as the sky sheds it's darkness for a lighter hue. The portal of words has sprung wide open filling the anteroom. Pictures once on the wall, pages of memory maps, the layout of the childhood stomping grounds have fluttered off the wall and parade around my head...as if I could have forgotten the way of the walk to school and back. The names of the streets, colors and shapes of the houses; postage stamp yards; length of each section of sidewalk piece.
Sleep is the first innate gift to go, forever, when the body, the mind, the soul, is shattered with the rapist living in the bedroom next to you. For sleep is trust; trust that the body is safe and will remain unharmed in unconscious bliss of faraway dreams. Vigilance is ears on stilts searching, waiting, constant scanning for the sound, dare it draw near and high alert, blaring alarms signal the coming of the assault, the inaudible screams and the searing pain.
It burns as if a lighted match were thrust inside and cooling, silent tears quench, become the focus, trying to forget, make foggy.
Triggers are the sounds of zippers, the sliding of the elastic, the lifting of the flimsy cotton veil that protects nothing but a small sense of self.
There is nothing but the want of emptiness. A singular room, a bed to oneself, the breathing of but one, skin untouched, a nightgown that isn't removed, no fear of footsteps and a peace reserved for those unmolested.
The refreshing delight of sleep undisturbed was a gift meant for others not me.
Sleep is the first innate gift to go, forever, when the body, the mind, the soul, is shattered with the rapist living in the bedroom next to you. For sleep is trust; trust that the body is safe and will remain unharmed in unconscious bliss of faraway dreams. Vigilance is ears on stilts searching, waiting, constant scanning for the sound, dare it draw near and high alert, blaring alarms signal the coming of the assault, the inaudible screams and the searing pain.
It burns as if a lighted match were thrust inside and cooling, silent tears quench, become the focus, trying to forget, make foggy.
Triggers are the sounds of zippers, the sliding of the elastic, the lifting of the flimsy cotton veil that protects nothing but a small sense of self.
There is nothing but the want of emptiness. A singular room, a bed to oneself, the breathing of but one, skin untouched, a nightgown that isn't removed, no fear of footsteps and a peace reserved for those unmolested.
The refreshing delight of sleep undisturbed was a gift meant for others not me.
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