Trigger Warning Abuse, violence.

Survival Machines is a collection of poems I've written to come to terms with the abuse and neglect I endured as a child. These are not what I would call good poetry, but writing them help me. It's a work in progress. The overall collection runs about 70 pages. This is the first one, the longest.

The Dart Collective

Call me Dart.

It’s not my name.
It’s not real.
It’s not the name assigned at birth
It’s not a name in any record.

Wait a minute….
Yes, it’s real.
It’s the name of someone new.
Someone never here before
Someone new – not the same.
Not bound in boxes
Or wearing chains
From a past
Unremembered

◉◉◉

Sometimes when you clean house
It’s easier to empty the whole room And put things back in order.
Dart still has my past.
Dart has less baggage.
Dart can do things
That Me can’t
Shake off shackles.
Turn leaves over.
Move stones.
Let others near.
Dart can think things
That Me can’t.
Eschew control
Embrace exposure
Grasp resilience

I am Dart.
But I am Me too.
If you’re confused, join the club.

I am many.
Inside of me are younger versions of myself.
Little Me's. Some are simple.
Trigger Response
Tone of Voice: Flee.
Can’t Flee: Dissociate.

Some complex. Little me’s
Each with their own interests.
Specialists in one thing only Staying alive.
Each with agency
Each with purpose
Narrow purpose.
For special times.

Each Me is a survival machine.
Forged in fire and pain.
Hammered hard on the anvil of fear.
Quenched emotions,
Case hardened in loneliness.
Created to help me through the next day, the next hour.
Parts of me, each a bundle
of isolation and misery.
Hidden from the central me.

I wear a shell.

A brightly coloured Pysanka
Ukrainian Easter Egg
Bright, witty, smart
Good with a story.
Good with a joke.
Inside filled with darkness
Inside the ick of self loathing.
Filled with utter certainty:
"If they knew me.
If they knew the real me
They would turn away.
“Leave our house, we don’t want you”
“Leave our village, you’re unclean”
“Leave our group, you’re not like us”

"You can stay here. If you must."
"You can stay here. We don't care"
“You can stay, if you’re useful.”
​

​
### Reader: meet Socks.

Socks is 4. Sitting on the lawn looking serious, solemn.
Socks won't meet my eyes. He looks at the ground halfway between us.
Socks wears long pants, a long sleeve shirt.
And socks of course.
Even in summer.
Socks never goes barefoot.
Socks doesn't run laughing through the sprinkler.
Not anymore. Not since That Day.
Socks is quiet a lot of the time.
Quiet is safe.

But the fear and pain break free.
Storms of anger
Boils in tears.
Sobbing, uncontrolled, he hides in his room.
Weeping into a pink teddy bear.

Mom sighs with exasperation.
Mom stares in black depression.
Mom cries with frustration.
Mom breaks.
Mom shouts.
Mom grabs.
Tossed across the room
Flung into the wall.

A twitch of dad’s lips shows his disapproval.

### I am Slipstick
I’m 15.
Ultimate geek, ultimate nerd.
I get my name from the slide rule I carry.
And I can use it!
I think in numbers.
Numbers never lie.
Numbers don't betray.
Numbers don't have emotions.
Numbers don't reject.
Numbers don't abandon.
Numbers are always there for me.
No shame in numbers.
Numbers are good.
Numbers are safe.

Stay away!
I’m not safe.
I will bite!
Sarcasm saws.
Contempt burns.
I push you away.
Don’t be my friend.
It hurts too much
Hurts when you stop
Being my friend.
And I know you will stop.
Your kind always does.
(“What kind?”
You query.
“Human kind.”
I reply)

### Call me Rebel.
Black jeans,
Ragged and worn.
Black t-shirt
More holes than cloth.
When I wear one.
Spiked wrist bands.
Spiked dog collar.
I rage. I fume. I burn.

I want to wear steel toed boots
Kick over every garbage can in town..
I want to scream at the world.
"Who am I? Why am I here?"
“Why should I care?”
But I don’t do this.
I fear the answer.
I know the answer.
Dead silence.
Is the answer.
No one cares.
Is the answer.
I don’t matter.

Maybe I should.
Scream, that is.
But that would make me
Really, really, really…
Not Good Enough.
And inside I care.
Deep inside,
I really do care.
I want to be seen
I want to know, I’m not alone.
So I sit here, cool skin wrapping a core of smouldering rage.
Waiting to die
Wanting to die.
Hellfire waits.
Worse than here?

### The others call me Puritan.
I am shame.
Every rule that I’ve broken,
Every task that I’ve shirked.
Hurtful gossip I passed on

Every hurtful thing I said.
Every promise that I broke.
Every time that I chose
The easy way over what was right.

Every time I said nothing
Stood in silence instead of speaking
Words unspoken avoiding conflict
When words from me would help another.

Schadenfreuden:
Other’s misfortunes I enjoyed.

But wait:
I’m integrity.
I follow the written rules.
And unwritten ones too,
When I can figure them out.
Sometimes, following the rules
Makes me good enough.
For a while.
A little while.

I despise everything to do with sex.
Thank you mom.
Thank you dad
For raising me this way.

How did I know at age four
That sex was shameful. Sex was bad.
Walked into your bedroom
You were making the two backed beast.
Creeping back in utter silence.
Quiet as a shadow.

Even then somehow I knew
Even then I wouldn’t ask.
I was curious
Like elephant child
Always asking,
Always learning.
Always filled with countless questions.

Somehow I knew this was different.
Somehow I knew this was shameful
Never spoken, kept in silence.
Do not speak, keep it secret.
Stern with judgment, shame in darkness.
Do not ask.
Forbidden Topic.
Do not speak
the word aloud.

And thank you, Holy Mother Church,
who reinforced all that learning

I crave everything to do with sex.
Fundamental drives.
Opportunities galore
Mortification of the Flesh.

I started jacking off when I was four or five.
Rubbing my groin along the corner of the mattress
Felt very nice. And helped me forget the the…
What am I forgetting.

In conflict then, split two ways.
I know I am damned.
I will burn.
Twice forever.
God’s forgiveness is conditional.
I must want; I must desire
To turn my back
To do my best
To not commit
This sin again.
I don’t even want to want that.

At age 13, I knew.
Knew, no shade of doubt
Sure as the sun will rise tomorrow.
I would burn forever.

God is love.
God is judgment.
Love is conditional.
I have no doubts.

### I am Ghost.
I am wary. I watch, I see.
Two hours at a party.
Quiet, soft spoken.
Uttering banalities that won’t offend.
Laughing softly at other jokes.
Tomorrow morning, after coffee
No one remembers I was here.

My back to the wall.
Edge of the room.
The chair by the door.
Threat assessment:
Where is the danger?
Who is the danger?
Where is the exit?
Where can I hide?
Where can I run?

Here there be tigers.

I am glass.
​No one sees me.
I am fog.
No one hears me.
I am wind.
No one touches me.
I am shadow.
No one knows me.
No one cares.
Not even me.

Especially not me.

### I call him Blue Stripe.
I don't know much.
He has never spoken. Two years old? A bit more.
Solid walker in that bowlegged way that little kids have.
​He wears dark blue shorts, and a yellow tee.
Thin blue lines run across the shirt,
Faintly green where blue meets yellow.

I found him on an evening walk.
Boundary broken: Voices heard from the curb.
​Angry voices inside that house.
Drifting through the evening twilight.
Up the back stairs I went with caution
Slunk into a darkened kitchen.
Evening light through the windows.
Through the door, there I saw him,
Standing there, thumb in mouth,
Standing in the twilit room.
Confused. Uncertain. Eyes wide open.
The Voices from a room beyond.
Louder now. Filled with Anger.
Filled with Judgement.

I know that anger.
Know that anger all too well.
I don't know how I know
​That Voice in that other room on another day
That Voice carried too much anger..
That Voice later picked him up.
That Voice later screamed in rage
​Small boy's voice shrieked in terror.

I knelt. Opened my arms.
"Do you want to come with me?"
He ran into my arms, silent sobs.

I picked him up, held him close.
Stroked his back, and spoke.
Spoke like I would a feral dog.
Soothe the fright, calm the fear.
“I am here for you now.
I am here for you always.”
.

We sat for a long time.
He leaned into me.
Me just holding him.
With time the racking silent sobs quieted.
He slept.

I sat and wondered who and what and why.
Wasted years, unshed tears
Streamed down my face
In gathering darkness

### This is Little Ghost.
Very shy, never speaking.
Yellow shirt, long unwashed.
Dirty jeans, worn out knees.
Crew socks, dark with ancient grime.
Trail of dust bunnies in his wake.

He’s 8 years old, or thereabouts.
Seventy pounds, four foot four
Only rarely meets my eyes.
Mostly stares at the ground
Unless commanded
​"Look at me when I speak!"

Sometimes deep inside my head,
Sometimes he will sit beside me
Sit and lean upon my shoulder.
I stroke his hair, and speak the words.
“You are safe here. That can’t happen”
“Never again will that be.”
“You are safe here. You can rest.
No more nights fraught with fear.
No more days, filled with dread
Filled with waiting for the summons.
Feel your gut sink inside.
Knowing well what will happen."

Little Ghost, strong and silent.
He stepped in when I was bad.
He took the ‘teachings’ mom dished out.
Kept the pain deep inside.
So the rest of us could carry on.

Mom would stand him by the door.
Stand him about two feet away.
LG knows not to run.
LG knows not to flinch.
Accept what’s about to happen
Accept it and make no sound.
Non compliance just hurts more.
Never cry. It makes mom mad
Crying is emotion. Crying is sad.
Crying is shameful. Crying is bad.

He knows what’s about to happen.
One quick push upon the shoulders.
Head snaps forward, he falls backward.
Shoulders slam hard into the door.
Head hits door like a melon.
Flash of stars. Burst of pain
Breath knocked out.
Floorward sinking.
Still without word or sound.
Crying is shameful. Crying is bad.

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