When She Died, She Took The Me I Loved With Her

When I think about the canvas that is my body, and the red paint waiting to be splashed about it, I shiver violently, and think of the life I use to have before the world went black.  I was smiling, oblivious in the young age of nine of the bad things around me.  I didn't know what aruging was, nor drugs or alcohol or fighting.  I didn't know what pain and sadness was.  I didn't know that death was about.  I was a child, a girl of dreams like growing up to be sixteen with a boyfirend and a car and a job.  I was a girl with dreams of getting married and having kids, of growing old with someone, and never crying.  But the day that I turned ten, that little girl went to sleep.  She sleeps deeply, and I cannot wake her easily.  I scream at her, slam pots together, jump up and down clapping, shouting, making all kinds of noises all in a vain tempt to wake her.  But then the reality comes and I know what death is.  She sleeps no more.  She dreams nothing.  Her brain is dead, her heart is fried, her lungs without oxygen.  I didn't even mourn at her funeral.  I didn't even smile at her memories.  I shiver violently at the thought of a red canvas.  I shiver violently at the thought of putting my family through another nightmare.  I never cry.  And if I do, I beat myself up inside.  Crying is for the weak, I say, Crying is healthy when need be, but if I think it's unhealthy then it only makes matters worse to do such a thing when I do.  When the world went black, I found no light.  It was entirely darkness.  And when I lost touch of reality and myself, I found that I was blind, and deaf.  I found that I was paralyzed and alone.  No one brought me out of the darkness, not even as I stare at the backs of my eyelids now.  It's like reaching for the rain.  It pities your flesh, and slips through your fingers cracks.  It soaks into the ground, and falls all around.  I do not know what smiling is.  I do not know of joy, and contentment anymore.  I do not know anything else but to be used, despised, and hurt.

Reviews

[Wolfwind]

This piece strikes a powerful cord within. The loss of something dear changes a person forever, I can relate. It changes the very essence of who we are inside and how we perceive the world around us.
These words weave us to think about what remains when a fraction of who we are inside is gone.

Well done.
Aaron