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& i waited ..

having exercised my right to say NO.

i felt the fear rise instantly.

then i felt his soft hand tight on the back of my neck.
it wound it’s fingers round my hair, anchoring me in place.

i grabbed the stroller with my free hand, the other grabbed the back of the anchored hand which had started dragging me, the stroller & my baby, down the road.

2 long streets toward home.

half stumbling.
half gaining momentum.

it was a long enough drag to know there was gonna be damage done at the finish line.

It would be me.
or my baby.
that’s what i thought.

how did i get here.
in a place where this was the choice.

& as i caught a half sight of baby in the stroller, i marvelled at how peacefully she slept.

i steadied the stroller.

the dragging got heavier & lower, making it harder to keep the stroller on all it’s wheels, as we got to the driveway of home.

well, what was supposed to be home anyway.

i started purposefully crying.

it was a distraction.

as he rose in height, feeling powerful in all his mightiness at what he in all his colonised glory, was accomplishing, he didn’t notice me swing the stroller round 360 & set it down in the opposite room to the kitchen.

shutting the door behind.

i took a deep breath.

as he lowered his now solid fist to the side of
my face,
my neck,
my back,
my shoulders ..
i rose my arms up.

i had stopped crying.

& i waited.

waited for him to finish.
he’d get bored soon.
or hungry.
or thirsty.
& he’d make a dramatic exit.

but my girl would wake soon.

lord, don’t let her wake now.
don’t let her cry now.

waiting.
& wondering.
why noone came out of their pretty houses.
why noone came to the door.
why noone.
came.
again.

& i waited.
& waited.


kpm©

unfortunate chain of events , nei …

see

they aren’t talking,

cos it’s an unwelcome

uncomfortable truth.

& for some,

it’s just way more profitable that we stay killing ourselves & our own.

[ surely not you say ..]

[but .. yes ..]

it’s about more than talking.

it’s about patriarchy,

misogyny,

colonisation,

trauma,

intergenerational trauma ..

mash all that up with a tonne of booze & a pandemic

and tadah.

if we can completely change a societies structure in just over a year,

to include tracing people,

places

and households,

for the betterment of ‘communities’,

then we should have sorted the Domestic Violence shit storm years ago.

no?

yes?

But we haven’t.

why not?

go back to the top.


kpm©

Image

photography .196

#bnw #dv #reality #photography #kpm©


kpm © : ig @kpm-artist


 

argument~ta~tive~ness

go on.

say something.

tell me how I should do it.

what I should feel.

tell me

I’m wrong.

tell me

I need to get a life.

go on.

raise your voice.

your tone.

puff your shoulders up.

stretch out the back bone.

lift that chin.

tell me, tell me

I’m fucked.

I’m a mongrel.

I’m lazy.

I’m useless.

go on, mother fucker.

tell me again.

tell me, what you think.

tell me what I should really be thinking.

go on, correct my feelings.

I fucking dare you.

tell it like it is.

tell me, fuck yah.

go on, just like you used to do.

when I was weaker,

vulnerable,

in need,

sicker,

wanting a hand,

a shoulder,

was whiny,

loser-ish.

isn’t that how you put it.

mongrel bitch,

go on, try it again motherfucker.

please, please.

I am in need of a dam good fucking argument.

you used to like it like that,

but now,

not so much, ay.

because my voice

my arm

my anger

my fierce

my being

my woman

my heart

my soul

and my fucking steel

spirit.

don’t play that shit no more.

so, I tell you.

I dare you.

try it, go on, try it.

and see what happens.


kpm©


 

when is

i wonder.

do we really know,

when enough is enough.

when the filter on the water tap is all used up

and no amount of purification shit

will purify it.

do we really know,

how much we will take

before the tank is empty

or alternately

filled to fucking over flowing.

maybe, when your heart cracks

that little bit more,

and you can now see visible lines on the outside.

or maybe, there are so many tears

you can’t see out them orifices no more.

maybe its the still, the deathly still.

silence.

that reverberates round your memory

screaming at you to run nigger run.

or maybe, its the heaving in the pit of your gut

that is churning so hard you know its only a matter of time

before chunks are blown.

or maybe, just maybe

its hearing that she died at a ripe old age,

her only regret was she never found

the old vibrant self she used to know.

the one before she was shot in the head by

hormones, and infatuation.

she never found that person that she had been.

she’d looked, searched hard.

and now here she is.

it’s too late.

all that time has been … and gone.

maybe thats the catalyst, for change.

mabes.

.

and then you think about the long walk your gonna half to take. the long search to find everything all over again. to start it all again. alone. broke. broken. old. fucked.


kpm ©


 

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survival hints. your welcome.

  1. Charge your cell phone before night-time and before you go out.

2.   Have a ‘get away’ pack with you all the time.

Pack should include:

ID

$50

Jacket

Shoes

Car keys

Cell phone, charger

Knife

Medications

Bottle of water

(all in a plastic bag)

3.  Know all exists in every room.

4.  Have a weapon within arms reach.

5.  Your best defence is your voice; use it.

[While PTSD is a bitch, its taught me things that your average peep doesn’t take into consideration – how to survive in the meanest of circumstances with minimal resources at hand.]


kpm ©