Childhood

Sometimes my memories of childhood break like a wrist 

I find myself trying to forget where I come from to ease the pain of never being loved carefully.

No one ever showed me what it was like to be gently folded before being put into a box, so now I struggle to find the places where my creases fall

Sometimes my memories of childhood are broken glass,

shattered into different parts of my body to remind me where my trauma comes from.

Today my trauma comes from the bottom of my feet. Yesterday it came from the palms of my hands, and tomorrow it’ll probably find its home sitting in the middle of my chest, pulling on my lungs, bringing me back to the question that I always seem to ask myself, “why do we remember disasters?” 

And I’ve never been completely sure, but I think it’s because they create stories that were always meant to be told. Stories that unfold as the years go by- pushing up against our backbones and sliding up our spine. 

I remember disaster simply because they raised me.

They taught me the true meaning of dysfunction and forced me to notice how vulnerable of a person I am.

I never stand still in the eye of a storm. I spin around in the uncertainty of the moment. 

I spent the majority of my childhood being their target. There were times when my body belonged to everyone but me. And I am just now learning what safety feels like. 

Sometimes, I don’t understand how I ever survived. I don’t know how I’ve managed from keeping my body from falling apart completely, my past is like a hazard zone, and the memories that come along with them reminds me of razor blades cutting through my skin.

Sometimes memories of my childhood break like wrists, and levees. Floodgates bursting open. THIS is my storage room inventory. I am unpacking shoes with worn out soles, jackets with pockets full of trauma, I am unpacking the anger that sleeps on my chest, and the regret that boils underneath my tongue. I am taking back my body, and cleaning up the battlefield that this dysfunctional world has made of it. 

Sometimes I’m a car crash with good intentions.

I am a runner who tries too hard to win the race of creation that doesn’t know why it was created. My memories of childhood are malicious, and rough around the edges. 

They are the nightmares that keep me up at night, and the postcards that remind me where I’ve been. 

I have been wrapped around suffocating, elbows of permanent smells nd buried in back yard ditches that can never be covered up.

My bones don’t bend the way that used to anymore, but my body still knows what it takes to be right again.

I am healing.

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About onewritersheart

I love to be myself . . . whatever that means. But seriously, I love to write, laugh, and lounge around the house when my schedule isn't too crazy. I have five tiny humans: three nephews and two nieces. I am the youngest of five, and a twin. Lastly, I am awesome and I love myself.
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