A forced symphony
Sponsored by the lonely king
Has turned them to dust

If someone had told me last New Year’s Eve,
That a year later I wouldn’t be shattered,
I’d call them a liar.
But they are not a liar.
Over the course of a year, I have taken my broken glass and turned my pain into a stained glass window. Beautiful and living in color.

If someone had told me last New Years Eve,
That a year later people would know about my trauma,
I’d call them a liar.
But they are not a liar.
Seven months in, I stopped holding the burden alone, and the 4 year old trapped in me started to learn that her body is something not meant to be abused.

If someone had told me last New Years Eve,
That a year later instead of crying over him, I’d be with him,
I’d call them a liar.
But they are not a liar.
I took a terrible and broken situation and built a friendship out of it, and now that friend will be with me at midnight.

If someone had told me last New Years Eve,
That a year later I wouldn’t hate myself
I’d call them a liar.
But they are not a liar.
I have grown so much, I can’t even pick out a thing I don’t like about myself  anymore.
Cheers to that.

My heart is held in the hands of people who like to break things.
Chaos is their default, and
everything is my fault.
Why do the broken always find me?

They think I am a mirror, but I am a window.
Not fractured like them, but convient and translucent.
They keep their hands firm against my cold surface and stare through me while they continue to look for something.

My mosaic is just not for them.

The demon saw me sleepwalk,
now he knows what I’ve done.
I don’t know where I went,
but he does.
If we are defined by our actions,
He knows me better than I know myself.
That sentiment is more than haunting, so
I tried to ****** him into hell.
I am naked and exposed and vulnerable, and I would rather not need an exorcism.
But he walked away before I could cast him back into the underworld with all of the other evil spirits, who are also seeking the ruin of already broken souls.
So now he’s free, and I still don’t know what happened.
Where’d I go??
Where am I now??
And how do those two places connect???

Do the lillies bleed down there?
Do the butterflies drink their nectar?
Or do they save their sweetness for themselves,
The glucose glowing in their veins.

“You’re good”
“Don’t apologize for needing help”
“Don’t worry, I got you and I’ll always protect you”

I still can’t write about him.
I still can’t say his name.
He is “the guy”.
The guy who ruined my childhood,
The guy who stole not only the safety of my bed,
But the safety in my head.
They tell me not to “let him win” or “give him the power”
But he already has it all.
There is no power left to give.
No game left to be won.
No innocence left to be claimed.
He can look at me, and he will know I’m his.
I’m his.