shards of memories

The switch flipped, enter hatred and shame.  Damn the darkness.  I am teeming with a belly of sickness inching its way toward impending rupture.  Yes, sure, I’ll just think happy thoughts.  Of course, that will make everything…..happy.  Their sentiments followed by my forlorn chuckle.  If it were so simple wouldn’t I have already done it?  Do you think I like this hell?  Wandering in a cornfield, in the dead of night, in the cold, tired, lost, alone, a billow of pleas rising from the depths of my soul.  An extreme analogy?  No.

It’s easy to see ahead and through what we see and know is there.  It is not easy to see ahead and through an invisible abyss, a cavernous hollow with seemingly no way out.  Where the blood of old wounds cackle and howl.  Where fingertips of deviance graze again.  Where shards of memories cut.  Where sight will not save you and hope is not enough.  This is war.

But, you say; of course I’m not worthless,  of course everything I’ve done and will do isn’t wrong, of course this moment will pass, of course I’m not a horrid mother, of course I’m not alone, of course I am not a whore, of course I am not as pathetic and useless and desecrated as I feel inside.  Of course!  As a matinee of my failures plays on and on and on before me. I feel so sick in these moments. It is this pain, this stench of suffering that I ache to get out, to kill, to end.

The Crossroads

So many ways to deaden this pain; their calls like a chorus of sick temptation.  Here, take a piece of me and do as you please.  Hurt me, use me, numb me, cut me.  At least then I control the how, what, who and when of my pain.  At least… this time.

And now comes grief, her incense of sorrow seeping in and through.  With clenched fists I cling to rage and self-loathing, they have become my protectors.  I’ve made a home in this abyss, a home in hell.  Unable to get out so I settled for darkness.  And now comes grief, sweet freedom offered in exchange for emotion.

Yes, taking the hand of sorrow may keep me from drowning.  But you see, the dead do not feel.  And now, having been saved, I must feel.  Now I must grieve, again.



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