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The Light Under my DoorMaybe I’m ready.
It could be time.
Should I dare to test the waters?
I’ve been in recovery for over a year now.
I haven’t seen an IV in my arm since last January.
I haven’t been to therapy since November.
I haven’t touched a blade since who knows when.
I don’t know if I’m ready to set foot into the world again yet.
The world outside of my head.
I can see the light under the door, hear the footsteps as they pass by.
I can hear them whisper.
“Is he okay?”
“What’s wrong with him?”
Very rarely someone knocks on my door to check on me.
I’m fine, just sitting alone in the darkness.
I’m comfortable here.
I don’t invite anyone in, not because I don’t like them,
But because I’m scared.
The last person I let in made a mess of things.
And the one before her.
And the one before.
What’s the point?
Even if the door was wide open, who would enter?
Who dares to enter my dimly lit world?
LoopThis vicious cycle needs to end.
Every week, you say you’re done, things will change.
Days later, every time, I see you with him again.
Pinned against the locker, not by his arms, but by the pain in your soul.
You are Stockholm’s Syndrome.
You are defeated, and broken.
Years of abuse has created a self-sustaining monster in your head.
Feeding off of itself, eating away at your will to pick yourself up.
You are a broken woman.
Your spirit has surrendered to him.
You’re pinned by your wrists, and you won’t allow yourself to tap out.
Why do you say things will change?
Why do you promise me when you know you’re lying?
Why do you leave yourself exposed,
So the world can see your broken heart beating in your open chest?
Why do you continue to eat the fruit that tasted so foul?
What pleasure do you take from the pain he brings?
Why do you let your life run in a continuous, endless loop, allowing the sadness to hit you harder and harder each time it comes around?
Silent Rage.My chest feels like someone's sitting on it, cracking my ribcage.
I'll keep my mouth shut.
The volatile words I can spew aren't worth releasing.
There's no excuse to let these foul sentences off the chain,
sprinting towards their victim like rabid Rottweilers.
I can't tell if the acid corroding my throat is from my stomach,
or from the words that should be spoken.
Not just spoken, but heard.
Taken to heart.
I don't know if I'm shaking, or if the world around me is.
She puts her hand on mine, and I realize I'm frozen.
The ice encasing my fingers anchor them to the table, keeping them off her throat.
I can't hear the words.
I only feel vibrations, sound waves, bouncing off of my eardrums,
and falling weakly to the ground like wet autumn leaves.
The voices in my head are screaming, "KILL HER".
I know they're not real, but they've bound my conscience to a chair in the broom closet.
Don't do it.
It's not worth it.
The bell rings,
And I've been silent for an hou
Nine TimesI saw him nine times.
The first time we were both sitting in the room together, getting ready to take the math test that would determine our placement. I was scatterbrained and throwing things around, trying to find the pencils that I had known I would need but had still just tossed in my purse. He was lounging backwards in his chair, looking for all the world as though he didn’t have a single care in the world, including the upcoming test. It annoyed me, that I was frantic and ready to scream, while someone else could be that relaxed.
I tested out of the class.
I don’t know if he did.
The second time I saw him, it was a few months after I arrived on campus. He was the one rushing and frantic this time, running across the square. He was probably late for class, though I had no way of knowing for sure. I was already lost in my own thoughts and ideas, deciding on my major and convincing people that yes, this is what I really want to do with my life. If they weren
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