Internal

face in hands

I assume

I regret

I read into things

and between the lines

because I know you too well

not to know what you mean

when you say that.

I ruminate

and obsess

and beat myself dizzy

with thoughts of what I need to do

and should have done

and should still do

until my present is useless

and I flee into the fact

or what I think is fact

that I am good for nothing

because that’s how it feels

and though feelings are not truth

the two are too hard to separate

for knowing that to really matter.

I hurt

and I cry

and I hold onto the pain

because that’s been my identity

for the past twenty-one fricking years,

this constant ache at the bottom of my soul

from abuse that cannot be erased

and even now cannot really be acknowledged

because he doesn’t really know how to say

or what to say

even when all he needs to say

are just the words

“I’m sorry.”

I don’t think in lines,

I think in curves

and spirals and arcs

and anything to avoid

having to go straight through.

Linearity is not my friend, my dear.

Because linearity is the shape of an arrow

that will cut right through the middle

of everything I have built up

in an attempt to escape

feeling let down

and disappointed,

even though it means

I can’t really acknowledge

that it’s not my fault.

Shame and forgiveness

are odd twins, my dear,

and often get misassigned

in the midst of it all.

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One Response to Internal

  1. yourothermotherhere says:

    Oh, that is so good!

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