Flashbacks
My brain is addicted to pictograph memories.
Ten years ago, I left the world I knew to begin a journey that continues today. On the surface, I'm just another 30ish woman with a career and an all-too-common single mom lifestyle. It's what lies beneath that has wrecked me. I am drawn to the void, the voices of what could have been pulling me ever deeper. I wake up in a sweat several times each night, fearful of what was and what will be. The images are still so real, even five years later. I've been told to let go of the guilt, but what am I without it? Who will remember them? Gunshots ring out and I cry quietly, alone in the dark. They say these pills and a recovery group will help. I numbly swallow the bitterness, taking only what I can carry as I dress again for a new day.
You meant no harm, it was a simple hello after all the silence. It's been eight long years, yet I can still feel your warm hand on mine, see that irresistible smile unfolding across your face.
Salvation is a fairytale.
I desperately want to believe that you came back for me, to save me, but my scars warn me to tread gently, that society has crafted a beautiful lie. I left you in that world I left behind, for all I know you have lived a perfectly quaint and happy life. When I looked upon your handsome, trusting face, I was -- am -- overwhelmed with the weight I carried, and still cannot imagine sharing it with you. I will always love you, but are you capable -- am I even deserving -- of the same? There are enough people in this planet of 7B, others who hold less pain behind their eyes, others who speak confidently as if life has never soiled their plan A, others who sleep eight hours each night and awake to feel no regret. Others who don't hold the hand of their toughest, loveliest nightmare-cum-daydream as she skips across the street. I am only me, and I'm not getting better.
Ten years ago, I left the world I knew to begin a journey that continues today. On the surface, I'm just another 30ish woman with a career and an all-too-common single mom lifestyle. It's what lies beneath that has wrecked me. I am drawn to the void, the voices of what could have been pulling me ever deeper. I wake up in a sweat several times each night, fearful of what was and what will be. The images are still so real, even five years later. I've been told to let go of the guilt, but what am I without it? Who will remember them? Gunshots ring out and I cry quietly, alone in the dark. They say these pills and a recovery group will help. I numbly swallow the bitterness, taking only what I can carry as I dress again for a new day.
You meant no harm, it was a simple hello after all the silence. It's been eight long years, yet I can still feel your warm hand on mine, see that irresistible smile unfolding across your face.
Salvation is a fairytale.
I desperately want to believe that you came back for me, to save me, but my scars warn me to tread gently, that society has crafted a beautiful lie. I left you in that world I left behind, for all I know you have lived a perfectly quaint and happy life. When I looked upon your handsome, trusting face, I was -- am -- overwhelmed with the weight I carried, and still cannot imagine sharing it with you. I will always love you, but are you capable -- am I even deserving -- of the same? There are enough people in this planet of 7B, others who hold less pain behind their eyes, others who speak confidently as if life has never soiled their plan A, others who sleep eight hours each night and awake to feel no regret. Others who don't hold the hand of their toughest, loveliest nightmare-cum-daydream as she skips across the street. I am only me, and I'm not getting better.
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