The Cycle Of Abuse

A Poem By Heather Jones // 3/6/2019

Important Note: This poem deals with the issue of abuse and readers may want to proceed with caution.

What am I doing?
My white-knuckled hand clenches a pencil,
Gripping it until it splinters in my hand.
My stomach churns—
I’m thinking of the brunette girl,
Older than me, and yet her smile
Was nearly childish in its glee;
Happy to see me. Happy I care.

The term “abuse” is one that hides
The face of a gruesome, vile and
Sickly evil, lurking
Just beyond our vision, in the shadows.
No one wants to think about it.
Or if we do, it’s fuzzy, vague—
We know it’s painful. But we don’t know
How painful it can be.

“Stop abuse.” Of course we want to
Stop abuse, because it’s bad.
It’s “bad?” A wide-eyed girl like me
Can’t even comprehend the pain.
How dare I think
The only thing that I should do
To stop this brutal pain is wear
A red X on my hand?

I’m thinking now of the boy my age,
Grinning at me from where he’s mopping—
Mischievous and upbeat, and yet
There are marks dotting his arms from
Scars he’s had to remove because
His late dad was a little too rough
With his ten-year-old son.
He’s glad they’re gone.

What am I doing?
If what I’ve known could be called pain,
They’d beg for something sweet as pain.
My father’s never beat me
Til I could hardly move, and my
Mother’s never threatened me
With making me stand on broken glass
From too many shattered wine bottles.

My father has prayed for me at night,
When terrifying dreams or thoughts
Just simply wouldn’t leave.
I have laughed with my dear mother,
Drinking tea in morning sunlight,
Recalling simple joys that some
May never have the joy of knowing—
May never be able to understand.

So to the girl and boy I know,
Believe that I have wept in knowing
You’ve never felt your father’s arms
In a way that’d bring you comfort.
I’ve prayed for you, and thought of you—
I know one day you’ll feel the arms of Love
From God above, but until then...
I hope mine will suffice.


I'm speechless, Heather. This

I'm speechless, Heather. This poem is both encouraging and humbling; we who have felt love from our parents can't fathom the life of those who haven't. Coincidentally I read this poem after reading an article in the newspaper about abuse. It sickens me, but it also inspires me to do anything I can for these people. Thank you for sharing.

Madalyn Clare | Thu, 03/07/2019

Introverts unite!
From the comfort of your own homes!


Ugh ugh ugh

I can’t really form thoughts properly to say anything more. :( ouch.

Damaris Ann | Fri, 03/08/2019

I don’t thrive off of chaos: chaos thrives off of me.


Thank you (: And yeah, woof. Abuse, I think, can be such a hard topic because I feel like people either (a) ignore it/pretend it doesn’t exist or (b) treat those who have suffered from abuse like they’re either beyond healing or are somehow mentally handicapped/beneath us “normal,” “healthy” folks. I don’t know, I guess it just frustrates me when others treat them as if they are hapless victims beyond repair. So yes, I’m so glad this inspired you to want to help!! Man oh man, I do too, I just have no idea where to start x’D It’s such a daunting task. Like, wow. There’s so much suffering in the world and sO LITtlE I caN dO aBOuT iT

*sigh* I guess the best that any of us can do is just be on the lookout, and do whatever God would have us do. That’s what I try to encourage myself with.

Heather Jones | Thu, 03/21/2019

“planting seeds inevitably changes my feelings about rain.” —luci shaw.
psalm 84:10 esv.


Ugh, yeah. Kkjkhdjkfhsjodhfiuhwdjifnjkd it just makes me so mad and sad and overwhelmed

Heather Jones | Thu, 03/21/2019

“planting seeds inevitably changes my feelings about rain.” —luci shaw.
psalm 84:10 esv.


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