recovery

Senses.

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Happy Sunday pups. Here’s a poem I just finished. For, Άλφα..thank you for having patience with me.

Sensory deprivation is a horrid form of torture, and I brought it upon myself. But you, you’re slowly giving me my wolf like senses back, baby. In the quiet moments before each sunset, I can hear the soft, steady beat of your heart. I’d like to think I could hear your voice in my dreams last night, slowly drifting through my brain.

I told you once of the damage my body suffered while in my adolescent lifetime, and you ran your hand along the lines I wear upon my back; the ones that silence clawed into my flesh. And I swear, in that moment I felt every bend in my spine, every knot loosened, instantly.

I had such dulled senses when it comes to touch… I would have never thought you could draw such a reaction out of my skin, yet there you were. So gentle, and patient, that even I had mistaken your breath for an autumn breeze.

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

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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.

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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.