How had I gone so many months layered into years
without writing poetry at all?
Had my innermost perished that ripely?
.... I remember...
I remember now,
I had turned my focus to Citizen Journalism...
My attention into the Outer World.
But...
I do remember...
By the time he had gotten to me...
The esoteric had hushed-
What was birthing in me for so long...
Snuffed out.
No,
No person could hardly call what was left,
a "flame"...
For not even an ember burned
For Hope.
Which
Was the only thing I lived in-
Not Love, brutal and derogatory.
Not myself, for God choked on my existence
when he spewed me out.
No...
It was Hope.
Hope for Love, better than had been granted or found
Hope for Peace, terminally ill with the rot of my mother's insanity decades ago infecting me
Hope, for Healing...
A stab at as close to wholeness as I could reach ...
Hope.
But by the time he got to me...
I was raw. Unsure. Scared. Dulled and dimmed so low...
and it looked alluring.
and it felt good.
And he was inviting...
(And we did, always, love each other...)
and he said he wouldn't hurt me...
But
He did.
Now...
Now is another thing.
I am NOT her.
I am not weak; he reminded me, forcing my defenses tall.
I do not roll over.
I have not perished.
In fact...
I have fought for every second of my breath held.
and I held on well,
In a no man's wasteland
A Home I call Hell.
I held on well.
She....
She DID expire, I think.
It is quite possible the ember never made it through the white blizzard
a place between both gates
No....
But I did.
I survived the chaos,
The drowning,
The depravation,
The Migraines,
The Depression,
My body turning on me
The Abuse
The Betrayal
The Molestation
The Assault
The Neglect
The Parental Abandonment
The Addictions
....that was me.
I survived that, so she didn't have to anymore.
So she could go home.
So I....
Could take her place.
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