She wanted to bare her essence, her soul
Embracing her truth before setting it free into the world
Cauterizing the cuts those words caused by her clutching them so desperately tight
Releasing them would allow so much healing to enter
Except she just couldn’t do it. She screamed as she hugged them tighter
The idea of giving up her truth and being naked, of needing to find a new truth
She would be an open window, an empty container, a person without value, a woman without …
Heatwave sent summer shimmers flowing down the black pavement
Yet those crashing waves offered no respite from the oppression
Determined to find relief, she struggled with the large retaining nut
Realizing it was too tight, she called out for help
And yet no one came to the rescue because a firetruck came around the corner
Now she was scared that she was going to be in big trouble for even considering such a thing
That was assuaged when they pulled out an even bigger wrench and viola the water flowed
Getting through the tight squeeze called life was always a challenge
As her whole existence had been between a rock and a hard place
Perhaps that’s why she was able to surprise them when she cracked her world and began to fly
Twisted thoughts tumbled from his lips
Outwardly he kept his face smooth and composed
Really on the inside, he was spinning in tight circles
Quitting the torrent of lies, he took a deep breath
Unsure his verbal torrent had convinced her of anything
Eventually, he decided to throw in the truth to see what that would do
Definitely hadn’t expected the truth to have such an impact
Image: slism.com/wpsystem/wp-content/uploads/how-to-keep-a-conversation-going-with-a-guy.jpg
** the following story might be disturbing for those sensitive to domestic abuse**
The scars didn’t show. He made sure of that, yet they were a work of art. It was hard to cut with such precision, but he was a master of his craft. He was proud of his handiwork, even if he was the only one to view it.
She bore the scars and wondered why he did this to her. She also wondered why she put up with it, but she couldn’t make herself leave. Every time she thought about it, his voice would pop into her head. It was just words after all, and he was right. Those words didn’t really cut her and make her bleed, yet she hemorrhaged out her hope long ago, and she didn’t have much self-esteem left in her deflated, marred ego. Every night she prayed for everything to end, but her prayers were never answered.
He watched her cry herself to sleep. Sometimes he would feel guilty about what he did. Other artists maimed themselves for their art. He knew he lost pieces of his soul for his creation, but it was a sacrifice that must be done. He was so grateful for his canvas.
He slipped beside her and held her tight.
Abdi Mohammed
The Art of Prose and Poetry
self-publishing
Sarah Torribio and her right brain. Music. Musings. Writing. Style.
We Survived and Arrived - Now as Warriors We Thrive
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Random Stuff I Think You'll Like
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Never Short On Words 