#traumaposting

You are here, so you survived.

You are here, so you can survive.

You are here, so you will survive.

You are here. You are a survivor.

I looked in the mirror today.

Tried to convince myself that it was fine.

That the dark inkwells beneath my eye were normal.

I didn't look too closely, out of fear of noticing.

The pallid grey tones, adipocere, and necrotising scars that marr the unwilling corpse that is me.

Eyesocket drooling pus down the left side of my face as I sigh to my reflection.

At least I can't smell it anymore, my sense of smell long gone by now.

It's been this way since I was a child.

Born of death but unable to die.

Just a pile of rotting carrion that all else fail to see.

The crows know it, the detrivores know it, I know it, everyone else is holding their nose and willfully blind.

I was born with little chance of living.

The odds of being born alive were a literal coin toss.

Kept in incubation, a sickly dying fawn, life snatched out of the jaws of death herself.

They butchered that same fawn, cut out her entrails.

"unlikely to make it" they muttered to each other... "infantile septic shock" was the diagnosis.

The angels that were there that night tried to keep a stillborn warm... one small miracle in a cavalcade of disease and suffering

They should have let me die, do not resuscitate, a child cried into the nothingness.

They did so anyways, kept a flickering flame going.

A flame and a spark that will one day burn it all down, a black flame born of stillness and death.

The miracle that became me, a putrifying flesh puppet tugged along by cadaveric spasms and the writhing beneath its skin.

A half-dead half-living decomposing beast who should've been granted the mercy of a quicker end than this.

But there is no mercy for one such as I, no atonement to be found, no cure to this affliction that is life.

I am animated by rage and heartbreak.

A bloated putrefacted avatar of hate and misery.

My chest roars, it burns bright like a furnace.

The flaring of my heart and the aching of my lungs.

It keeps me going, grasping for anything, the dead keep walking eternally without rest.

I am already dead, my soul a swirling void of rot and decay, simply waiting for the body to play catch up.

the pain

isn’t pretty,

gut-gnawing ache

underlying every smile.

just hide the holes

in your heart with

that grin

‘til you’re patched up

for now;

‘til the quiet overtakes

the need to cry.

my foundation’s

cracked to hell, but

fuck it,

I refuse to miss

another single sunset,

another winking crescent moonrise

hiding behind these pathetic

excuses for walls.

tear me down

and put me back together again,

whatever it takes,

because this plaster shit