The title of the chapter is "lavender nights" because I am writing all this in the very early hours of the morning and listening to a song with a lavender sky cover. Various topics covered.
Tw: violence detailed, CSA
Wish fulfillment
I dozed off and soon found myself dreaming I was a young girl again.
I most often see myself as the man I am during my times without wakefulness, but tonight another story was told.
I was with just about everyone I knew, I heard my so-called brother taunting me mercilessly.
He sang about liking little girls like me and getting away with the abuse.
He told me I had a short few seconds to hurt him before he would do the same.
Young Elliot soon found herself ripping him into bits.
I tore his face into shreds, I bent his limbs back, I wasn't beating him, I was killing him, and what a relief that was.
4:08 AM
I have no clue where this poem will begin or end, but here I find myself.
I very genuinely believed my little dark age was coming to an end, now I am sure it has not and will not.
Everything feels like another thing to check off my to do list.
I convince myself of otherwise, I try to push myself into happier times, but it's not easy.
I derive little joy from life. I feel as if I am waking up and dredging through a day I know I am not happy with, I continue to walk through this fog until sunset comes.
I love late nights more than anything. During those times I am free to write any story I please.
Normally I find peace in these times, and tonight I am gravely disappointed because otherwise is true.
My mind is foggy, I can't focus on what's most important to me, my writing.
I hold writing closer than all else, closer than anyone or anything.
Tonight my mind is tired and I feel as if it's darker than it once was.
I can't seem to put a thought onto a page that I am happy with.
I spend more time distracted than not.
I cannot hold myself with ease.
This is my light in the dark, this is the candle in my darkest nights, what do I do when it dims?
I've given up all my other mediums, I no longer paint or draw or sew or craft, this is how I make art, where do I go when I don't have that?
I'm running my finger across a board of reasons as to my and so far none have pricked my finger.
Art is hard to predict or measure, so the lack of it will be the same.
I don't know what's leading me to feel this way but I hope it doesn't leave me empty and without.
YOU ARE READING
Letters from sixteen
PoetryA poetry book I wrote during periods of my life with many different facets. I wrote about happy moments, addiction, and trauma, the book becomes more depressing as it goes on. I choose the title "letters from sixteen" to capture how I wanted to capt...
