not so ancient history

oldest of four
in a family quite poor.
angry father abuser
heartless mother loser
raised in a church
that wrote my sin
early on I let my demons in.

kissed a boy when I was eight
a pastors son
a big mistake
they took me to the church to pray
to make my demons go away
pastor said:
"a temptress born
to lead men to sin"
...that's when I let the demons in.

ridiculed through my early years
molested by a trusted friend
unthinkable, the rage inside
obscured the heart
and light inside
behind a sparkling
stinging wit
words are weapons
which I whet

so years spent embracing
my body racing
after the inevitable prize
still longing for understanding
and hating myself inside

of course I soon reaped the harvest
of my headstrong, hellbent course
at sixteen I became a mother
and my first husbands whore

by eighteen I'd had my fill of hate
(and another baby to boot)
ripped the wife-beater off my back
and went shopping for a new suit
tried on lovers like the emperors new clothes
a few I kept for a while
until I met him who made my heart race
the instant I won his smile

sweet and true
I loved him so
and he my love returned
I ruined it, too scared to believe
my love would not be spurned.

pushed him, pushed him
made him cry
burned his love to ashes
the wicked power
of my tongue
gave him his 40 lashes

Knowing I would never feel
for anyone but him
I took to wed
a brutish man
whose love is my punishment.

for 15 years I've paid the price
for destroying something pure.
three more children
keep me here
for how long?
I'm not sure.

though I'd have grown to love this man
to whom I've bound my life
he sadly is a narcissist
who fills my days with strife
and though I've grown
and found my light
his dark's the one place it won't shine

a life alone with my secrets
a person most people like
but still they call me beautiful
and oh, it is a bitter pill
but I'm so chill, I'll just laugh
and let nothing inside

there's so much more
to the story of me
and who I really am
but I'm really tired of waiting
for someone to give a damn

my meter's off
my words don't rhyme
these syllables are jumbled up
but you wanted my life story
and it too is completely fucked-up.

I'll say this my friends,
we've all known grief
and loss of one kind or another
but knowing I've shot myself in the foot
is the ultimate bitch-mother.