The flow of the sacred?
what a child did not know
I can feel my childhood just below my skin; chilling despairs of boogie men and ghosts; tales of death and cold buried beneath my coat. I never felt happy. I never felt whole.
I cried a lot; alone in my room, in the tree, in the bush. In bathrooms and closets, running, riding, empty weekend playgrounds.
Anywhere I could be alone is where I wanted to be. It was safer there; to hide in a leafy tall tree.
I cried in utter sadness. I wanted someone to care. and yet, I pushed away. Fear kept me back.
I remember sitting on the floor; old golden yellow carpet. looking around the room. empty; blank.
I sighed within my stuffed animals; unicorns and fairy tales. I wanted out; somewhere else. But death was a horrible thought. Nowhere else but death and yet I could not imagine dying. It was terrifying.
I thought every night I would die. Grim Reaper ghost of death angels at the bottom of my bed. My sister’s angry ghost, haunting me in my dreams and dark night terrors.
It was a horrible feeling to feel utterly alone.
It does not matter if you have a blanket, and dry roof. It does not matter; at all. Without true love everything is cold.
Everything you touch never touches back.
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