closure

If I tell him, he’ll never see anything but the scars…

Wolfette, , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

So, hey pups. Happy Sunday fun day! My mum and I went to see my granny this afternoon. She had a good day. She had a good day yesterday as well. My little sister was home for a few days as well, so she and I went to see our granny yesterday…we sat outside on the patio. My sister had her first day of her new job at a National Park today! Apparently it was great, and stressful? I don’t know…anyways..I have a poem to share with you today, I wrote it this morning…I….I wanted to write it for someone whom, I feel I owe an explanation to…and I hope they understand why the untouchable places that I have…exist.

Soft hands, aren’t as easily accessible as I wish they were; sometimes trusting people, can almost get you killed.

I remember the night those hands touched me for the first time, your fingers wrapped around the back of my neck, your arm pressing harshly into my chest. I couldn’t breath, I was unable to move, you forced your way into my world. I wasn’t even scared of you, we were friends. I trusted you, I thought you cared about me.

The air was warm that night, despite it being mid December. When you were done, and you released my throat, I took such a panicked gasp of air, you slapped me. Your knuckles collided with my cheekbone so hard, I heard a small crack. My legs couldn’t hold me upright any longer, they collapsed underneath me. You hauled me up by my forearm and threw me back into the passenger’s seat.

For years, I tried to cut your image out of my nightmares. Your poison still runs in my veins, I fear I’ll never be rid of it. There is not one person who knows the whole truth about all the unadulterated evil you placed inside of me, and I hope one day, I will be able to cleanse these wounds of your name.

Sometimes, late at night, I hear a scratching underneath my bed. I know monsters exist, but you made me one of them, and I am not afraid of you any longer. Now, what terrifies me, is one day, a good man will unzip my soul, and find these pieces; this mess I still carry around inside of me, and he will think me unclean. I have never let a good man love me, because good men, should not have to clean up after monsters.

It’s the middle of the day.

Wolfette, , , , , , , Leave a comment

Good morning.
Good morning.

With all this suffocating darkness,
I would have thought it midnight;
I would have, if not for the small, faint, chirping of the early day bird songs,
that are seeping through the leaking windowpanes of my bedroom.

In the air, hangs the dormant smell of last night’s whiskey, worn leather, and fresh coffee grounds.

There’s something wicked lurking through my house today, filling in the corners and climbing up the walls.

I can hear it like radio static, scraping the insides of my skull.
Almost like nails down a blackboard, it leaves my brain clutching to the darkness.

I want to crawl back under those blankets and forget what I must do, but responsibility is screaming for me to move.

I still can’t see anything, there is a gray light touching the edges of my peripheral vision now.

I’ve never been good at gray scale, my everything is always so black and white.

Always one or the other but never both, not until last night.

Last night when I tried to fold myself like a napkin in your lap, after years of laying wrinkled.

I remember the night i met you.We danced, delicately. You held me like a wine glass, with slow, practiced hands.

Now, years later, all that is left of us are dirty clothes piled on the floor, shattered glass ware and your almost full ashtray.

You stormed out and haven’t come back once. But I’m still waiting here, under these covers, hoping that chirping I hear, will morph into slow, practiced footsteps coming back to me.

The smell of coffee, old worn out leather and stale whiskey, coats my lungs. Just like a dormant, wicked, shadow, waiting to climb into the corners of me; the ones you, left empty.

Good morning.
No, good night.

It’s less of an addiction and more of a cure.

Wolfette, , , , Leave a comment

you remind me of my first cup of morning coffee.

always warming me from the inside out,
smooth like silk when you run your fingers across my skin.

there’s a richness to the tone of your voice when you’re still half asleep,
to this day, i have never heard a sound so sweet.

i have always craved that from you.
i drink you in like you were the only thing keeping me awake.

i smile knowing you are on the other side of the bed,
just a few inches away.

i feel you retreat from the warmth of our covers,
the springs creak your name,
begging your return.

but you don’t listen,
you can’t hear my bones and how they ache for your embrace again.

we spent last night in shadow,
silence crawling all around our heads,
i feel you pressing bruises into my skin;
a reminder you wanted to be there.
each morning, when the sun peeks over the trees;
i watch the golden light seep across your shoulders,
caressing your face just long enough to make you glitter.

what am i supposed to do now?
if i stay here, you will always get up to leave me when mornings break;
but if i leave you,

you’re not going to come after me.

There was never any new sounds.

Wolfette, , , , , , , Leave a comment

You know what I remember most?

The silence.

I spent years wrapped up in you, after we met on a calm summer night.

Summer breezes now remind me of your hugs, and I hate that. The late summer night we spent tucked into each other in your jeep was the first time I’ve ever let a lover see me cry. You held me soft, for the first and last time that night. It’s strange to think that it’s been almost four years now, since we met.

Sometimes I think about our last fight. We screamed so loudly at one another, you threw the weight of your passions at me, but it didn’t matter in the long run. We never listened to each other. We were like refracting magnets, always at odds. Eventually, we fell apart. Like an ancient sculpture in a flooded courtyard, the only thing we could do was leave.

We weren’t meant to stand together, I know that now. You always slept on my side of the bed, I could never get used to that. I had only ever dreamed alone, now I lie awake and wonder how I ever did.

The first time someone asked me if I missed you, I didn’t say yes. I hadn’t been lying, I didn’t miss you. I only longed for parts of you, not the whole thing.

Like, your arm. Not both, just one. The one that fit so perfectly under my neck at night. The one that coiled around my shoulder like a snake, holding me in place.

Your love was less like a hug, and more of a vice. When you held me, it felt soft. Your grip was strong, but it felt as if I could shatter if I tried to break loose.

In the end though, I didn’t shatter. I burst into an urgent flame, the heat from my chest sears off parts of you I had wanted to keep.

We loved like a heat wave; warm, but suffocating.

I hadn’t meant for our love to look like this. We turned in on ourselves like crumpled bits of paper.

There hasn’t been one part of me since, that has reallly wanted to turn around. I knew that last day, I had to leave you behind me. The last time I saw you, I knew I had made the right choice. You had turned yourself into a match head, waiting to strike yourself on a rock, just to burst out in flames like you had done when you ignited me the first time.

But I’ve long since snuffed that fire out of my veins. I am not made of fire anymore, just ashes and charred flesh.

I’ve always enjoyed the smell of gasoline in the air, like a scent to remind me to come back home.

Slowly, I had been cleaning my burned soul, cleansing the tarnished walls that still stood.

It’s been years now, since we held one another. Last night though, I thought about you. About how you had been the first person to light the match in my head, and the last one to notice I was on fire.

I used to sleep with a radio on, or a fan. But you always said that sound kept you awake. I had learned to be familiar with the quiet, now whenever I hear music in the dark, I think about you.

How you would have traced your fingers down the bend of my spine, pushing each vertebra back into my body. I had almost forgotten the sound of your voice, until I heard that crackling static from a song we had listened to for a whole summer. I’m unable to hear anything at night now. I committed your silent slumbers to memory, like a page in a memoir.

It’s not fair; we used to love loudly, like a concussion rattling our brains, everything always echoed. We spent days on end without the quiet hum of comfort.

But now, whenever I think about you, all I can remember is the silence.