For Matthew

CC image courtesy of Flickr, Sally Crossthwaite.

Content Warning: gun violence, mass shooting

Laurie Works is a homeschool alum, community organizer, and spoken word poet. She is also a mass shooting survivor. In December 2007, two of her sisters, Rachel and Stephanie Works, died during the New Life Church shooting in Colorado Springs. This poem is her reply to the shooter, Matthew Murray, who was also homeschooled. 

Sometimes I feel like we are two sides of the same coin
some people call you the bad penny
just because it landed tails up
they say it’s bad luck.
We could have had the same parents
we were homeschooled, using the same books
from the same publishers
we both learned that evolution was a lie
that the earth was created 6,000 years ago
maybe that’s why we both had such a hard time progressing
100 miles apart, we did the same training
they told us God loved us
I heard voices and gave prophecies
they said you heard voices too
but those voices were the different ones
same coin other side
we both had demons haunting us
mine just were clothed in angel’s skin
at least you knew yours clearly
it took our lives colliding for me to fully see mine.
We collided in one moment
somehow that moment always felt like it would happen
I wonder if you must have felt that too
I wonder if you were pulled by the same invisible thread
the world knows you as the man who murdered my sisters
I know you as someone across the gulf of the same canyon
both of us were just trying to figure out how to get across
you sprayed bullets trying to build a bridge of mettle
and when the bridge wouldn’t hold
you built it instead to the other side.
I have been trying to build a bridge of mettle ever since
trying to finish the job you started without using violence as tool
but it’s hard when I’ve always been shooting myself in the foot
what good is a bridge when you can’t walk across it
what good is a bridge that you constantly tear down.
Matthew.
Your name means gift of God
sometimes I think that’s true while other days I want to run
from the darkness I see behind your imagined eyes
on the day the voices we heard collided
I want you to know I saw them too
the demons you were so acquainted with
i’ve been living with them for almost 8 years now
maybe they don’t erupt the same
I never turned my violence outward
always loaded my gun and turned it on myself
This year, I’m learning
that just because a coin isn’t lucky doesn’t mean it’s a bad penny
that some bridges aren’t built out of mettle
what bridges heaven and earth
is made of our most vital organ
my sister’s hearts that your metal bullets ripped through
is the bridge I now cross over
it’s not so much a bridge but a surrender
to the air between the chasm
If I’m the side of the coin that’s heads up
it’s because you were my heads up
it’s because you showed me
that strength isn’t built from violence
and the ways in which I’ve assaulted myself
Strength is made of heart melting into void
coming out the other side
like a black hole makes new stars
I’m coming out the other side
I’ll take you with me.
Maybe these new voices will sing back
and tell you what you were made of
even pennies were made strong by copper melting in a fire.

Hurts Me More Than You: A Poem by Jessica

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Trigger warning for Hurts Me More Than You series: posts in this series may include detailed descriptions of corporal punishment and physical abuse and violence towards children.

Additional content warning for Jessica’s poem: intense descriptions of emotional and verbal abuse towards a child.

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“Daddy Loves You,” a poem by Jessica

“Bless us, Oh Lord…” we all sit to pray,
But you neglected to do it well.
She scratched her nose and you opened your eyes.
Children like you two are going to hell.

Now you may eat, but just as I say.
Don’t take a bite so big!
If you stuff your face you’ll end up like mommy,
A nasty, big, fat pig.

Don’t clack your fork. Don’t smack your lips.
Don’t finish your dinner too fast.
But don’t still be eating by the time I am through!
You’re a fat, ugly cow if you’re last.

You are mean. You are nasty. And so full of hate.
You are retarded and dumb.
None of your friends actually wants to be near you.
Nope. Not a single one.

You make stupid choices, and I know you’ll end up,
Marrying a loser who will bail.
Oh, you’re going to be a horrible mother,
And your children will end up in jail.

You are rude. You are mean, and a horrible person.
So full of anger and hate.
You should be ashamed of all that you are.
I don’t care that you’re only just eight.

You’re retarded.
You’re lazy.
You’re going to hell.
You’re a liar.
You’re a loser.
You’re going to fail.

You just disappoint me and make me recoil.
I don’t even want you in sight.
Now come here and give me a kiss on the cheek.
Remember, Daddy loves you.
Goodnight.

Hurts Me More Than You: A Poem by Merritt

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Trigger warning for Hurts Me More Than You series: posts in this series may include detailed descriptions of corporal punishment and physical abuse and violence towards children.

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“Disagreement,” a poem by Merritt

Our eyes do not meet
As eyes seldom do in disagreement
You choose to revisit an old argument
I merely listen

There can be no discussion
Since you start out by ending it
“We have to stand on the Bible,” you said.
And that, as they say, is that.

Frustration wraps its strangle hold around my tongue
As words like “context,” “history” and “interpretation”
Die before they can be spoken
Because I know they cannot be heard.

“We have to stand on the Bible,” you said,
And nothing I can say will convince you
That the words you stand by were penned by an evil king
Whose wisdom turned to rot.

“If you beat them with a rod, they will not die,” said the king.
I wonder what the dying thought of that.

And I wonder why we revere this king
Whose evil counsel would have us beat our children
Until their skin splits and their spirits crumble
This is not the voice of God.

But,
“We have to stand on the Bible,” you said.
And there is nothing more to say.

Hurts Me More Than You: A Poem by Sam

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Trigger warning for Hurts Me More Than You series: posts in this series may include detailed descriptions of corporal punishment and physical abuse and violence towards children.

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“Love?”: A Poem by Sam

 

A child naked, helpless, letting himself be hit.

If he resists he will be hit more, if he doesn’t stop crying on command it is the same.

Every time he doesn’t obey unquestioningly,

Even if he just doesn’t want to finish his lima beans.

“We only do this because we love you.”

But is it love, or something very different?

 

Parents talk of all day spanking sessions till “they” are black and blue

After work a father continues what his wife did all day.

They talk to their pastors who tell them to continue to achieve the desired outcome.

Unquestioned obedience the only apparent goal.

“We only do this because we love you.”

But is it love, or something very different?

 

“You can only have friends over if the house is clean.”

But the house is never clean enough.

Friends do things differently, to dangerous to remain friends.

Xanga blocked. E-mail monitored. Mail read. Checkmate trapped.

“We only do this because we love you.”

But is it love, or something very different?

 

Behind in logic when it is reviewed the first time all semester

Upset mother. Tension palpable. She grabs coat to leave.

Son begs her not to go. “Tell your father I’m leaving.”

He comes home, begs forgiveness, and searches.

“We only do this because we love you.”

But is it love, or something very different?

 

I awake.  I can smell dinner in the kitchen.

We’re all there, we smile and eat. No one explains, no one questions.

Three months later I burst into tears at what was swept under the rug.

“Why do you bring things up that happened so long ago?”

“We only do this because we love you.”

But is it love, or something very different?

 

Of course since you are a Christian, you believe this.

What that means in practice varies by the day.

Questions are dismissed. Opinions can change,

But only if it is a parents thought.

“We only do this because we love you.”

But is it love, or something very different?

 

Son fails out of school, a perfect trophy no more.

Explosions from minor things. Parents are impossible to please.

He works hard and returns to finish what he started.

Professors see a success. Parents still only see a failure.

“We only do this because we love you.”

But is it love, or something very different?

 

Gorgeous woman. Incredible friend. Determined to treat her right.

Hugs and dancing leads to consternation.

Forced home. Cut off. Will Broken.

Why do I feel forced to agree to every demand?

“We only do this because we love you.”

But is it love, or something very different?

 

They try to sabotage and marry smile as we say “I do.”

We leave and cleave and start an incredible life.

Married children are not to be respected as adults.

If they think differently, they can not interact with younger siblings.

“We only do this because we love you.”

But is it love, or something very different?

 

I awake.  This is not right.

“You may not keep treating me this way.”

“Son, stop being bitter, get past the hurt.

“Why do you bring things up that happened so long ago?”

“We only do this because we love you.”

 

But this is not love, this is very different.

Expatriates: A Poem by ElenaLee

expatriates

HA note: ElenaLee was homeschooled PK-12th grade and blogs at Pin Feather Pen.

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We are

the children of green pastures,

our hearts’ deep waters roiling

with questions we

are not allowed to have,

with difficulties we

were raised to escape.

We are ripe

with frustrated longing,

trying to untangle from

“benevolent”–or, at least–

“well-intentioned” crooks

that catch us still

when our broken legs heal

enough to stumble away.

We are

“blaming” and “bitter”

and “irresponsible”

and angry–so angry

because sometimes

it wasn’t the Lord

who was our shepherd–

at all.

When you try to raise an army

HA note: The following is reprinted with permission from Lana Hobbs’ blog Lana Hobbs the Brave. It was originally published on April 12, 2013.

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Be careful

if you plan to raise an army

from birth

whip them into shape and drill them

Issue uniforms

Issue thoughts

Until they run like a machine

Yes drill sergeant

No drill sergeant

You may raise soldiers

cleverskilled in battle,

brave in the face of fear

and full of fire in their hearts

But there’s a chance, if you want to raise an army

That you will not keep the soldiers

Because these clever, brave soldiers

will one day make their own decisions

And choose their battles

They must answer the call of the fire

Burning hot in their souls

So be careful when you raise an army

The soldiers may not stay.

Sometimes I Am Afraid Of Myself: Lana Hobbs

Sometimes I Am Afraid Of Myself: Lana Hobbs

Trigger warning: self-injury.

Standing in the kitchen.

I need to make dinner.

I grab a knife, stare at my reflection in the blade.

Oddly entranced,

I put the cold metal to my skin,

what am I doing?

I pull away in shock.

I am bipolar, but don’t know it yet,

with a lifetime of pain and self hatred

To deal with on my own – my brain is confusing.

I could never be good enough, godly enough

To gain my parents approval,

But earning a spanking was too easy, I didn’t have to try.

Now I punish myself

for things not my fault.

I hit my wrists against the counter, hit my head on the wall. What is happening?

I thought I had stopped doing this.

I don’t understand my mind,

But I know I deserve this pain.

Know? No. No, I don’t.

I put the knife back into the block.

Sink to the floor.

I text my husband ‘bring pizza’.

To The Daughters of Sceva: R.L. Stollar

To The Daughters of Sceva: R.L. Stollar

Note from Ryan: I wrote this almost ten years ago. In 2004 I dedicated this poem to my friends, and I re-dedicate it to them now — and to all the other brave individuals who have shared their stories this week.

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Somewhere I went blind in the conversation —

somewhere between the epidermis

and the angels —

somewhere my stomach lost its way

amidst the tangles of a prayer and an

agony, an anger, and all I hate.

Here is a scar; there, the bruise.

This is the air we breathe.

But the images burn deeper than the words:

I took all the precious porcelain perfections,

pictured the angels skating across their smooth, body-washed shells,

saw the angels’ traces, the less-porcelain pained faces,

the ethereal ballet,

the euphoria of one salt water ocean masked by another,

the liquid rose smiling at the black heart processional

projected to all as a cherry blossom joy.

I know not how many angels can dance

atop a pin, nor less do I know

how many have danced upon you —

what red slippers they wore, or

if they performed Swan Lake and the shell was the swan,

or if you ask for encores,

or if the show sells out — and how often.

Yet I know this night hurt.

I know the heavens broke loose with a shout,

and archangels, legions with blessed wings,

trumpets of the spirit (the spirit is the sword),

they descended tonight upon my red tremors,

they did a pirouette and I have lost breath and

appetite, and I feel silence, clammy as death itself,

I have a need for Tylenol, and let me effuse:

Can I not cast out angels

nor summon the demons at my command?

Can I not have arms of such love

so as to encircle the universe?

Hard Bones, Electric Wire: April

Hard Bones, Electric Wire: April

Trigger warning: graphic description of self-injury.

These bones are too hard.

I can’t break them.

I can’t feel my heart all the way behind them.

If I scratched off my skin,

I could hold these little blue veins in my wrists.

I can see them already.

Oh, God, I’m shaking thinking about it.

Why are they visible?

So vulnerable.

So tempting.

I could feel my heart in them.

I could know it was beating.

I could pull them out –

disconnect them like electric wire.

I could hold them like slippery blue worms pulsing between my fingers.

Then I could cut them open –

clean like the end of a hose.

I could watch the blood wash the floor or feed the dirt.

I could see myself fade in the pool.

No more chaos.

No more noise.

I could be deflated and flat.

Convenient.

Finally still.

I wouldn’t be me anymore.

It’s what everyone wants anyway.

Self: Sarah

Self: Sarah

Sarah blogs at Who I Am WIthout You.

Trigger warning: self-injury.

I am a member of the family
I am a member of the housework crew
I am my parent’s possession
I am their trophy
I am a representative for Christ
I am a future mother in a future family preparing to serve a future husband

I am not an individual.

Feelings are superfluous, needs are selfishness, I do not know the vocabulary of self.

I am depressed overly dramatic
I am hungry gluttonous
I am tired and overworked lazy
I am sick weak
I have anxiety lack faith
I need affirmation whine too much
I need privacy am selfish
I need to be respected punished

I do not deserve to have needs.

So I take tweezers and tear a blade out of my father’s razor. And I keep the razor in a tiny jewelry box that my grandma gave me, under the cotton, because nobody can see it, because using it is selfish, and I am ashamed. But nothing compares to the relief of sliding the blade across the soft parts of my thighs, my calves, my ankles, my wrists.

Simultaneously punishing myself and expressing my hurt.

People deserve love
people deserve support
people deserve respect
But I don’t know these things

Because I am not an individual
I am not a person
I do not know the vocabulary of self.