Friday, December 21, 2012
Where the skeletons live
When I was little, when something would upset me, I would disappear into my room. Once locked away in my room, I would hang my hand and shake my shoulders until I could fully compose myself. I would begin to clean. Moving one item to a new shelf and then back again. Once I was completely under control, I would run to my closet and turn out the light. My arms would fly up to reach the closest long sleeved clothing item my shaking hands could find. Once I grasped the fabric, I began to cry into it. Sobbing for the things I could not control. When sobbing no longer released enough flame, I began to scream into this piece of fabric. Screaming for all the things I hated. I would then grip the shirt with my teeth and bite down as hard as I could. I always envisioned I was draining blood from someone, something, anything. I never let myself finish crying. That just seemed like a treat. Taking the long sleeved shirt that I just raped, I would wipe my tears, open the door and slowly walk out. The light coming in from my single window would blind me. I never allowed myself to squint; The pain felt desired. Closing my closet door, I took one last look at my safe dark hole. I would then continue cleaning like nothing ever happened. To my amazement, I felt saved.