Trauma: The Next Morning, Every Morning

I inhale the stench of an eternal wait,

A breath, a gasp, a momentary lapse,

My eyes burn, my fingers bleed,

Scratching at my lack of patience,

I sigh, a tear trickles down my cheek,

A silent scream in the middle of the night,

Echoes through the darkness of my mind.

I’m consumed by the violation of my body,

The corruption of my soul,

Blood seeps from my eyes where tears once stood,

Involuntarily I wince as my body,

Wracked by the repeated violations,

Struggles to fight against my mind,

The disease of my own conception.

I stare transfixed upon the glistening mirror,

My clothes crumpled about my ankles,

The hollow eyes scrutinize my own,

The purple swelling and welts of my neck,

Coerce my eyes lower, down my bruised and battered torso,

My fingers trace over the blackish-purple festering welt,

Running down my throbbing ribcage.

My eyes linger over my aching waist,

Pleading me to stop, that I look away,

The stinging of my thighs makes me shudder,

Deep bruises traverse the muscles,

A yellowish fluid courses beneath my battered wounds,

Begging for release from my body,

Which holds it captive to my mind’s secrets.

I am engrossed as my body slowly turns in the mirror,

The lesions crisscross my stinging inner thighs,

My ass throbs as if a cruel joke,

Blood trickles down my thighs,

Reminding me of my past transgressions,

Conjuring visions of all that has been done,

My memories fashioned out of my past, my life.

The world around me swirls and contorts,

Reality drips down through my consciousness,

A gasp, a nightmare, a corruption of my mind.

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