Prayers of an Emotionally Abused Woman

She prays for sweet freedom every day.

When he hurls stones,

she deflects them with silence.

When he soaks her in his poison,

she prays it will not seep into her soul...

for she knows she is better than this.

She gives until she is spent.

She loves until she is depleted.

She used to sing like an angel,

but her voice has been stilled.

She used to laugh with abandon,

but she is scared to feel joy,

for it is so very fleeting.

She cringes at the sound of his coming.

Tears fill her eyes,

for she knows that no matter how she tries,

she will not be good enough

or pretty enough

or smart enough

for the one who thinks he is perfect.

She puts up her invisible wall,

and he wonders why.

She cries rivers of tears,

and he steps over them,

afraid of getting his feet wet.

Sometimes she prays

for his demise,

and at the same time

prays for her soul,

lost in wicked imaginings.

Sometimes she prays

to disappear.

Finally she would be free.

Hot Southern Nights

Image via Wikipedia

Hot southern nights,

thinking of you;

Until you return,

what else can I do?



Iced tea on my tongue,

beads of sweat trickle down;

I constantly ache

when you're not around.



I close my eyes...

breeze caresses my skin;

I imagine your fingers,

all of the places they've been.

My heart races,

I'm consumed with desire;

Only you can put out this fire.



Hot southern nights,

thinking of you;

Until you return,

what else can I do?

Caged

She lived in a 6 x 6 cage. Most people would go crazy. She found it cozy. She needed boundaries, and the cage provided those.

Master fed her when she was hungry. He gave her water when she was thirsty. He washed her when she was dirty. He brushed her hair when it became matted. He took her for a daily walk so that she would get some exercise. He made love to her when she became lonely. He punished her when she was rude or disobedient. Sometimes he punished her just for his own pleasure.

People would pass by and stare at her, thinking it odd that one so beautiful would be caged. Sometimes they would spit upon her, or throw things at her. She would just close her eyes and remember they did not matter in this world that she had chosen for herself. And even though they could see her, she knew that she was safe within the locked cage.

One day, Master did not come to check on her. Her stomach rumbled. Her mouth was parched with thirst. Her body ached to get up and go for a walk. She reached up and tried to run her fingers through her hair, but it was a tangled mess. She tried to cry out for help but she had no voice.

Two more days passed, and Master still had not come to check on her. She lay on the ground, feeling hopeless and lost. People came by and looked at her. No longer were they throwing things at her. Now they just looked at her with pity, and she found that even more unbearable. She wanted no pity.

They asked her what her name was, and she couldn't remember. It had never really mattered before. They asked her if she needed help, but all she really needed was Master. He would know what she really needed.

She needed water, but had no idea how to ask for it. Master had always provided it for her without her asking. She needed food, but she had no idea how to ask for that either.

She lay on the ground and felt another day come to an end. No lights were coming on inside of Master's house, and as she closed her eyes...she knew that it was the end of her world.

She began to count the stars in the sky...wondering what it must be like to be a beacon in the darkness...wondering if there was a life for her somewhere beyond the cage.

Steps

You stepped over me

on your way out...

left me lying

in a puddle of tears,

hoping I would drown,

hoping the next one

will be more beautiful,

younger...

make the blood course

through your veins...

make you feel young again,

tell you what you want,

be who you need.

To hell with my needs,

her needs,

anybody's needs...needs...

Its all about you,

until you're the one left

on the floor.

I hope she steps on you

with her stilettos

and grinds her heel into

your selfish heart.

But make no mistake.

When you head my way again,

that puddle of tears will be dry.

You think you'll be happy

because I didn't drown.

Have I got a surprise for you.

Tangled (a Snippet)

I rummage through clutter filled hallways,

cutting myself on sharp edges.

Voices echo...

I shiver in remembrance.

Tangled up in cobwebs,

I look for the spider.

Snippet of Love

Your heartbeat echoes on my skin.

Such a tender wanting;

What more is there than this...

the whisper, the sigh

of passion's sweet persuasion...

the ecstasy

of love's sweet reply.

The Artist

The voices came often. They spoke to her of things she had rather not think of, but there was truth in the words they spoke.

Sometimes when they came, she would pick up her knife and make patterns in her skin…bleeding hearts and tulips of the most vivid red. She would sit and watch the sticky redness pool onto the floor…thinking what a waste of beautiful color it was. As for the artwork on her skin, it was striking and lovely. She longed to show it off to the world.

Her canvas would clear in a few days and beg for more. But her inspiration always came from the voices, and she never knew when they would come.

Nobody understood her work. Some called her crazy. Some called her a genius. What they failed to understand was the fact that nothing came from her. All of her ideas and inspiration came from somewhere else.

Once, in the middle of the night…the pounding on the wall grew louder and louder and she knew not what was causing it. She lay in bed, afraid…and then voice said, “It is time. Get up and etch your greatest fear.” She spent the next hour etching death…a black cloaked visitor splattered with her blood.

Suddenly, death consumed her and she was afraid to close her eyes and go back to sleep. It was a part of her now…and until it faded from view, there was no escape. She spent sleepless nights, and the voices came more often….urging her to create.

She etched demons writhing in agony. She etched children laughing in a field. She etched dancing clowns and talking rabbits. She etched herself, screaming in pain.

The pain was real, but she thrived on it. Pain was something she craved. Pain was her pleasure. Pain was her release.

She remembered days of bondage when she gave herself up to sadists, succumbing to their whips…their instruments of torture. She had been a slave to her fantasies. But when those fantasies became real, she became a slave to herself.

Now, holding herself in bondage, she was as much sadist as she was masochist. She was as much creator as she was destroyer. She was as much artist as she was onlooker.

Still, the voices were in control…and her knife waited for instruction.

Ugly Surprise

The tongue has no shame.
It has spoken thousands of words,
tasted forbidden fruit,
dipped into ecstasy,
provided silken swirls of pleasure.
Not particularly attractive,
a hidden surprise,
seldom revealed...
and only to a favored few.

Bound by Your Love

The dew of your skin
is upon me,
and the flowers in my hair
come from your sweet offerings.
The blush of my skin
is warm from your touch
and there is nothing
that I want for now.
You call to me
with sweet rhythms
that spring forth
from primal urgings.
I am bound
by water, earth and sky...
caught up in this moment,
captured by the reckess sigh
of your love.

Surrender

You pushed me against the wall,
pinning my arms over my head,
pressing into me,
kissing my lips,
my face,
my hair.
Surrender was sweet.

I melted into you,
opened for you,
unleashed...set free
from this prison
of good girl virtue...

Sometimes I want
to be a naughty girl;
I want to bend and kneel,
surrender to your will;
Pain is my undoing,
pleasure is my crown.

I want...I want
to feel it all...
fly with angels,
crash back down,
safe in the strength
of your arms.

Drowning in Your Love

I'm drowning in a pool of deep blue,
falling..
falling...
giving up all that I am,
spending each breath
on this...
It is more than I can understand,
more than I deserve.
more than I can dream.
It is....it is...

My eyes are heavy,
my body floating,
my senses reeling;
Your song rings in my ears.
Your touch surrounds me,
astounds me...
takes me beyond...far beyond.,

I want to nestle in your warmth
draw from your strength,
love you...love you

before I rise back up
with my face to the sun,
still basking in the glow of your touch.

Cherry Red

Sarah had been sitting for hours, staring at the blank page in front of her. She had no words left to write. Her soul was empty and used up like last week's leftovers. She felt nothing. No joy. No anger. No sadness.Even in her dark remembrances, there was a numbness that clung to her, protecting her from the inner demons who were hiding, waiting for the perfect moment to inflict their pain.

There was relief in her frozen state, for even in remembering, she felt nothing. The images in her mind were like watching a movie of someone else's tragedy, minus the popcorn.She avoided anything that might trigger her feelings...popsicles, sunshine, the park and baby strollers.

Writing used to be a help as well, for she could create imaginary worlds and get lost in someone else's life. It was a perfect escape, but now the blank page mocked her as if to say, I told you it wouldn't last forever.

Sarah stood up and began to pace the floor. Sometimes this would spark her creative juices. The creak of a floorboard...the flicker of a light bulb...spilled coffee grounds...all had sparked her creativity in the past. This time, however...her pacing sparked nothing.She passed by the bathroom mirror and caught a glimpse of herself. Stopping, she stared into the hollow eyes staring back at her. There was nothing there. It was like looking at a dead person. Perhaps I am dead, she thought to herself. After all, dead people don't feel.

Opening the medicine cabinet, she slowly removed a razor blade from its package. She examined it for a moment before sitting down on the closed lid of the toilet. She then proceeded to slowly and methodically press it into her thigh.She was unsure of what she first noticed...the pain...or the bright red blood that began seeping over her creamy white skin. She thought the contrast was strikingly beautiful. She slowly pushed the blade into the other thigh and winced as it sliced into her flesh. Mesmerized, she watched the rivulets of blood make their way down her legs and onto the floor. She was alive after all. The pain and the blood were both proof of that.

Tears began to fill her eyes. She blinked hard to keep them from falling, but they fell anyway, splashing onto her cuts...the saltiness making the sting even worse. The floodgates opened and she collapsed onto the floor, sobbing for the first time in months.

Images began to flash through her mind and she could not make them stop. Holding her baby...breathing in her sweet scent...laughing as she cooed and giggled...watching the cherry popsicle melt all over her tiny hands as she pushed her in the stroller...running only a few feet to the car to retrieve the baby wipes which had fallen from the diaper bag onto the floorboard...and returning to find the stroller empty. She never saw her baby again.

Lying on the floor, razor blade in hand, Sarah's sobs quieted with a new realization. With one slice of each wrist, she could put an end to it all...the numbness, the pain, the guilt. With only two slices, she could remain on the floor and watch the red blood cover her hands. They would be red and sticky...like the hands that held a red cherry popsicle months ago.

Sarah held the blade to her wrist, but she could not do it. She could not make herself push the blade in. It was almost as if some invisible force was holding her back.In anger and frustration, she threw the blade across the room and screamed "Why won't you just let me die? PLEASE just let me die!" She sobbed uncontrollably for what seemed like hours.

When she finally opened her swollen eyes, a voice spoke to her mind as clearly as a songbird on a summer day. I don't want you to die. I want you to write.

And just like that, Sarah felt a renewed sense of purpose. She carefully cleaned the wounds on her legs before sitting down at her desk once again. Hands shaking, she wrote a title at the top of the page:

CHERRY RED

At last, her story would be told.

I Am...

I am a storm, raging;
I am a river, flowing;
I am an ocean, tempestuous
crashing upon the shore.

I scream,
I sigh,
I laugh,
I cry.

I pound pavement,
sit in dusty corners,
drink from crystal goblets
with my eyes fixed on the time.

I am a gentle wind
blowing in all directions,
scared of where I'm going,
frightened of where i've been...

yet passion fuels this heart of mine
over and over again.