The one who waits with time
People in the world say time heals. Give it time and you will see. See what?
The hopes of wiping away the scars that damage you so far inside. There is no way to scrap yourself clean after moments like that. There is only hope that once was enough. Still there is a repeat of torment.
You never really let go of it until you see yourself die. Waste away into this skin and bone. Hiding behind a tough guy, girl image. Yet the only time you actually feel the release is when you see that person die.
I say it with no disgusting idea but to have them gone, it was truly a blessing. I could finally find a place that was permanently safe. No need for knives under the bed, locks upon locks on the door. I needed nothing.
I received the calm.
No time doesn't heal us. Faith heals us. Weights lifted heals us. Their deaths help heal us. Well at least for me they did. The horrid fear I had of them.
A bit of sweet sorrow that it had to take their deaths as my release. I didn't trust enough in God to have strength to move forward. Oh how sick I must have been to many. They suggested many times I needed padded walls to "correct" my thinking of them. Yet that would have just driven me over the edge.
The best thing I did, while they still breathed was to walk away. Forget I had family. Yes never look back. And I didn't.
I couldn't afford the chance of dissection from them. Their anger.
And people say I get angry. Oh no, sweet people, that is mild compared to this. A drunkard. A beater. A stabber. A controller. No. No.
I have only one regret, I never got to tell one person I forgive them of their torture. Even then I am certain of the remark that would have been made, I was never like that to you.
Yet. Still.
It is over.
Life echoes sweet melodies. Many stories that could mingle with mine and be outstanding, almost unbelievable. Yet they did happen. Fantastical is what all the rest of family say. Oh and the grand imagination that thinkers like me have.
And still, I have yet to explain my story to them. Still are they even ready to deal with my layers? Time heals, right? But what does it heal?
More like it coats things in cobwebs only to be found decades later, deadly.
One day. I will be healed completely and be able to explain all parts of me, to someone. One person that wants to listen.
That one.
Who waits with time. Heart to hear and mind to be silent.
The hopes of wiping away the scars that damage you so far inside. There is no way to scrap yourself clean after moments like that. There is only hope that once was enough. Still there is a repeat of torment.
You never really let go of it until you see yourself die. Waste away into this skin and bone. Hiding behind a tough guy, girl image. Yet the only time you actually feel the release is when you see that person die.
I say it with no disgusting idea but to have them gone, it was truly a blessing. I could finally find a place that was permanently safe. No need for knives under the bed, locks upon locks on the door. I needed nothing.
I received the calm.
No time doesn't heal us. Faith heals us. Weights lifted heals us. Their deaths help heal us. Well at least for me they did. The horrid fear I had of them.
A bit of sweet sorrow that it had to take their deaths as my release. I didn't trust enough in God to have strength to move forward. Oh how sick I must have been to many. They suggested many times I needed padded walls to "correct" my thinking of them. Yet that would have just driven me over the edge.
The best thing I did, while they still breathed was to walk away. Forget I had family. Yes never look back. And I didn't.
I couldn't afford the chance of dissection from them. Their anger.
And people say I get angry. Oh no, sweet people, that is mild compared to this. A drunkard. A beater. A stabber. A controller. No. No.
I have only one regret, I never got to tell one person I forgive them of their torture. Even then I am certain of the remark that would have been made, I was never like that to you.
Yet. Still.
It is over.
Life echoes sweet melodies. Many stories that could mingle with mine and be outstanding, almost unbelievable. Yet they did happen. Fantastical is what all the rest of family say. Oh and the grand imagination that thinkers like me have.
And still, I have yet to explain my story to them. Still are they even ready to deal with my layers? Time heals, right? But what does it heal?
More like it coats things in cobwebs only to be found decades later, deadly.
One day. I will be healed completely and be able to explain all parts of me, to someone. One person that wants to listen.
That one.
Who waits with time. Heart to hear and mind to be silent.
Comments
Post a Comment