Fickle little feelings that I never quite understand
Regardless of the pain you gave me, I still crave the touch of your hands.
I wake before the sun each day, sometimes I can still hear your voice. A melodic knife to set me right, the grand illusion of choice.
As the light first touches the sky, I always crave the smell of smoke. Dead and dried, the oak tree fires, left to linger in my soul.
At half past six, my alarm starts to tick, a reminder to cook and clean. The noise opens a box I've secured with a lock, bringing me back to age thirteen.
The clothes on the line hanging stiff in the heat with supper on the stove, did I earn what I eat?
Black and blue bruises crisscrossed down to my feet, no shoes could ever hold me, I had somewhere to be. Anywhere but here, was the anthem I screamed, a track star in training, running was my dream.
Away from the people, the memories, the past. Even leaving behind the good, now tainted with bad.
I left them all, my dreams now come true, so why does it hurt when I think of you?
If I dig through the pile, and remove all the hurt, if I could pretend abandonment was just another word.
What would be left? Would your love find me then?
At the bottom of the barrel, with no blame for our sins.
No bible, no preacher, no who we’ve always been.
Would my version of the past become an old childhood friend?
Would I visit there more often? I wonder who I could’ve been?
I could talk about my family, with no ache inside my heart.
The strong woman you see before you, could have been cast in other parts.
Perhaps bravery would be in movies, or written on a page, it would never have been an adjective to describe my early days.
The darkness wouldn’t know the name to call out in my sleep. The monsters clawing at my back would always be at peace.
izzy806
romaincrisis
gummygunk
pixelskylines
theartofmadeline
ellievsbear
turnnoffyourmind
