waning..
Wanting cessation.
In long sought after a sense of control,
just once to feel whole; that was her only goal.
Of course, 8 years took its’ toll.
As she now strolls down the pathway eating
her spring roll, the people all gawk and stare, “she must be so disciplined, so
much self-control! I want to be like HER! She looks like a model, she must be!
She’s just like a pole!”
The reality –
Her existence;
A black hole, she sinks further in.
She is very aware that she is quite thin.
She does not care in the slightest;
It doesn’t make a difference, not an infinitesimal
win.
She chooses not to drink alcohol so what,
she is unable to drown her sorrows in gin.
She longs everyday to start back where she
left off [at the age of 12] with her violin.
She has spent much time in clinics
affectionately known as “Looney Bins”.
She has had ECT, as many times as she has
counted her ABC’s.
Her scruff protruding with bones.
Hard as stone.
Minuscule are all of her bodily zones.
She lingers as a floe, isolated and on her
own.
She moans.
Oh!
She moans!
She fears she intonates with drone intones.
That is, well known.
When she is alone.
If ever she answers the phone.
At 19, she is now fully grown but she
doesn’t want to be here, she doesn’t want to be near, she can’t bear to shed
another tear.
She doesn’t want to be touched.
She has extreme haphephobia in her
adulthood and she has since her childhood.
She longs to rot beneath the ground.
To hang.
To slit her throat.
To overdose.
To douse herself in petrol or gas and light
herself on fire.
To jump off of a balcony or a sky-high
building.
To put her head in the oven.
To decapitate herself.
To pay someone to kill her.
To drop a solid 50lb rock on her head.
To drown.
To jump out upon traffic.
Hmmm, it seems so graphic.
She would do anything she could, she has tried
since she was 8 [years old].
The voices tell her it’s never too late.
Of course she believes the voices, she is
full of self-hate.
They dictate her fate.
She is often unable to collate.
She hopes it will all abate.
She hopes her sorrows her unremitting
torment with no reprieve.
Her perpetually unquiet mind, even just a
smidgen, unwinds.
Tell me devoted persons of faith, is it
such a sin when all innocence had been thrown away in the proverbial bin?
Are you all reincarnations of Nick Chopper?
The poor Tin Woodman (of “The Wonderful
Wizard of Oz” (1900) by L. Frank Baum) who was neglected of a heart..
Are you all made entirely of tin?
Is it really fair when all innocence and the
neglect of a child had been disposed of with such disturbing din?
JUST TO BARE THE PAIN.
Is it all in vain but there is nothing to
gain from pain in vain.
The ail and anguish of the screaming child,
the sorrowful squall of the child within.
The indescribable burden this child carried
for years chagrin.
She blocked it all out but it has
resurfaced again evermore problematical and unbearable with others complete
ignorance and distain.
The pain.
Like being hit head on feeling all force
over and over again constantly by a fast moving train.
The physical, emotional and psychological
pain.
She says, I just want to feel sane.
I work for that life but the suicidal
ideation is all so abundantly rife.
Just a life that is lived contented and
productive is my one true goal.
Every passing day is taking its’ toll.
My vagina, my anus, my mouth..
My head.
My brain.
All violated..
Completely annihilated.
I just want it all erased.
This is something I can no longer
face.
I am convinced I have been misplaced.
I am a mutant, an alien..
I belong to another race.
Most of my life has been a laying waste.
I have been completely and utterly defaced
as a result I myself daily lambaste.
I
want it all erased.
I want it all forgotten.
This body I dwell in, day by day, I cannot
live with.
It is all so rotten.
Repulsive.
Cleaning myself for hours daily is one of
my biggest compulsions.
If I could forget my gruesome past at last
I would with no doubt in my mind.
Even the smallest amount of respite I hope
to find.
Otherwise, I am contented with stumbling
across a landmine.
Be gone.
Be gone..
Somehow.
Of course it would be desirably preferable
to be right now.
But right now, I just feel utterly foul.
I hate myself..
I want to get out of this but I don’t know
how.
If only I had access to a firearm then into
my mouth..
My brains would then splatter every wall
with a single KA-POW!
And then I would be gone and in turn all of
the pain of existence would open a new dawn.
A dawn of death.
Of rest.
A new start in silence.
No more violence. Molestation.
Abuse. Hurt.
Just silence.
Ceased to exist.
Rested in true peace.
ORIGINAL POEM BY HELEN PAVLOTSKI - 6th of November 2012
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