Our relationship is not monogamous, despite its physical appearance. Outwardly, yes, you will only see us post pictures of the two of us together, our romantic availability statuses say each other's names with the word "taken".
But underneath, you don't see that there is him, and there is I
And there is the somber man with a flat rimmed hat who curls up with us in bed at night, his tears soak our pillows. He wears a long-sleeved black trench coat and walks as if he wore leaden shoes. Sometimes, he makes even getting up for a glass of water in the morning a difficult task, insists numb and empty in this bed is where we belong. We call him Depression.
There is the manic pixie girl full of vibrant colors bopping through the car while our music plays loudly over the speakers, raving with bright eyes and glow-in-the-dark necklaces. Her petite wings glimmer in the constant sunshine that surrounds her. Imagine the speed of a hummingbird, but faster. Mania is so sweet.
There is the long-legged woman in the red dress, red lipstick and the ugliest face you've ever seen, spittle sprays out of her mouth as she rages, volcanic ash spills all over the TV. She is loud, brutal, cruel, vindictive. No holds barred as she throws around her bloodied knuckles. Her roars echo through this Valley at night. Anger, she demands to be called.
Or the battered, beaten man who carries a ghost around with him, as if it were as much an accessory as a handbag is. He yells loudly, always shaking us awake at night, grabs our throats during the day, pushes hard on our chests. Chains around his wrists give a jolting rattle and it makes me flinch. His uniform is dirty, torn and his eyes are black from lack of sleep. Remember, he insists, says over and over like a deranged mantra. PTSD holds us prisoner.
Not to be forgotten, is Addiction. The stick-like gaunt man in the corner with 10 foot long arms, always keeping us *just* within his calloused reach. Sometimes he whispers sweetly in the back of the room, and other times he charges toward us - a bull on parade- demanding we pay him more attention. He wears his yellowed, cracked smirk like a badge of honor, a black hole of an embrace to fall into. Down, down the rabbit hole...
Physically, tangibly, you only see him and I, but it is our demons that warm the house at night.
YOU ARE READING
I Was Once a Sunflower
PoesíaThis poem collection will be about who I used to be, searching for myself, and living when I didnt want to. They are sad, this description serves as my trigger warning.
