Fear, unease, unrest, beneath the surface. Not visceral, not obvious, hidden, silent, just there, always there.
How do you explain, how do you make it seen? Can you share a screenshot of your memory, have them feel it, smell it, know it, understand it?
It's not a tone, a raised voice, a harsh word. It's a memory. So embedded, so ingrained, a part of you. It's not a conscience thought, not a choice, it's instinct, reality, protection.
It's life, your life. So only you can see it, feel it, know it. Wanting, trusting it will be better, different, overrun by reality, by knowing how bad it can truly be.
Fear
Your fault, you're difficult to live with, what did you do, what did you say, could it really be that bad, are you sure?
Don't share, don't expose it, don't make them uncomfortable, don't let them see you, broken, weak, small.
Not that they'd even believe you. Not that they could or would ever truly understand.
Pieces that don't quite fit, glued together, shattered, fragile.
Invisible.
What are we made of, blood, bone, memories, life experiences, what makes up who we are? Does it all change us, taint us, or damage us beyond repair?
Why do words hurt, live in our souls, forever echoing? Repeatedly cutting us. Are they still scars if they never heal or only open gushing wounds, bleeding all over our life.
Broken.
The bruises gone, healed, as if never truly there. The feelings, the words, the fear, vulnerability. Alive inside you, wiggling, crawling, gnawing.
Pushing, fighting, determined to escape, to rip you apart, expose you, every broken piece for the world to see. But never truly understand.
