splendid suspension

This piece of writing just came out of me quite angrily (there’s a theme occurring here). I’m not sure it makes much sense, but it helped to get it out of my head. So I guess it does makes sense, in a way. TW: self harm

I feel rotten inside.
I am over it but I am not.
I’m holding myself together but it’s an illusion.

There is a black mould growing around my heart and my lungs.
There is barbed wire inside my skull.
And bare electricity lines running through the veins in my hands and arms.

I feel I have no control.
In a desperate bid to distract myself from the gnawing, twisting feeling inside
my hands reach for anything.
Anything hard.
Anything sharp. Frantic.
Anything quickly.

To anaesthetise my head.
To focus on a pain more tangible.

Is it even a pain?
Or is it a chronic sickness?
Something that you learn to live with
like the ringing in your ears after a loud firework
or a landmine.

That’s what it feels like.
It feels like I stepped on a landmine.
I blew into a thousand pieces.
And then, miraculously, before 5am, I had stitched myself back together again.
I did such a good job, nobody could even see the scars
where I had been torn, limb from limb
heart pulverised like ripe fruit
skull shattered.
Nobody suspected a thing.

Maybe I was just so glad I didn’t die from the explosion, that I failed to notice the warning signs.
My stitches were pulling apart at the seams.
Bits of shrapnel I’d not noticed.
One in my shoulder, so I’d walk hunched and stooped.
One in my eye, so I’d never quite trust my own judgement again.
One in the back of my head, so that I always felt as though you were lingering right behind me.

Another in my heart. That one I leave there. I don’t try to dislodge it. Nor do I let anyone else close enough to try.

I feel like second-hand goods.
Used, broken, less valuable.
Dirty. Unclean.

But I can feel my seams splitting now.
And this darkness oozing out.
Covering my clothes and hair with thick black tar.

Everyone can see.
They give me a wide berth.
Don’t want to get any of it on them.

I’m trying to stitch it back up, I really am, but I’m running out of thread and I’ve been sewn up so many times before that there isn’t any material left without a puncture wound already.

My hands are slipping and I can’t even see my needle and thread through tear-filled eyes. I tried.
Like a mouse on a wheel, I am not making any progress any more. I’m tired.

I’m just holding the fabric now.
The fabric of what was,
what could have been,
and what never should have been.

Sewing was futile. I can feel myself, covered in that viscous, black tar.
Tarnished.

Landmines only explode when you take your foot off them. I wish I would’ve paused.
Splendid suspension. For just a fraction of a second more.

3 thoughts on “splendid suspension

  1. TW: Might be rubbish. No offence intended.

    Obviously what now follows is just my speculation…

    To me It makes perfect sense, especially given what you have said in other posts on here.

    Is the rage actually very good news because it shows you are fighting back?

    I wonder is ‘darkness oozing out’ a metaphor for rejecting the black echo that your abusers forced upon you?

    Does it actually indicate self-reclamation, that your beleaguered soul is now vomiting the black echo back out, like the psychic equivalent of food poisoning?

    Could it be that perhaps your ‘seams are splitting’ because you have so long been so overloaded with their black echo?

    Yes you still feel covered in it, but maybe that is good too, if it means it is no longer wreaking havoc deep inside you, no longer choking your soul from within, and can now be washed away because it is now only someone else’s detritus on the outside?

    I very much doubt that you are actually rotten, second hand goods, or unclean, or contamination – these are surely only reflections of what happened to you that developed as a last-ditch defence against inescapable overwhelming trauma, that has clogged your soul for too long? (Is that why they feel dark and sticky?)

    Could it be that ‘taking your foot off the landmine’ is something about you letting go of the crushing denial and repression you have suffered under for too long?

    Is the landmine anything to do with fearing confronting those who hurt you?

    Or Is the landmine your wish to destroy what nearly destroyed you?

    Okay so it may singe your eyebrows, but you will remain intact, walking stronger out of the rubble.

    So it seems to me you ARE making progress – this blog shows it.

    A lot of very successful reconstruction is preceded by demolition.

    Like

    1. I swear your responses are more poetic than the poems I even post on here :’D

      Thank you so much for your thoughts, again. I don’t think I have ever thought of the situation like that before. I really appreciate you taking the time to pass your thoughts on my poems/writings.

      I think I can answer YES to a lot of the questions you’ve asked. And they’ve provoked even more questions in me too.

      X

      Liked by 1 person

      1. But I still think you are the better writer.It is a pleasure, and I hope the provoked questions are fruitful! Your words are always really interesting.

        Liked by 1 person

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s