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Lately, I haven't felt the need of it,
the necessity of it, a metaphorical laying on of leeches to suck the marrow of daily poisons from my system. The waters have been calm. But tonight the tides have arisen unexpectedly, the floods have attempted to drown me, proverbially, in my own stew. The words, filled with their old ideas have returned. And a blood-letting of suffering through language is all that is plausible, all that I can do. Weary and talking with an old friend, when the past sauntered back to greet me, in jack boots and brown shirt, its breath reeking with over-familiarity, I found my old fears, still palpable. The place where my ribs converge began to ache. And my throat burned as I shoved the fist of memory down my throat and recalled: How some would not let me be me. How some would not let me eat. How their conditional love invaded me so deeply, that as a child I learned not to be angry, weep nor sleep. How I learned to avoid the randomness of their disdain. And the twin-too-familiar fates of disapproval and physical pain. Often, how I felt they yearned for my removal. I grew good a hiding behind the borders of their arbitrary perusals. Did I make them uncomfortable, because I wore a certain vulnerability. I didn't confuse honesty. Had too much curiosity. Plus, the audacity to think: I was more than a lesser-than opinion. Years later I still think on how I survived but sometimes feel the tweak of fear. I left the grey geography. Did I find the cure? Copyright Easter Morning 3am-ish March 30, 2013 All Rights Reserved By Author Written Directly to the Page. Melissa A Howells Meloo straight from her Tilt-a-World Vote for this poem |
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