Blackest of black sheep

I come home to silence. Sitting in a breeze of love. The wind pulls me, sending me back into a soft lullaby. I hold down the screams that find scarred roots. The ones that rip me to pieces.

Oh how I breathe.

Waking to see that all that I had noted was just a dream. So surreal was the visuals. The screen roared into the senses of my core. Dividing the child I once was from the woman I have grown into. Demanding me to chose one to erase indefinitely.

I could not choose. The weight upon me had the mind burning with lava. The molting of fire and liquid slowly causing my soul to jerk rapidly. ALERT I became.

So alarming my mind is inflicting such intense pain and yet I am not really involved in the sensory overload. The limbs are flailing but the burn marks are only images. Shocked of the weights that can bind a person.

Only then do I realize that I am still outside enjoying the night air. Time to refocus myself in hopes I didn't alert anyone else through my screams. Oh how I hope that what exited my lips were silenced by the cold air.

The night now brings me back into the crisp midnight sky. The lullaby is washed away. The mind rocking, swaying in the wind is no longer tapped into a memory that destroyed a small child and commanded her to be an adult before her years.

I cannot expect anyone to grasp my nightmares. Nor the memories I have from my childhood. Yet there are my silent days where the constant streaming of flashbacks hit me. The ONLY thing, currently, that erases them is breath in nature.

So many exhales I have to take to bring a calm back within. Degrading and yet so far in the past that I can just have a lingering shadow of that the days that made me a woman before a child.

But in those darkest days, I hope, one day someone truly understands why I hesitate in letting people too close to me. Defective in so many ways and yet a survivor in all the rest. On occasion one is more powerful than the other. I can not even begin to ask someone to want to learn about either times.

So my coldness, my heartless shoving makes it possible that no one can call me crazy or even say I lied about what those days were like. You were not there. You were not me. And you can't begin to say I should have done this, because even I say that to myself now. Berating myself for not being stronger, not being that powerful woman.

But I was just a child.

So here I go. Just standing in the darkened night, exhaling. Getting so cold that everything that increases my blackness fades into the starry night. I can't ask someone if they want to listen nor will I beg for someone to hear me.

You read, you ask  or you just walk away. Nevertheless the child still hopes for someone who wants to love. Though the woman in me says that isn't possible for the blackest of black sheep.

So I go back inside and write some more. Letting my mind settle.