Eleven Years and A Drop Of Blood

You don’t say it but I know it’s there. The tremendous, exquisite pain you carry around with you wherever you go.

It’s in your silences, the way you breathe a little more freely when you are not at home, the way your shoulders come down from way up your ears when you allow yourself to relax.

It’s in your half sentences, your little skips of attention, the way you seem to trip over your thoughts, oblivious of the world around you, lost in a well of internal hurt I can’t seem to grasp.

It’s in your over-achieving attitude, the standards you set so high up for yourself, to prove to yourself you’re better that whatever happened to you, that you deserve better, that it didn’t break you.

It’s in that constant trail of electricity that follows each and every one of your steps, the tension of being alive that seems to keep you as tense as a bowstring, ready to strike whoever would come too close to soon.

It’s in the quietness with which you handle things, each tender gesture as soft as the next, your anger never too loud, your laughter never to keen, your tears, dry, your cursing, tame. It’s as if somebody put you on mute a long, long time ago, and that you lost the ability to exist in vivid colors in your own eyes again. But to me you do, and it kills me to see this numb version of what you could be.

No, you don’t say it, you don’t really say anything to me, what I know i have observed, but I don’t say anything either, and there we remain, trapped in that lead cover of silence that is suffocating me like a coffin, yet I stay there, too respectful of your screaming eyes to scratch the graze, that slit of a wound that doesn’t ever seem to want to heal.

We stay in that coffin, while he’s out there, enjoying his life and all the ones he took, all because there was no one, and nothing, to prevent this from happening.


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