forever the tears

Through the filter of tears, she stared at the blank screen. There were no words for pain ripping her, blood from dagger edges of her emptiness. Once she used powerful, poetic words.

Expressed lyrically how difficult life is always on the outside, no community parting to let her hold hands in their circle, lost in fog when the lighthouse destroyed by the storm. Coat of failure, scarf of loneliness. Worthless, un-loveable tattooed on her arms. Stories within stories. Metaphors. Allegories. Sentences longer than a word or two.

Lost how to eloquently express; lost use of langue, words. Always, the tears remain.

In red leather chair, ubiquitous office, most vulnerable. Crying in public is okay.

Asking desperately if she is too broken to be fixed.

Talking without breathing. So long since she looked across at someone who listened.

Questions. Trying to voice answers. Realizations.

If misery is her comfort zone, fear of future is fear of change, can she leave behind the chains, manacles, leg hold traps of self-sabotage, and demons?

Picks at trauma’s scars and scabs until her fingers bloody.  Trauma doesn’t have one definition. Nor does self-mutilation.

Not knowing or understanding the embrace of friendship, her puzzlement breaks potential/growing bonds.

If she can’t find a place to fit in – one of her strongest wishes – maybe that space will find her.

That her greatest wish is to be/feel loved. Special. Desired. Wanted.

Unique(ness) can be more that ridicule and rejection.

Negative self-image rejects/doesn’t sense/accept anything outside the self-imposed view.

So ingrained, inculcated, beaten in, reinforced personae by early age, life unfolds on those concepts.

What she thinks she is not, others may see her as.

Almost a year of being stable. No rage. No obsessing. Learning to take friendship’s hand. Maybe becoming part of a community. Maybe mattering. Not crying every day.

Now, the tears wash away instructions on the chalk board, delete the apps, purge possibilities.

No red leather chair to curl up, stretch out, sit straight back, slouch at the edge.

The only reality she conceives is hers. How all the bad years, the sadness, the self-denigration melded to a filter. Glued to her eyes, she can see no other way.

Her reality is the jagged chasm between her and the simple things she needs, she craves. Denied. Not perceived.

Her reality is being forgettable, unimportant, never good enough to/for/receive/earn _________________________. She fills in the blanks with tremoring handwriting.

Her reality is bleak, aching, empty, alone.

She stares at the blank screen. She no longer has the words . . . Only the tears. Forever the tears.

kitchen thunderstorms



Image: Approaching Thunderstorm on the Hudson River Artist: Albert Bierstadt Sources:; Art

Harsh slices of lightening sky; barrage thunder bursts. Spliced lightening. “one one thousand, two one thousand. . . .” Then, body slam of thunder. Center of violence, eight miles away.

Violent storm inside her head matches powerful one outside. Hail ravages window, creating concentric fracture circles in fragile and weakened glass. Her dreams shatter under weight of sorrows.

She lacks friendship pheromone. She has no scent that lingers; so easily forgotten. So few reach out a hand; so few remember.

Her unique is too jarring; her needs too immense. Breath on her cheek, head on her shoulder; she dances away quickly, they dance away far.

Rain rips at leaves, wind shatters branches. Crescendos of raw forces slashes night.

Bright rips in night-fabric, flash image of forlorn silhouette.

She steadies herself, slipping, shifting down cupboard doors.

Kitchen. Should be  place of laughter, of warmth, of together, of music, of parties.

Shell of utility, never complete. No beeping microwave. No one cup coffee wonder.

Slip of ironic smile.

Watching thunderstorm out of her kitchen window is yet another metaphor for her life.


© phylor, September, 2015