Scalloped edged ornate walls,
water on the floor.
I am sore.
Slight discomfort is comforting,
slight odour is comforting too.
Curious then that I try to wash it away.
Downy hairs on the inside of my thigh
bleached golden from summer sun.
As the calendar flips images of winter emerge,
images devoid of you.
You do not live in the snow.
You live in a life less boring.
Cloud shadows lie cross quilted scape
as we move towards relations.
Can the summer breeze exist anywhere but the fancy of summer?
Wind drives the turbines, the promise of power without impact
a way of erasing, or at least making amends.
Foolhardy perhaps, a horse after a cart,
and still the odour lingers.
Water and paper towel do nothing to hide
hopes, fears and little girl dreams
of a mark left, my impact.
A mark as plain to see as crab pincher bruises inside downy haired thighs.
Bruises which will fade by the time the snow flies
along with the odour
which I managed, at last, to wash away
And with it its comfort.
Clean, empty, the turbine now still
no breeze
Just a cold, still, grey winters day.
No impact, only amends to make to a heart with no courage.
A lovely perk of poetry is how it allows the writer to speak about things out in the open, express their angst, fear and rage, without having to actually tell the story. Cryptic self expression that makes for excellent art.
“Do you have a story which you are afraid to tell?” is the question in 12 days journal #109
“If I was all pure and shit where would my art come from?”
-Bernice Raabis to K.D.
The story of my life with my ex, and how it devolved and deviated, and how it affected me, and just plain old what it was like. I share tidbits of information here and there with people I trust, pieces of the puzzle, but I don't think anyone will ever hold all the pieces and be able to put them together and get the complete picture. I am too afraid that, if the complete picture were seen, they will think I'm stupid, or foolish, and too trusting, and they will judge me as deserving of what I experienced. I am too afraid that they will pity me and feel sorry for me, and I don't want anyone's pity or sympathy...it is degrading and makes me feel less than human. And lastly, I am too afraid to relive that pain and suffering, too afraid it will make me bitter and angry, too afraid that it will rob me once again of the joy and happiness that I've found in my life, that it will demean me and make me feel like shit again, that it will make me loathe myself again, that it will make me not forgive myself again, that it will destroy all of the progress and undo all of the healing that I've done.
ReplyDeleteAt the same time, I want desperately to have just one person I can tell the whole of it to and have it all be ok. But I don't believe that "one person" really exists, so I stick with doling out puzzle pieces and try to let that be enough.
There is One that already knows the whole story - his side included - and still loves you and wants to see the hurt completely healed.
ReplyDeleteBut if you don't talk to Him - Bernice is a great source to talk to too. :)