If He stood in front of me.
If he was standing right here, in front of me, I don’t believe that I would have any questions for Him to answer.
Not about “Death”, not about the truth, not about the future, not about the “Why’s?”
If he was to be right in front of me, at this very second, I think I would stare.
The truths that I’ve buried and the lies that I’ve spoken,
The words that were deliberately whispered to harm…
they would consume me.
Like the words that I’ve prayed for strength when I knew I was causing the pain.
Like the words that I’ve prayed for peace when I knew I was someone’s chaos.
If God was in front of me right now, would I wallow in embarrassment? Would I feel anything?
Would he know that every word I’ve ever said was unmistakably spoken? And that “regret” is not something I am capable of feeling?
Would he scold me at that very instance for lying about love?
About His Love.
About the love that I tell my students that he unconditionally has, yet I feel like I can’t be fully loved by Him?
Or would he make me fall to the ground and physically make me carry all burdens I said I was carrying alone?
Conscious
Its dreams
happen...
behind the closed
(windows, doors)
and nightmare'd
from off shelves
(emptied stores)
the sense of lack
the utter full
(quest for mores)
the tick of guilt
the tock of dead
(ceiling, floors)
the haunt of lids
that flutter on
(jars, folklore)
in once read tomes
untouched volumes
(paper, cores)
Its dream
happen...
behind the closed
and nightmare'd
from off shelves
the sense of lack
the utter full
the tick of guilt
the tock of dead
the haunt of lids
that flutter on
in once read tomes
untouched volumes
Its dreams
happen...
behind the closed
(windows, doors)
(quest for mores)
(emptied stores)
(ceilings, floors)
(jars, folklores)
(papers, cores)
Its dreams
happen...
behind the closed.
01.15.2024
Behind closed doors... Poetry or Prose challenge @dctezcan
Belated
The sound of cotton on skin is a low, slow rasp. It reminds me of opening a belated Christmas gift; free from the frenzy and rush of being surrounded by presents and pomp, this is to be savored. Hers is a gift unexpected. The touch of our skin as she is slowly unwrapped is a longing ache finally satisfied.
It's often said that the thought is what counts, but we are not thinking at all. Our direction is determined by feeling and by feel, driven by passions barely contained.
Except.
My mind is racing to record every detail. Some moments in life, I've thought to myself, remember this, and here is one of those precious times.
And so, I unwrap this gift slowly. Not in the way our grandmothers would try to preserve paper, but in a way that speaks to how desperately I want to rip and tear. Oh, I want to shred those threads, I want to claw my way to the prize beneath, but I won't. Restraint builds anticipation, and I know we're both beyond ready for what's next. Every sound she makes, every breath, every whimper and low moan is registered, recorded. The word savor isn't adequate, it's not quite enough, but it's the closest thing I can think of to describe this.
The sound of cotton on skin is a low, slow rasp, and the creak of bedsprings is never heard under the sounds we make with each other.
Our gifts, once opened, are given throughout the night
The Tree
Behind closed doors an oak tree extends its branches next to the window that I lay
In the silence it scratches at my window
Embracing life’s sadness, abundance and pain
But as I’m listening to the vibrato in the dropping of the rain
I feel a release in my strain
As I have found a love that distracts me from the mountain of pain that accumulate again and again
I look out with aching limbs, but no worse than a tree during a storm
Holding on to make it through the worst of the day
And behind close doors I lay in wait, ready for my lover to come home to help shelter me from sadness and pain
My love is equivalent to what the sunshine is to a tree after a day of rain
Speak
My therapist said, "Children are islands." She said that when something is going on at home, something the child cannot articulate but knows inherently is toxic, the child can pretend at school that they are just fine. She said, "You might not know that other children are going through the same thing because the children learn that there are certain things about which they cannot speak."
There's images on the internet, memes, that break down trauma into bite sized pieces, as if therapy can be consumed in a single second and then scrolled past. One image says: "You can't erase trauma, but you can reduce it." It shows a brain with a big scribble in the center, and the next image is of a brain with a smaller scribble in the center.
It doesn't get much more simple than that, I suppose.
Behind closed doors, there are things about which many people cannot speak. They become, as adults, islands unto themselves. They learn they are alone in their struggle. It might be obvious to other people that "they are not alone." But just as a simple meme cannot cure trauma, neither can an outsider who has not, themselves, been an island.
For it is secret, and complex, and lonely, to be at the center of a brain with scribbles instead of coherent structure.
It can be hard to speak.
Long Night
behind closed doors is where you hide.
where your body creaks and cracks
shifts into its monstrous form
the winter chill flutters through an open window
the night air cool against peeling skin
you don't have to see the moon to feel its hypnotizing pull
you've done this hundreds of times
but it never gets easier
the pain never dulls
the hunger never stops
teeth grow sharp, gnawing on imagined prey
claws dig into splintered wood, barring similar marks from past nights
fur sprouts from split skin, a warm blanket you use to hide
heavy breaths turn ragged
your body fights against your mind
threatening to take away the last thing that makes you human
you curl up beneath your bed
waging war on yourself
fighting down the longing taste
of fresh blood down your throat
it's just one night
one of thousands more
you grit your teeth
knowing this will pass
wishing you had something to distract you from the pain
the temptation
wishing you didn't have to hide yourself
behind closed doors
Behind Closed Doors
In those frequent daily moments where I scurry away quietly
and hide,
I find those sudden "bathroom breaks"
have become necessary habits
(a must for my survival,
an essential part of my healing).
Excuses are vital to gain my private time.
Though, behind closed doors,
not one ear other than my own will ever have to
bear the heaviness of the grief,
and of the mistake,
that has come of my life.
I do not admire swimming in the swamps of self-pity,
however,
I cry for myself once in a while
because I am the only one who truly understands
or cares
just exactly what I've been through.
So, if you find me behind closed doors,
please,
allow me those few minutes to weep.
Do not make me feel ashamed in this tender moment
with my shattered heart,
as I am the only one who feels the pressure of the pain as it
pulses groggily,
and thickly,
through every fiber of my being.
And behind closed doors,
I grip tight my favorite hand towel,
wickedly wanting to rip each thread out,
but only screaming into the bunch of it instead.
I clear my throat. Blot my eyes. Wipe away the smudged mascara.
And head right back out to my audience
as if I hadn't just relived a little rerun from my own personal hell and
completely lost touch with my emotions for a minute there.
The private battles that can sometimes stop us dead in our tracks,
are the ones we keep hidden
behind closed doors.
Short Engagement
Beater in the driveway
One yellow headlight out
Fogging up the windshield
Both real good kids for sure
Not even touching only
Holding her hand gentle
Birdlike not wasting hours
Intentional planning
Porch light tells them it’s nine
He tells her sometime in June
Ain’t never seen her body
Only kissed her soft jaw
Working six days a week
Putting back a little
Each of them what they can
Since they’re sure what they want
Can’t wait much longer now
Every second heavy
One long hug in the yard
Heart beats keys jingle
She feeds the cats watches
The window reflection
One headlight backing up
Soon folks can’t say nothing
The Whispers
Dr. Smith tried to keep a smile on her face, her pen hovering above the notepad. "And you say these urges are what brought you here?"
Across the desk, Ethan shrugged, "I can't help it. They're like whispers in my head."
Smith’s pen resumed, but this time a little more nervously. She asked, "you've acted on these urges?"
Ethan's smile slowly returned with a chill. "Oh yes, many times."
The next thing Dr. Smith knew, a cold hand had clamped around her wrist. Ethan's eyes, once vacant, now gleamed with a predatory light. "The whispers are telling me you’re next.”
The pen fell to the floor as Smith attempted to scream. Ethan had wrapped his hand around her windpipe, silencing her.
"Hush, I’m hearing the whispers.”
Her lifeless body fell to the floor. Ethan straightened, his smile widening. The whispers had grown louder.
Is it Right?
Is it right? I ask myself when I want to spend the night
Is It right? I ask myself this when I turn on the bedroom light
Is It right? That I think of someone else behind closed doors
Is it right? That I want them both next to me, and more-
Is it right? That I am selfish, and I want both of them
Is it right? That I keep this to myself, because I don’t want my marriage to end
Is it right? Can someone tell me?
for now I write this down-
sometimes it doesn’t feel right
Now In my own feelings I drown-
Is
It
right?
No!
so now….
I…..
scream