The fly.

Lately I have felt like a fly trapped against a window, flying my hardest toward the sun, trying to get out, not understanding why I can't.

Blood doesn't pour, like water doesn't seep, I am unknown, yet to me.

In the ways the sand slides through the hour glass makes this time pass.
And yet, I have known angry, bitter and wheezened.
I know understanding myself is something I still can't quite fathom.
I have felt and feel alone.
Isolated from my heart, from my world that shone.
Anger doesn't bubble up, I barely have coals in my soul, no warmth of a fire.
I couldn't blame him, for what he was. I couldn't stand there and say it was his fault.
 He is a scared little boy. Holding his red balloon. Clutching his GI Joe in the dark.

Compassion for his trauma, for his pain. For his single-minded broken heart- were all so great that I didn't look past it and see the injustice of it all, I didn't look through it for my pain.


I was so blind.
Lost in the naivety of youth.
A thumb print on my cheek.
A bruis down my forearm. Please don't stand too close to me.
I am not the words he speaks, nor the satisfaction or the world he seeks.
I carry in my body things he'll never know.

Darkness, engulfed in ways I never thought I'd know.
But anger hadn't come.


I didn't know, in my heart. That what he did was wrong.
I didn't know how to feel, so I simply carried on.

But I found in the smallest and most unexpected places, in shadows and in light, where offers were of interest, grown out of would-be-delight - the bile would rise up and I would find myself sick with remembering, wanting to shed the skin that was mine.




I know I must get angry, hell, I'm half way there.
Find in myself my center and then forgive what happened there.
I have to heal what was broken, love past it, be raw, re-love what was taken, and then plant my garden, my seeds in soil deep and new.

I will be whole, again.