Burned, bruised and broken. One split lip on top of another. A line of bruises march up your back like a second spine.
You cut your lip walking up some stairs. The bruises come from childish horseplay.
Nothing big. Not for a tough kid. Accidents happen because I'm clumsy.
Don't touch my neck. Don't touch my shoulders. Don't touch my back. They all hurt but it's no big deal.
It's hidden why I can't sit down. Why I wince as a blister pops when my shirt shifts just so.
Such a hot burn leaves such a cold bubble behind. It's funny how that happens as if the fluid is the blister's way of saying sorry for hurting as it sizzled and later puffed with defiant pride. A protective way to hide the tears.
As the liquid seeps on past my skin I straighten stiff to keep my uniform shirt from touching. If I feel the coolness reach my waist I have a chance to hide the tears my ugly back always cries.
These are the tears that I do not have to cry. They are locked within my skin reserved for burning. Silent, secret sobs as my skin heaves with pain.
Bruises heal and skin always knits. But my scars, they weep forever.
Showing posts with label tears. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tears. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Monday, January 9, 2012
Intersect
I see him coming and there is no place for me to go. The one way out is the way that he will walk in.
I can smell him twenty feet away.
Through glass.
Through a door.
The room begins to spin and collapse around me. I tell myself that it's not him; that would be impossible. My mind. My nose. My body. They all betray me.
He walks through my door. I offer a simple handshake. I hope that a brief touch will flood my shattered mind with the calm of reality.
That's not him. He means no harm. And then my reassurance turns into frenzied questions.
A handshake turns into a hug. Too much contact as his cologne seeps into my every sense. Glass shatters as my mind spins in sync with the room.
A painful haze fills the room. My vision narrows into a tiny point. A push. And then a shove. Obscenities spewed propel me backwards as a corner of the room folds me in as protection.
My back slides down the wall as I crouch to hide my face. The two walls meet and wrap their arms around me. I rock as I listen for the silence. The calm.
But instead as the haze lifts I hear the racking sobs of a wounded someone.
Tears like razors spill into my protective hands. They cut my hands as each one drops. I shake and pound my head into the walls.
Those sobs are mine and I can hardly breathe. I squeeze my eyes so tight to stop the tears. They subside but I do not open them afraid that the monster is still there.
A voice calls my name.
Another warns not to touch me.
One eye opens. And then the other. I shiver as I see the worried faces.
No shards of glass. No wounded hands. His smell still lingers but he is gone. The shrinking room has expanded to an endless space of shame.
Another hand offers me a way out of my corner. I brush away my tears but my face burns hot with shame.
It has finally happened. My past has found a way to intersect with my public life.
I can smell him twenty feet away.
Through glass.
Through a door.
The room begins to spin and collapse around me. I tell myself that it's not him; that would be impossible. My mind. My nose. My body. They all betray me.
He walks through my door. I offer a simple handshake. I hope that a brief touch will flood my shattered mind with the calm of reality.
That's not him. He means no harm. And then my reassurance turns into frenzied questions.
A handshake turns into a hug. Too much contact as his cologne seeps into my every sense. Glass shatters as my mind spins in sync with the room.
A painful haze fills the room. My vision narrows into a tiny point. A push. And then a shove. Obscenities spewed propel me backwards as a corner of the room folds me in as protection.
My back slides down the wall as I crouch to hide my face. The two walls meet and wrap their arms around me. I rock as I listen for the silence. The calm.
But instead as the haze lifts I hear the racking sobs of a wounded someone.
Tears like razors spill into my protective hands. They cut my hands as each one drops. I shake and pound my head into the walls.
Those sobs are mine and I can hardly breathe. I squeeze my eyes so tight to stop the tears. They subside but I do not open them afraid that the monster is still there.
A voice calls my name.
Another warns not to touch me.
One eye opens. And then the other. I shiver as I see the worried faces.
No shards of glass. No wounded hands. His smell still lingers but he is gone. The shrinking room has expanded to an endless space of shame.
Another hand offers me a way out of my corner. I brush away my tears but my face burns hot with shame.
It has finally happened. My past has found a way to intersect with my public life.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Tears
Dear Tears,
How very sorry I am for what you have lived with. You and I have not spent much time together. I avoid you because I despise crying. You avoid me because we are not supposed to cry.
So other than objectives, we have not known much about one another. Sure, I've squeezed out a few tears here and there; but a sob? Not really. And those times that I have needed to cry, you stood by and fought a deluge at much cost to yourself.
Over the past few days I have cried. And when I say cry, I mean real and bitter tears. Tears stockpiled over years of pain. Tears we both did not believe to exist. As this happened I watched you through my blurry eyes, shaking in a corner. You were waiting for him and he did not come. We were both surprised.
No one hit us until we stopped crying. No one fucked us until there were no more tears to cry. Not once was the blood running faster than the tears. In fact, there was no blood at all.
Each tear, it did hurt. Like crying razor blades. But it was a healing kind of hurt. To borrow a thought... it hurts a lot less to rip a band-aid off quickly than slowly. Or not at all. So I sit in my car and cry while I peel the neglected, crusty bandages of abuse away. I do this while I worry about keeping you safe. It's a role reversal of sorts.
Watching you with intent, I see that you are small. You are a skinny boy younger than my own daughter. She's six. And now I am not seeing you through the haze of my own pain. Without the need to dodge his fists, I see that you have glasses and blonde hair. Your glasses are broken and behind the cracks you have no eyes. No eyes that cry no tears.
No wonder.
I can cry your tears now. And it's OK if you never shed one of your own; that is not your job. It's mine now and you know, tears are not that bad.
And neither are you. So go and rest.
Your friend,
Shattered
How very sorry I am for what you have lived with. You and I have not spent much time together. I avoid you because I despise crying. You avoid me because we are not supposed to cry.
So other than objectives, we have not known much about one another. Sure, I've squeezed out a few tears here and there; but a sob? Not really. And those times that I have needed to cry, you stood by and fought a deluge at much cost to yourself.
Over the past few days I have cried. And when I say cry, I mean real and bitter tears. Tears stockpiled over years of pain. Tears we both did not believe to exist. As this happened I watched you through my blurry eyes, shaking in a corner. You were waiting for him and he did not come. We were both surprised.
No one hit us until we stopped crying. No one fucked us until there were no more tears to cry. Not once was the blood running faster than the tears. In fact, there was no blood at all.
Each tear, it did hurt. Like crying razor blades. But it was a healing kind of hurt. To borrow a thought... it hurts a lot less to rip a band-aid off quickly than slowly. Or not at all. So I sit in my car and cry while I peel the neglected, crusty bandages of abuse away. I do this while I worry about keeping you safe. It's a role reversal of sorts.
Watching you with intent, I see that you are small. You are a skinny boy younger than my own daughter. She's six. And now I am not seeing you through the haze of my own pain. Without the need to dodge his fists, I see that you have glasses and blonde hair. Your glasses are broken and behind the cracks you have no eyes. No eyes that cry no tears.
No wonder.
I can cry your tears now. And it's OK if you never shed one of your own; that is not your job. It's mine now and you know, tears are not that bad.
And neither are you. So go and rest.
Your friend,
Shattered
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Flat
So today is a new day and I'm trying again. I must sound like a wreck because when readers start asking me if I have a therapist, it's then that I realize how bad I sound. And for my newer readers, yes, I do have a therapist who I have been seeing for quite some time. At least once a week.
Reading over my post from yesterday, I did sound depressed and I was. I still am. And once again I am at the point of retreating to the hills of my head or sticking with the present. I am learning that this is a choice. It is a hard choice too.
But in making that choice I am learning a lot about myself. I don't do stress. I don't do pain. "Flat" was the word that kept coming up in therapy yesterday evening. I've given it a lot of thought between then and now because I argued last night that flat was easier than feeling.
I was wrong.
Flat really is hard. Exhausting. And I think I create a lot more stress and pain, the very things I try to avoid, for myself in trying to be flat. I really thought that this was how people wanted me to be. However, as I look at my emotional responses to others, I can see that my flat response was the last thing they needed or even wanted.
I do not know how to change this overnight. Flat used to my safe. If I showed no emotion, the chances of being hit a lot or worse went down. Flat let me mirror the emotions around me and let me remain invisible. I focused on other's feelings instead of my own. I thought this was safe. But in doing so I added layer upon layer on my own pain which seems to fester into depression.
I have one assignment for the next week. Cry. And cry some more. When I am in the car I am supposed to cry. That is a long way from flat and I am scared. What if people don't like my emotions? My trademarks are levelheaded, calm, logical, a rock... all a nice version of flat.
My next step: call my shrink and tell her that I don't have any of my meds nor have I been taking them because "someone" threw them away. I've been too embarrassed to make that call but I need to. I also need to do some housekeeping in here and figure out "who" threw them out. And after that...
Cry some more.
Reading over my post from yesterday, I did sound depressed and I was. I still am. And once again I am at the point of retreating to the hills of my head or sticking with the present. I am learning that this is a choice. It is a hard choice too.
But in making that choice I am learning a lot about myself. I don't do stress. I don't do pain. "Flat" was the word that kept coming up in therapy yesterday evening. I've given it a lot of thought between then and now because I argued last night that flat was easier than feeling.
I was wrong.
Flat really is hard. Exhausting. And I think I create a lot more stress and pain, the very things I try to avoid, for myself in trying to be flat. I really thought that this was how people wanted me to be. However, as I look at my emotional responses to others, I can see that my flat response was the last thing they needed or even wanted.
I do not know how to change this overnight. Flat used to my safe. If I showed no emotion, the chances of being hit a lot or worse went down. Flat let me mirror the emotions around me and let me remain invisible. I focused on other's feelings instead of my own. I thought this was safe. But in doing so I added layer upon layer on my own pain which seems to fester into depression.
I have one assignment for the next week. Cry. And cry some more. When I am in the car I am supposed to cry. That is a long way from flat and I am scared. What if people don't like my emotions? My trademarks are levelheaded, calm, logical, a rock... all a nice version of flat.
My next step: call my shrink and tell her that I don't have any of my meds nor have I been taking them because "someone" threw them away. I've been too embarrassed to make that call but I need to. I also need to do some housekeeping in here and figure out "who" threw them out. And after that...
Cry some more.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Angels
*I wrote this along with Nobody. We share this experience, with her carrying the bulk of the hurt, so it's only right to let her write and share her part as well*
Dead angels.
I have heard that screamed every day and night for years.
There are three of them. Three dead angels. I was bad; a whore to be exact. Tiny orange pills were to keep me safe. Green ones gave my body a break. I did not take the pills like I should have. They made me sick.
After one dead angel I was supervised. I became the master of the hidden pill. A bitter taste swelling under my tongue was worth the deception of a calm stomach. I didn't really understand the mechanics of the orange and green. Had I known, perhaps the nausea would have made sense.
Sinner... whore... murderer... hell... bloody images...
Their words, their signs, their chants, their pictures; they seared my young heart. Perched on a metal chair, next to my angry mother, I really had no idea what to expect. The room was filled with other anxious women, a few boyfriends, out of date magazines, and somehow all eyes followed a crooked path to me. I did not belong. I was just a kid with a really big secret.
It was my turn as I blindly followed a nurse behind a swinging door. With a hushed and hateful whisper my mother sent me off alone.
You disgust me... I know. Me too.
In another metal chair I said that I understood what had happened and what was going to happen. My mother's hurried signature allowed them to take care of my problem. No one seemed to care how old I was and no one ever wondered how I got into this mess. They knew what I had known for years. I was a whore, no questions asked.
Two dead angels later, I knew what was going on. Tired of metal chairs, The Christians, flimsy gowns, and whispered assumptions, I hid this one. With no real plan I dressed a little bigger and prayed that something would save me. And save the angel.
His wandering eyes and hands caught me this time. She refused to take me. She refused to be humiliated again. It was his turn.
This time it was different. He was caring and concerned. He rubbed my back and I was scared. This angel was older and this was not as easy. Pain... more bleeding... heavier sedation... stay home from school... I pretended not to hear these medical suggestions.
Quietly the room began to shift. The walls began to twist and soon I did not mind the flimsy gown, the bright lamp, or the gasping machine. I was not alone this time. He stood next to me and stroked my hair. I closed my eyes and another angel died.
In the car, we did not go home. I waited in the car and he checked us into a motel. Relieved that I did not have to go back to school this time, I closed my eyes again and woke up in a musty room, naked on a tortured bed.
He was sitting next to me and as my eyes focused, I could squarely see the reason we were there. He stroked my face and placed his hand upon my cramping stomach. The warmth of his hand felt good against my pain. He pressed harder and leaned in closer. The care had left his eyes and though I searched, all I could find was lust and selfishness. I wanted to go back to school.
I closed my eyes again and wished for more sedation.
*I(Nobody) open my eyes and he is fucking me. He likes the sloppy remnants of the day. In and out until his eye squint and lurch up into his head. Bastard. He fucks us up and now this. I fucking hate him. I am Nobody and I have taken her place. Enough is enough and now he gets to deal with me.
He is finished as he withdraws and with a sneer he says that he doesn't have to worry about knocking us up. What a nice day for him. I feel like shit so I close my eyes to rest.
I awake to find his stubby hands running up and down the body. I try to ignore the pain but it is not going to go away. In he is as I wince and grit my teeth with pain. He thrusts harder and I don't know how long I am going to be able to hang on. With my hands I twist the scratchy sheets to cling to something. In a quickened moment he is out as I feel the body's insides collapse into the void he left.
In one more moment his face is buried between our legs as he forces them further apart to make more room for his bastard body. He is there, at the near-center of the pain. We aren't the filthy one; he is. I am becoming more and more upset. I don't do upset but this is just fucking awful. New secrets are being born today, those that I will have to keep for myself.
My mind drifts away as he continues his play. I don't understand the point of this or what pleasure he is getting. He is a freak and I want him to stop. And now, as if he heard my thoughts, he raises up and I am horrified at the sight of what is on his lips. I raise up on my elbows and dig my heels into the lumpy bed only to escape into the headboard. He crawls forward and leans over and towards me. He forces his face upon mine, lips to my quivering lips, and he thrusts his putrid tongue into my mouth.
I feel as though we will suffocate and I begin to hope we will. I twist my head to get away and that makes him fight even harder. After minutes of eternity, he pulls away. Hot tears are streaming down my face and I have lost my cool. I have failed her. He sits back on his heels and smiles a bloody smile. I smear my tears away as he leans in again.
As his lips near mine again, he tells me what I already know.
Taste your baby...
Fuck him.
Dead angels.
I have heard that screamed every day and night for years.
There are three of them. Three dead angels. I was bad; a whore to be exact. Tiny orange pills were to keep me safe. Green ones gave my body a break. I did not take the pills like I should have. They made me sick.
After one dead angel I was supervised. I became the master of the hidden pill. A bitter taste swelling under my tongue was worth the deception of a calm stomach. I didn't really understand the mechanics of the orange and green. Had I known, perhaps the nausea would have made sense.
Sinner... whore... murderer... hell... bloody images...
Their words, their signs, their chants, their pictures; they seared my young heart. Perched on a metal chair, next to my angry mother, I really had no idea what to expect. The room was filled with other anxious women, a few boyfriends, out of date magazines, and somehow all eyes followed a crooked path to me. I did not belong. I was just a kid with a really big secret.
It was my turn as I blindly followed a nurse behind a swinging door. With a hushed and hateful whisper my mother sent me off alone.
You disgust me... I know. Me too.
In another metal chair I said that I understood what had happened and what was going to happen. My mother's hurried signature allowed them to take care of my problem. No one seemed to care how old I was and no one ever wondered how I got into this mess. They knew what I had known for years. I was a whore, no questions asked.
Two dead angels later, I knew what was going on. Tired of metal chairs, The Christians, flimsy gowns, and whispered assumptions, I hid this one. With no real plan I dressed a little bigger and prayed that something would save me. And save the angel.
His wandering eyes and hands caught me this time. She refused to take me. She refused to be humiliated again. It was his turn.
This time it was different. He was caring and concerned. He rubbed my back and I was scared. This angel was older and this was not as easy. Pain... more bleeding... heavier sedation... stay home from school... I pretended not to hear these medical suggestions.
Quietly the room began to shift. The walls began to twist and soon I did not mind the flimsy gown, the bright lamp, or the gasping machine. I was not alone this time. He stood next to me and stroked my hair. I closed my eyes and another angel died.
In the car, we did not go home. I waited in the car and he checked us into a motel. Relieved that I did not have to go back to school this time, I closed my eyes again and woke up in a musty room, naked on a tortured bed.
He was sitting next to me and as my eyes focused, I could squarely see the reason we were there. He stroked my face and placed his hand upon my cramping stomach. The warmth of his hand felt good against my pain. He pressed harder and leaned in closer. The care had left his eyes and though I searched, all I could find was lust and selfishness. I wanted to go back to school.
I closed my eyes again and wished for more sedation.
*I(Nobody) open my eyes and he is fucking me. He likes the sloppy remnants of the day. In and out until his eye squint and lurch up into his head. Bastard. He fucks us up and now this. I fucking hate him. I am Nobody and I have taken her place. Enough is enough and now he gets to deal with me.
He is finished as he withdraws and with a sneer he says that he doesn't have to worry about knocking us up. What a nice day for him. I feel like shit so I close my eyes to rest.
I awake to find his stubby hands running up and down the body. I try to ignore the pain but it is not going to go away. In he is as I wince and grit my teeth with pain. He thrusts harder and I don't know how long I am going to be able to hang on. With my hands I twist the scratchy sheets to cling to something. In a quickened moment he is out as I feel the body's insides collapse into the void he left.
In one more moment his face is buried between our legs as he forces them further apart to make more room for his bastard body. He is there, at the near-center of the pain. We aren't the filthy one; he is. I am becoming more and more upset. I don't do upset but this is just fucking awful. New secrets are being born today, those that I will have to keep for myself.
My mind drifts away as he continues his play. I don't understand the point of this or what pleasure he is getting. He is a freak and I want him to stop. And now, as if he heard my thoughts, he raises up and I am horrified at the sight of what is on his lips. I raise up on my elbows and dig my heels into the lumpy bed only to escape into the headboard. He crawls forward and leans over and towards me. He forces his face upon mine, lips to my quivering lips, and he thrusts his putrid tongue into my mouth.
I feel as though we will suffocate and I begin to hope we will. I twist my head to get away and that makes him fight even harder. After minutes of eternity, he pulls away. Hot tears are streaming down my face and I have lost my cool. I have failed her. He sits back on his heels and smiles a bloody smile. I smear my tears away as he leans in again.
As his lips near mine again, he tells me what I already know.
Taste your baby...
Fuck him.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Sorry
Good. God. Where to start? I said that I wanted to be honest here so here I go.
I am a perfectionist. Black and white are the boxes I have tried to stuff my feelings, my thoughts, and my life into. It's not working for me anymore.
I am far from perfect. Especially when it comes to being a mother.
I smile and say that I'm not angry but rather I am sad, depressed, tired, etc. Those feelings just sound more polite. But really, I am boiling over with anger, hatred, rage, and just pure poison.
This morning I fucked up. Today I reached the point where I truly was not sure that I could be a parent. Nice. My daughter is a cute little six year old with the vocabulary of a ten year old, and the mouthy sass of a teenager. Mornings before school are tough around our house. My husband leaves before we get up so it is me versus two beagles and a six year old. I lose most mornings.
In typical fashion my daughter fought me on what to wear, what to eat for breakfast and continued to sass me. I had been pretty patient but then I lost it. With the last words of back-talk, I turned around and asked her if she wanted me to go to her Christmas party today at school because she sure wasn't acting like she wanted me around. Then I said something to the effect of "because I can just leave you and not be around at all". And I didn't just say these things. I screamed them.
I watched the tears well up in my daughter's eyes and I saw my own painful grimace worn on her undeserving face. I hurt her and my made her cry before school; two things I swore I would never do.
I salvaged the tears that I could and dropped her off at school. A few hours later I went to her party and as I walked in she looked up and saw me and burst into tears. In those tears I could hear my mother's words taunting me. We talked for a few minutes, she calmed down and I apologized. But really, how does five minutes do anything but put a band-aid on the real problem?
I'm that problem and I am scared to death. There are some people just made to be parents. They are the ones who should be allowed to have kids. I am not one of those people. For a fleeting second this morning, I honestly thought that me walking away would be best for all involved. I hate myself for arriving at that point because I watched my mother flirt and threaten with that point more times than I can count.
After the party was over I got in my car and headed back to work. I ended up turning around and going back to her school but her bio-father had already picked her up to spend the night tonight. So I'm fucked. And worse, my daughter gets to go to bed tonight, in a bed she doesn't really like, turning over in her mind what the hell her mother meant this morning when she said she would leave.
I am sick at my stomach and none of this is OK. Yet another thing I swore I would never do; making my daughter wonder who will be there in the morning.
I am so, so sorry.
I am a perfectionist. Black and white are the boxes I have tried to stuff my feelings, my thoughts, and my life into. It's not working for me anymore.
I am far from perfect. Especially when it comes to being a mother.
I smile and say that I'm not angry but rather I am sad, depressed, tired, etc. Those feelings just sound more polite. But really, I am boiling over with anger, hatred, rage, and just pure poison.
This morning I fucked up. Today I reached the point where I truly was not sure that I could be a parent. Nice. My daughter is a cute little six year old with the vocabulary of a ten year old, and the mouthy sass of a teenager. Mornings before school are tough around our house. My husband leaves before we get up so it is me versus two beagles and a six year old. I lose most mornings.
In typical fashion my daughter fought me on what to wear, what to eat for breakfast and continued to sass me. I had been pretty patient but then I lost it. With the last words of back-talk, I turned around and asked her if she wanted me to go to her Christmas party today at school because she sure wasn't acting like she wanted me around. Then I said something to the effect of "because I can just leave you and not be around at all". And I didn't just say these things. I screamed them.
I watched the tears well up in my daughter's eyes and I saw my own painful grimace worn on her undeserving face. I hurt her and my made her cry before school; two things I swore I would never do.
I salvaged the tears that I could and dropped her off at school. A few hours later I went to her party and as I walked in she looked up and saw me and burst into tears. In those tears I could hear my mother's words taunting me. We talked for a few minutes, she calmed down and I apologized. But really, how does five minutes do anything but put a band-aid on the real problem?
I'm that problem and I am scared to death. There are some people just made to be parents. They are the ones who should be allowed to have kids. I am not one of those people. For a fleeting second this morning, I honestly thought that me walking away would be best for all involved. I hate myself for arriving at that point because I watched my mother flirt and threaten with that point more times than I can count.
After the party was over I got in my car and headed back to work. I ended up turning around and going back to her school but her bio-father had already picked her up to spend the night tonight. So I'm fucked. And worse, my daughter gets to go to bed tonight, in a bed she doesn't really like, turning over in her mind what the hell her mother meant this morning when she said she would leave.
I am sick at my stomach and none of this is OK. Yet another thing I swore I would never do; making my daughter wonder who will be there in the morning.
I am so, so sorry.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
James
One of my first recollections of someone near; someone who loved me was in a closet.
It's hot outside. It is summer and I have no school. My mother said that I went on vacation. I didn't.
It is musty and stuffy; a single coat hanger is my toy. It is dark except for the crack at the bottom of the door. That crack is my lifeline. It tells me when I am alone; it tells me when it is night; it tells me when someone is coming; when feet darken that crack, it's not a good thing.
I trace the texture on the wall with my small, dirty fingers. In the beginning, the texture is just that; texture. After three dark cracks of night the texture begins to come alive. I find an elephant, a giraffe, a balloon, a heart. I close my eyes and they dance beneath my eyelids.
The crack is darkened by two feet. Am I getting out? Is there food? The door flings open and my eyes throb in the light. It is nighttime but the night is still brighter than the dark. It is him. He scoops me up in his arms; my skin tingles with his touch.
He lays me down on the bed. He sweeps my hair out of my face so he can see my "pretty eyes". He begins to rub my legs and it feels good after sitting cramped for three dark cracks of night. But then he is pushing his weight upon me. I squirm and twist but nothing stops. He is no longer touching me with care; he is rushed and selfish. He tells me I am a dirty girl; that I smell. I can feel my tears in the corners of my eyes but I blink them away quickly.
I close my eyes and find my elephant. I trace it in my mind over and over. He is heavier and heavier... elephant, please don't go... I can't see you... I need to see you. It hurts. A drop of his sweat lands on my lip and burns my chapped and cracked lip. It hurts but he hurts me more.
I am now on my stomach and I can't see him but he is still heavy. I escape to the corner of the room and watch my small child self with him. I find my texture balloon and float away with it. He doesn't stop but he doesn't stop me from drifting away. He doesn't know I am gone and he doesn't miss me.
I am warm and safe as I rest in his arms. He dries my missing tears. His eyes are kind but tired underneath his small glasses. He has graying hair and a gentle frown. He is sad and he tells me how sorry he is; how sorry that I need him. He holds my heart and sings me to sleep. His name is James and he rescues me from him. He takes my place when I float away with my balloon to look for my elephant.
James is not real but he is love to me.
It's hot outside. It is summer and I have no school. My mother said that I went on vacation. I didn't.
It is musty and stuffy; a single coat hanger is my toy. It is dark except for the crack at the bottom of the door. That crack is my lifeline. It tells me when I am alone; it tells me when it is night; it tells me when someone is coming; when feet darken that crack, it's not a good thing.
I trace the texture on the wall with my small, dirty fingers. In the beginning, the texture is just that; texture. After three dark cracks of night the texture begins to come alive. I find an elephant, a giraffe, a balloon, a heart. I close my eyes and they dance beneath my eyelids.
The crack is darkened by two feet. Am I getting out? Is there food? The door flings open and my eyes throb in the light. It is nighttime but the night is still brighter than the dark. It is him. He scoops me up in his arms; my skin tingles with his touch.
He lays me down on the bed. He sweeps my hair out of my face so he can see my "pretty eyes". He begins to rub my legs and it feels good after sitting cramped for three dark cracks of night. But then he is pushing his weight upon me. I squirm and twist but nothing stops. He is no longer touching me with care; he is rushed and selfish. He tells me I am a dirty girl; that I smell. I can feel my tears in the corners of my eyes but I blink them away quickly.
I close my eyes and find my elephant. I trace it in my mind over and over. He is heavier and heavier... elephant, please don't go... I can't see you... I need to see you. It hurts. A drop of his sweat lands on my lip and burns my chapped and cracked lip. It hurts but he hurts me more.
I am now on my stomach and I can't see him but he is still heavy. I escape to the corner of the room and watch my small child self with him. I find my texture balloon and float away with it. He doesn't stop but he doesn't stop me from drifting away. He doesn't know I am gone and he doesn't miss me.
I am warm and safe as I rest in his arms. He dries my missing tears. His eyes are kind but tired underneath his small glasses. He has graying hair and a gentle frown. He is sad and he tells me how sorry he is; how sorry that I need him. He holds my heart and sings me to sleep. His name is James and he rescues me from him. He takes my place when I float away with my balloon to look for my elephant.
James is not real but he is love to me.
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