There have been some before you
Few who broke my heart
One who betrayed me
Another, who too easily allowed us to grow apart without any distance at all
I could stretch out my arm to grasp his hand, only to gasp at his sheer coldness
He was truly dead inside, nothing left to offer "us"
Eventually I was forced to let him go
And the first, did not understand the word "stop"
I was 14.
Can you tell this body and soul have been hurt before?
I'm not sure mirrors reflect the burden my heart carries some days
This body does not deflect it anymore
Hindsight is a wonderful thing
my mother says
But living in the past isn't living at all
It is poking the dead thing and begging it to wake up
It is standing at the open casket and wishing it was but a dream
It is the nights
(you know the ones)
Photo album open wide and bottle of wine demolished
It is the aching
The memory of trauma and events once forgotten, that find ways to crawl through the small slit in the foor
I use your name like a sword
fending of those cruel thoughts that back me into the dark corners of my mind
you are enough
but sometimes I am too weak to fight alone