again, I repeat, my life I shall share for the sake of the human with the crying heart, wishing once upon a time someone understood… the agony life subjects upon us. Not for pity, not a cry for help.
This morning I woke up from my short sleep to a groggy mind, and a heavy heart.
‘Let’s take a trip,” my mind whispered.
I looked at it with tears in my eye, “please, mercy, we don’t have to do this.”
It took me by the hand, “this way,” I followed trembling, taking one step at times, and two with the same foot other times.
I wished to fall, stumble, and perhaps break a leg,
“Oh dear lord, please, I wish pause, I wish stay, I wish out,” I cried
but life demands to be lived and, I guess,
memories demand to be revived…
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
Once upon a time I was one with ample self-respect. I was one with a heart so cold, it hadn’t learnt how to beat. I was once one who had seen blood splatter and heard the boom! of a gun.
Once upon a time I was one behind a closed door of which I heard sounds my innocent ears should have never had to hear, alongside the slap! of a hand on my pale skin.
Once upon a time I had talked behind a computer screen about my agony and pain, but when friendships started forming, was left hanging with the tight rope around my palm, and a ship taken off away from me.
Once upon a time I was one a few days older than 11, when the cold metal of a phone looked back at me with a suicide note from one I once talked to.
Once upon a time I was one who was so hurt, decided to fall back upon starvation and the slice! rather than see blood smiling wider to another than she.
This morning, my memories replayed before my eyes, my stomach decided to tie the knot and throat to choke it out. I remembered the times of which I left friends, and my heart felt the I miss you’s I wish I had cried.
But dear, that is the thing about memories, at times, they are rather selective.
I remembered the harm I caused minus the harm I were caused.
I remembered the choices I took minus the reasoning behind them.
I remembered the whirlpool minus its descending upon my very heart.
I remembered the wounds projection minus the very knifes’ users upon me.
Oh, dear mind, a sadist, are you, upon your very inhabitant?
Oh, dear body, where more do you hold spikes that I feel upon a memory?
Oh, dear soul, what more hurt can you handle? Do you not realize the fire you obtain, sure, can be seen from afar, but is, too, burning you down?
Apology upon apology, I gave them like flowers, yet not one, but a bouquet for each. Yet, I forgot to ask for the truckful my heart craved, masked upon the word of forgiveness. But perhaps, alongside forgiveness for the world, I forgot I am a part of which too.
Perhaps self-forgiveness is tough as it demands the wounds to be seen, and what is seen is felt. Perhaps the emotions that spur, indeed spur rivers of salt water that never seems to overflow as overflown as it has already overflowed.
Self-forgiveness demands self-respect upon which abuse would be unjustifiable, unlivable with; how would me live alongside what is unlivable with unless that reason for making so untolerable is cut off?
Perhaps the wounds I should hold with feeling them not, are ought to project abuse upon each interaction; as I now give bouquets to those who abuse, I give thorns to those who love.
How is me supposed to accept what is deemed a sin to those in prison, yet how is prison me’s habitance if a crime was never committed?
Perhaps it is the crime of that who put the jail around I that I have started paying for from the pockets of the child I once were, which explains the child I am locked in as, as my feet become of greater lengths and arms are of long fingers. As the brown of my eyes lightens and the sun decides that truly light brown is the color of the pupils and blush are the cheeks.
What I have to remember, are the days of which tears to the wonders of sleep was what my night was fated to hold; errands carried out with the blood trails from the heart of the wounded was what my days were fated to hold.
Perhaps I am not so only in the wrong after all, me is not bad, human of patience and heart and thought is what I is, after all.
Don’t let the memories play upon the right only, or the left only neglecting the many dimensions life demands to be held in. You are not a plane, not a single dimension, you are of wonders that math can never behold.
Dear you, you deserve to be healed, realize you are the healer of you.
-Aimz
