How strange it is
Moving from life with no photos on the wall
To life littered with drawn out dumpster diving memorials
Over every square inch of sallow hued space
Covering the holes drunkenly skewered
Leaving shards of drywall souls in my hair
Chaotically dancing over my shoulders
Constant reminders,
Next time the mark won’t be missed
Like the fading yellowed flesh wounds
Wrapping around my neck
As I’m held down and told to beg for more
That’s not sex …
It’s not love
In this house of a thousand shattered mirrors
Each fragmenting side of me
Further splintering with every fresh assault
Each small rip of tender fiber that makes my being whole
How many shades can there be today
Constant Reminders
See? Terrible. 🙂
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Ha, you kind of stole my comment. But thank you for your bestowment of terribleness, it means a lot 😉
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Hope hope this is fiction. Terrifyingly real description, Kelley.
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Thanks for reading it! There’s some minor artistic liberty taken but for the most part no, it’s real. It’s an old situation and memory though, left and dealt with years ago.
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So glad to hear that it is over! Once overcome, the only power we have over such events is gained first through not repeating them and secondly by writing about them.
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Oh, this is beautiful Kelley!
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Thank you so much, I really appreciate it
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