I Want to Know if You Can Sit with Pain, Mine or Your Own, Without Moving to Hide It (after Oriah Mountain Dreamer) I cannot sit with you because I cannot sit with pain. Instead I sit with a razorblade and Try not to carve your name Deep and ragged into my skin To try and explain to myself What you did. You know when a child is molested And the vacant therapist Points to the vacant doll and ask, “Point to where he touched you?” How do I point to nowhere and everywhere at the same time? Because when you called at 9am saying, “I need to talk” and I rush over even when I work at 5am and I got there But you had taken 6 shots So all you really wanted to do was fuck That is how it went. Because we both knew You didn’t have any friends but I always there And nightly I became the toy, the doll, the girl you fucked. When you were sad, and mad, and drunk, because Without the liquor you just couldn’t get it up. It didn’t matter how I felt when I was sober but you were drunk and I just wanted to melt into the floor you pinned me to with you body too large and mine to small to push you off. When you drank too much and I tried To help but when I couldn’t say the right things You screamed and yelled and punched the wall But you never hit me Because no one could know that late at night In your basement lit by grey tv light that when you were hitting the drywall it felt like my skin and finally killing me when done with your fit you pulled me in for a kiss. I can’t sit with pain but I also can’t sit at your grave. I know your hurting I know why you drink And took all those pills But why couldn’t you stop Trying to fill me with all your pain Because that won’t make it go away But then you just keep jamming and jamming and jamming it down my throat until I choke and can’t speak anymore You hug me close and say “You know you love me.” Your pain pinned me down and shut me up, Because as long as I was there No matter how lifeless or dead You wouldn’t kill yourself I became your therapist, sex toy, and mother All in a short month, With no choice, no voice On how to be me. 1,2,3,4,5,6 feet under the ground but I can’t help but wonder at the end of it all, was it you or me in that grave? Who finally couldn’t take it? Who couldn’t sit with your pain?
@ladymoriamort
Challenge #3: Getting Inspired Thanks for the awesome submission!
