There have been some before you 

Few who broke my heart 

One who betrayed me 

Another, who too easily allowed us to grow apart without any distance at all

I could stretch out my arm to grasp his hand, only to gasp at his sheer coldness 

He was truly dead inside, nothing left to offer "us"

Eventually I was forced to let him go 

And the first, did not understand the word "stop" 

I was 14.

 

Can you tell this body and soul have been hurt before?

I'm not sure mirrors reflect the burden my heart carries some days 

This body does not deflect it anymore 

 

Hindsight is a wonderful thing

my mother says 

But living in the past isn't living at all 

It is poking the dead thing and begging it to wake up 

It is standing at the open casket and wishing it was but a dream 

 

It is the nights 

(you know the ones) 

Photo album open wide and bottle of wine demolished 

It is the aching 

The breaking 

The memory of trauma and events once forgotten, that find ways to crawl through the small slit in the foor 

 

I use your name like a sword 

fending of those cruel thoughts that back me into the dark corners of my mind 

you are enough 

but sometimes I am too weak to fight alone