Marcia Edwards sat at her kitchen table, hands clasped neatly underneath her chin, ankles knocking on the wooden legs of her chair. A parade of eggs, bacon, oatmeal with blueberries, a croissant drizzled with honey, and coffee laid untouched right before her face. It was a beautiful morning, that day. The birds on the tree outside her window twittered gently, and the hazy glow of sunlight brushed across the surface of her face. But she couldn't hear the birds. She couldn't see the rays of sun, the platters of food, her crossed legs. That day, she cooked an egg, and when her shaking hands reached for the bacon and the oatmeal and the blueberries and the croissant and the coffee, she was powerless to stop it. Marcia Edwards was robotic, broken mirror eyes glazed over with the haze of not quite remembering something important. Exhausted by the white flash of forgetfulness, she pushed her plates aside and pressed her cheek against the cool wooden surface of the table. She stiffened. The overwhelming scent of a memory brushed against her skin. She shivered once. Twice. Her heartbeats stumbled, rushing into each other, the thumps turning into a downpour of hail and fear and asphyxiating shock, gripping her throat and slamming her into the polished oak. She gasped for air but the only thing that filled her lungs was the memory, the memory gushing into the form of a man's rough fingers wrapping around her mouth and gripping her jaw through the thin skin of her cheeks. She could see her hands held captive against the counter surface by the thick trunks of his fingers, shaking and struggling in desperation, in frustration at the numbness of her alcohol induced mind. Frustration at the fading sensation of his other hand ripping open the buttons of her belt, the frenzied jingle of a belt collapsing to the ground, the paralyzing realization that she was powerless to stop what was coming next, then slowly, quietly, relief at the thought that she wouldn't be conscious to see her body being used and thrown around like a limp doll, torn to shreds, invaded by a stranger and his filthy hands. That night, Marcia Edwards lay in a puddle of her own urine and blood, kissed by yellow moonlight, nothing but the singing crickets and sweet oblivion washing over her. 

Woken up by the incessant cooing of a nearby owl and the sticky feeling of damp jelly seeping into her hair, her eyes fluttered open to the sight of jagged scratch marks scarring the surface of her kitchen table. In numb recognition, she glanced at her raw nails, pink and dotted with beads of red where the skin had torn. Overcome with a crazed desperation, she stripped off her dress and kicked off her heels, eventually standing in front of her bathroom mirror, wearing nothing but a pair of widened eyes. She scrutinized her pale skin and yanked on the shower handle, pushing it all the way to the right. The scalding water pricked her skin and a cloud of humidity rose around her. She rubbed furiously at her body and the intruder that she knew slowly sank into the pores of her being. She scratched and doused until her limbs cried red tears. Soon, she had a new type of intruder and they wet the edges of her eyes. Crying out in agony, she yanked the wet strands of her hair and pushed the temperature handle completely to the left. The change in temperature fell over her in big waves, chilling her body until she truly could not feel a thing. Her arms and hands, did not have a single hand print or mark except for the ones she inflicted on herself. But when her eyes slid over her body, all she could see were his fingernails, scraping her skin and the hands that spread around the front of her body. She fought the urge to vomit when she thought about what his eyes looked like on that day. Were they hazy with the burning forgetfulness of alcohol? Did they have the cool, calculated stare of a murderer? Were they filled with dirty lust, drinking in the sight of her unconscious, naked body? When the water trickled to a stop, she stumbled to the white tiles of the back wall and slid down to the ground. She pressed her knees to her chest, quietly wrapped her fingers around her quivering knees, and rested her frozen chin the backs of her hands. Her periodic gasps from the frosty air echoed around the cloudy walls of the shower. So Marcia Edwards sat on the floor of her shower, shivering and alone until she could not hear the birds singing anymore. 

Being in love is very funny thing

You tend to be very sharp when in love

you remember how she smells,

that smile,

her nose,

Her eye color,

Her eyebrows,

her fingers and toes,

everything about her is recorded in your brain

Love is not blind

We breathe the pain

Torturous rivers

Winding deep

Souls on fire

We never sleep

We suffer the moments

Grasping at straws

That promise hope

While blood burns hot

We cannot cope

We implode in nightmares

Needles sharp

And dull aches roar

Our bodies protest

There's ever more

We struggle onward

Elusive answers

Hidden from sight

Each aching failure

A rotting blight

Hope is a farce

Luxurious fantasies

Ethereal as air

Dance like motes in the sunlight

While our hearts are laid bare

Please take our hands

We can not survive

Alone in our shells

Sweep us away

From our living hells

#chronicpain #poetry