Rotten milk
You feel it happening again, it's a vivid memory that paints an awful picture in your mind.
The physical sensations are more real than life itself.
You wonder how you can be pouring a cup of coffee while this movie is playing in the background.
You don't really know what to do with it, you don't know where you can pull it out of you.
It feels like it's all happening again, that the nightmare never ended.
Part of you is still eight years old and confused and scared.
You look into the other room and see the child you once were with his knees bent and his head tucked into his chest.
You don't know if you should leave him be or sit with him or cry with him, you don't know what to do with yourself, let alone him.
You sit on your bed and peer into the other room. You watch it play out like a theater performance, a true Greek tragedy.
You watch as he learns to play dead, you watch him and you wonder how someone could ever do this to someone so small and so full of life.
You were born a flower, but he thought you looked better on the bottom of his shoes.
You want to stop thinking about it, you want the memories to be tucked away, but that never helped much, did it?
Wanting them to be filed away will not leave them in drawers perfectly and beautifully organized, but this is not a beige folder, you don't know what this is, but you do know that it cannot be filed away.
It hurts right now, it aches, your body will not let you forget.
You can almost see it, through a hazy lens, happening again.
You watch through the daze as your mind reruns the same tape you've tried to throw out, many, many, many times.
You watch as the child in the bedroom comforts himself after being used in a way words cannot explain.
He cries, he rocks himself, he holds his favorite toy close to his chest, he does all of that without making a sound, he is disregarded, nobody hands the mic to spoiled milk that's been left to rot.
Is this what binds you
It's become all consuming, it's all you think about anymore.
Even when the moment is worthwhile you still feel like you're waiting until you can do it again.
And when you can do it you'll do it again, again and again.
Nothing is quite like it used to be, you're not who you used to be.
You can't think clearly anymore, everything's a jumbled, incoherent mess.
You think this time will be the time that fixes you, but it won't be.
YOU ARE READING
Candlelit midnights
PoetryA poetry book written during a darker time in my life, covering topics like addiction and relapse along with happy and romantic moments. Although the original title was different I choose this title to represent how writing was a light in the dark...
