#OctPoWriMo Day 12-Tortured

Non-Disclosure

By Jesi Scott

 

You don’t like what I say?

Silence my words with your

                                Wicked twists.

Knife-stabbed heart through the back,

I turned and you were gone.

                                Blood-dipped fingertips

                                Leaving vermillion-dripped

                                Evidence along the floor.

 

Cut me down to your level,

Force-fed diamond lies you

                                Shove in my throat.

Ignore the damage you leave in your wake;

Hurricane hiding in an empty face.

                                Victim-played the lines greyed,

                                Oath-bound promises filleted

                                And arrayed on a silver platter.

 

Leave me bare now

                                Huddled on the cold, hard floor.

Black-bruised heart left scarred,

You turn your back and go.

                                Unrestrained lies contained

                                Leaving your blood-stained

                                Reputation maintained.

 

*Day 12 of the challenge brings us to feeling tortured. When things don’t go well in a relationship we tend to torture ourselves with thoughts of what we could have done differently. We go over and over the things we said, the actions we took, and we question if we did the right thing. For some the torture happens before things end. We walk on eggshells trying to make decisions that won’t make things worse. Putting out fires before they turn into an inferno becomes the order of the day; being constantly on guard is simply the new normal. In my poem I write about the emotional torment in a dysfunctional relationship.

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Tempest

despair

Big grey clouds are covering my skies lately. Every so often there’s a

break where the sun shines through but then,

too quickly,

the clouds eat it up again. I’m flailing here.

I don’t know what to do,

so all I can do is simply sit

and wait until the storm begins and, then,

ride it out.
It’s tiring, this waiting.

I try to build up a sand-bag partition because

I know it will flood

but the bags are so heavy and I tire from the work.

Besides, it’s just sand in the bags. One rip and it all washes away

and the water will still continue to trickle through. Or else,

the sand will absorb only so much of the water and then that’s it.

It can take no more.

Maybe I’m the bag of sand.
Sometimes I’m the water,

threatening to rage across the land,

devour everything in my path. I could, you know; it wouldn’t be hard.

Drown everyone and everything so that nothing’s left

but me and my misery.

Then slowly I’d recede back to the nothing I came from and

we’d begin again.

Start fresh;

let the green things take over.
Maybe I should let the flood overtake me.

Let it fill my lungs and drive the air from my body.

That’s what it wants to do.

Drowning couldn’t hurt more than this

power struggle between us every day.

Blood sacrifices were sacred, once upon a time, and,

God knows,

I’ve bled gallons that dripped into

this salt-water Niagra my tears created.
But I can’t do that.

Instinct forces me up to fight

(I’ve never been much good at flight),

so here I am

building up the wall again

as I wait for the storm to burst.

 

*therapy writing today using poetic medicine. It does your emotional health good.