Hey, listen. Why?
I ask that to me. To her. What happened? If I went back to me, to warn her, would she listen? No. No.
Before the flesh tearing, bone cracking; before the terrorising screams… that echoed only inside my mind. Would she listen?
I sit here. A furry prayer mat. Salt water washing over whatever is left. Washing over nothing. Emptiness. Salt water inside a rather frail shell. Shell of a body.
If I could go back in time, would she hear me out? But if I managed to reach her, somehow, do I have the strength to form sentences. Sentences only felt. Only screeched inside my mind. Nowhere else.
Before all the ripping apart, before the nail marks on my own sanctuary, before the lump in throat turned into a barbed wire that replaced my vocal cord. But there’s only the aftermath.
Silence. Deafening. Burst eardrums from the screeching. Still heard in my nightmares. But it’s voiceless. Void of most emotion or filled with too much emotion at the same time.
The consequence. Red hanging on the pole. My flesh, I cannot weep for you anymore. I tore you out myself. The pole. My bones. I don’t pretend to mend you anymore. I pulled you out myself.
If could go- no. I sit here. Broken. But whole. Remnants of my essence starting a rebellion of their own. My flesh and bones, a mark of victory. Ripped, torn, cracked, bent but whole.
I stand in the dust stained red with my blood. Lost but not defeated. My flesh and bones a flag declaring victory. I stand in the aftermath of my unsung tale of self preservation. No regrets, no guilt. Just healing skin and bones.
-Rose @r.ayman.poetry