Clover hearted

Stained glass window

A miscellaneous collection.
TW: SA, themes of injury and abuse

The room you weren't in
Am I allowed to be trembling? Will you see me and my pain with kindness?
I never wanted this to be the story, I never wanted to be stuck in the same memories, you look at me and tell me I am choosing to be sick.
Why do I have to get better in the same way you do? Why do you think our stories are the same?
You called it love but you were not there. You told me that I was using the wrong words for it but you were not there.
Forgive me for the nightmares. Forgive me for not being over it. Forgive me for being scared.
Why did you try to pull out a false confession? Why did you mold the story? You weren't there. You do not know the terror that was instilled within me.
I'm allowed to be angry. I'm allowed to hurt. I'm allowed to cry and shake. I am not wrong for struggling.
I told you about my aching and you told me I should be ashamed.
I was always too stupid to see the things you saw.
"I know but I can't tell you yet, I see it but you're not ready." You hang it over me and I pulse with fear because you had everything I wanted.
You cannot tell me what happened because you were not there. I was. My body was there in that bed every time and you were not fucking there.
I was the one being choked and I was the one being raped and I was the one who thought that I might die in this bed. I was the one who lost track of how many times it happened.
I am not telling a story, I am telling you what happened.
My entire self was changed and I was made to. I tried and I did not have any other options.
You are wrong for trying to mold me into someone who didn't have this story written in their skin.
You are not anymore than me. Don't tell me you know reality more than I do. Don't you tell me that little girl she wanted it.

Four leaf clover
He lived within the pages of the story, as the days went by the lines were written, edited, and rewritten.
He wrote stories of deep sorrow and unspeakable things, he wrote stories of deep love and a beautiful life afterwards.
The lines told stories of tragedy and survival, the lines of the Beatles humming on every page, and each page existing as living and breathing resilience.
He was told that his survival was wrong, that he shouldn't behave in such ways because that isn't what the world likes.
The world isn't made to hold minds like yours, you need to be someone else, and not like that.
The story never changed, the same characters, themes, lessons, and undertones continued to be written. When the story is judged it doesn't stop telling itself, one just makes time in the darkness of the night to light the candle and write away only to seal the diary shut until the safety of dark returns.
You met him and you adored him in ways he is yet to see. You loved every one of his faces and he loved any one of yours. The two of you became so intertwined it felt like something you've never met before, something so special it cannot be put into words.
Nothing he could say could make me stop loving him. I think he knows my mind better than anyone.
He is like a clover in the wild. I am so lucky to have seen you. I am so lucky to know you. I am so lucky to read the story.

October
I'll stack my wrist in colorful beads and wear clothes that don't match, it looks awful and I love it, it looks awful because I wanted it to.
I'll give myself a name that is so silly people will refuse to call me by it.
Most of my friends will live states away and we will have the strangest conversations.
I'll flap my hands and rock myself until I fulfill my heart's desires.
I'll write poems that are painfully dramatic and dreadfully repetitive.
I'll mumble to myself in public and refuse to be ashamed of my perceptions.
I will ramble on about my favorite things and somehow always find a way to work it into conversation.
I will own so many stuffed animals named after days of the week.
I'll be whatever I want to be and everything will be fine.

Wishful thinking and unreality
I could want to be different, right? I did that, I did that for a long time.
I got on my knees and prayed for God to mend the mind that endlessly distorts things. "I promise I'll be good, please, I don't know what else to do." I woke up with the same eyes.
Despite every senseless thing within me telling me otherwise, I got sober, I put it down for months, I still saw the people in my bedroom that weren't there.
I swallowed every pill I was given, this strong medication and this max dose, it didn't do much but fill me with strange side effects.
It never filled me, so I looked elsewhere.
I'll laugh when the voices tell a funny joke, man you had to be there. I'll rock myself and stare because that's what I need to do today. I'll talk to myself in public and dress in mismatched clothes.
I could wish to be different and it did nothing for me, because whether I want to be or not, I have a brain that likes to tell stories, a mind prone to false perceptions, if I have to be this person I am going to like this person that I am.