"Before it became poetry, it was actual pain. Before it became art, it was blood" - Daniel Saint
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Inside-Out
Scars are supposed to be etched in your skin. They're supposed to be visible, a representation of where you've been and how you survived. I have many scars – more than any teen should have – and none of them leave marks on my skin.
I can still hear the soft whimpers that escaped my mouth when my parents would fight. I can hear the phone smashing against the wall. I can still feel that terror that kept me awake at night.
The sharp sting of my mother's ex-boyfriend's open hand and the dull pain of his fist. The tears well in my eyes and spine-tingling shame greeted me every time it happened. The memories itch at the back of my mind.
I remember the unwanted hands and lips on my skin. The ghost of their laughter haunts me every time I'm left alone.
I can remember the glow I had before these things happened. The innocence that left my mind, my soul, and my body at the tender age of 6.
My scars are internal.
No one suspects these things from someone who's healing and seems so happy.
I didn't have the advantage of keeping those memories as pictures on my skin. I envy those who did.
It's an evil thing to envy. That my pain is painted on my skin in a deep red... it'd be so much easier to explain.
I hate myself for envying the scars that others have been so graciously given.
I feel gross thinking about it, but at the same time, I don't regret it.
My scars are internal and I have to relive the pain every time someone decides they want to know me.
My scars are internal.
They'll only ever be internal.
No one sees what's on the inside unless I open up.
I hate that my pain will only ever be taken at face value.
I want to be turned inside-out.
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Cherry Red Flags And Plum Coloured Bruises
A mother is supposed to love her children, right? Isn't she supposed to protect them?
My mother had this boyfriend. His name was Robert. First Red Flag.
He was good at first. He'd give my mum flowers and take her on dates. She was really happy for a while, I remember that much.
It didn't take long for them to move in with each other. My mum was moving at light speed trying to find a replacement for my father.
She has horrible taste in men.
The flowers and dates and temporary bliss was a whirl-wind to disaster. I wish my mother had seen the bright Red Flags that everyone was pointing out to her.
She's never been good at listening to people.
It took me a long time to realize she was scared too. That doesn't stop the anger that bubbles inside of me when my aunts and uncles talk about how they offered help and she refused.
YOU ARE READING
The Overshared And Underappreciated Mind Of A Hopeless Romantic
PoetryWriting has always been a secret indulgence. It's something I keep to myself most days and it will continue to be something I share with very few people. Bound in these flimsy plastic rings is a brief rundown of me. The good, the bad, and the ugly...
