The hands that built these homes where memory laid its head to rest, to catch its breath. And it watched on as lives were spun from the thread of its blanket, the thread now turned to tears as we mourn.
Acres traced with fingertips, where fingerprints left permanent ink on our hearts. Where flowers bloomed and died, like the dreams born and extinguished on the grounds where fires stood. Hearths that kept us warm, molded our bodies to the soil so we became part of the earth. Part of where the memory began. Now torn in jerking motion, frayed ends of a pattern we could trace, blindfolded but one that must unravel.
We pick up the shards of our lives. Those woven yarns of the memory that remain, to be sewn into the fabric of our hearts. A beating patchwork quilt and the hearth of it all. The heart of it all.
The memory remains, in the stones overturned by callous hands who hurl the dirt aside like ashes, the embers still scold our flesh as another piece is cast aside. We surrender to the agony and grief as monsters dismantle safety and haven, built by nimble hands and love. Thrown to the wolves as scraps, when each brick has been etched with purpose. Each wall holds my suffering behind sunflower yellow. The nights I screamed soundlessly into the darkness and wept for my emptiness. Absorbed, those memories became part of the walls I longed to return to. To be consumed by. Now crushed under the weight of my grief and agony.
I spoke my sorrow into the air, one last time. And it will remain there, tethered to the roots left behind. Tied to the earth, for eons to come.
YOU ARE READING
trigger points.
PoetryA collection of my original poetry/prose from 2006 onwards. Warnings: these poems deal with mental illness, including mentions of self harm, suicide, emotional anguish and abuse. Please do not read if you might be triggered by such content.
