September:

The Dream Bus -

Legends say it once held Olympian’s.

Their names are still etched into its metal:

“Phil Boggs 76 Montreal.”

I bet Phil never thought it would come to this.

He must have been so hopeful back then.

Now, his name rotts, like the American Dream,

like all of our god damn dreams.

Wasted away in the wind,

waiting for the world to end.

One day we stepped off of our Dream Bus,

walked away, and ended up here.

“I didn’t realize I grew up in an abusive household,

until I was nineteen years old.

It is so strange to grieve your own past.

It’s the only way I can explain why I ask my husband if he is mad at me,

at least four times a day.

It’s why I jump at the sound of heavy foot steps,

because I know those foot steps are coming for me.

It’s why I have shaking legs under table tops,

and the corner of my thumbs stain red from blood.

It’s why I over analyze your every word. I swear I can hear those words turn into daggers escaping from your throat, their only mission is to cut me to pieces.

It was the missing lunch money. It was the slamming doors.

It was the screaming hallways. It was the fear of my bed room door opening.

It was the constant tension in the air that now forces me to walk on eggshells.

Those eggshells are actually razor blades; I know you left them here for me.

It is so strange to grieve your own past.”

- September. E.S.

@from–september