Poems written with mittens.
TW: CSA
I rest my head on my knees
I remember those nights, I remember his face and his hands.
I remember those words, the threats and the excruciating moments I pretended never happened.
The vivid images at that point were not only a place and time but a dead tree in the garden.
Something I couldn't look at, something that lingered, something that tainted the sun of every flower.
Tonight I vividly recall the nights in between.
Sitting on the edge of my bed, my knee propped up on the bed frame and my head rested on my knees.
It was agonizing, the waiting.
It's not the memories of him tonight, it's the moments of wondering what comes next.
Wondering if I'll hear his steps come up the stairs.
Wondering when it will end.
Wondering what I could do to stop this.
I rest my head on my knees tonight,
It is over, I am free, but my heart will always ache a little.
Aching is healing
At times I wonder if this aching is a sign that I am sick again,
I wonder if the nausea is a sign this isn't over.
But bruises don't heal without fading from blue.
YOU ARE READING
Letters from sixteen
PoésieA poetry book I wrote during periods of my life with many different facets. I wrote about happy moments, addiction, and trauma, the book becomes more depressing as it goes on. I choose the title "letters from sixteen" to capture how I wanted to capt...
