Feb 2016
The windows broken, shattered in wrath.
The doors marred with holes were fists landed.
The floor tiles hold such sad memories..
such unforgivable, unspeakable things.
The corner of the room where I was beaten.
The bedroom where bruised skin and pain was normal,
the bed flipped over, the cot smashed.
The garden heard the screams of hate.
The living room where the ornaments flew, the tv smashed,
a knife held to my throat.
The front door where I was pinned and battered,
stopped from leaving.
The phone ripped from the socket, no calls for help.
The place in the kitchen were I cowered and
our home was ripped apart.
The kitchen tiles where I was made to scrub the floor on my hands and knees for over an hour, while my head was held down, banging it on the floor...
the day before my daughter was born.
The unforgivable words that broke my heart.
The day I knew I would eventually be killed...
and my children.
But, those days are now over.
And I am glad that they are.
Because today, that same window, it frames the prettiest bunch of daffodils.. and a cat...
The doors now hold the name plates for the happy children who's bedrooms they are.
I have washed that floor more than a thousand times and slowly,
it becomes clean.
That corner of the room holds a beautiful bookshelf with scented candles, flowers, my favourite reads piled high.
That bedroom is no longer mine.
The garden blooms with flowers and the grass grows, it is the place where I think the best. Where the birds feed, where our two bee hotels might need an extension...
The living room is my favourite place, such bright colours adorn the walls. Filled with art, music, books, more cats and the occasional dog..
The front door is where we leave for work and come home,
tired but happy. I have my own key.
The phone and number replaced, for when I call my friends and family. For when my children call home.
The kitchen floor, wood covers those scars, the floor will always be ***** no matter how much I scrub. My daughter is 14 and happy.
I cannot yet forget nor forgive the hateful words.
Everyday I know I was right to leave.
We are here...
We are happy and have begun to heal.
And so has our home.
The doors marred with holes were fists landed.
The floor tiles hold such sad memories..
such unforgivable, unspeakable things.
The corner of the room where I was beaten.
The bedroom where bruised skin and pain was normal,
the bed flipped over, the cot smashed.
The garden heard the screams of hate.
The living room where the ornaments flew, the tv smashed,
a knife held to my throat.
The front door where I was pinned and battered,
stopped from leaving.
The phone ripped from the socket, no calls for help.
The place in the kitchen were I cowered and
our home was ripped apart.
The kitchen tiles where I was made to scrub the floor on my hands and knees for over an hour, while my head was held down, banging it on the floor...
the day before my daughter was born.
The unforgivable words that broke my heart.
The day I knew I would eventually be killed...
and my children.
But, those days are now over.
And I am glad that they are.
Because today, that same window, it frames the prettiest bunch of daffodils.. and a cat...
The doors now hold the name plates for the happy children who's bedrooms they are.
I have washed that floor more than a thousand times and slowly,
it becomes clean.
That corner of the room holds a beautiful bookshelf with scented candles, flowers, my favourite reads piled high.
That bedroom is no longer mine.
The garden blooms with flowers and the grass grows, it is the place where I think the best. Where the birds feed, where our two bee hotels might need an extension...
The living room is my favourite place, such bright colours adorn the walls. Filled with art, music, books, more cats and the occasional dog..
The front door is where we leave for work and come home,
tired but happy. I have my own key.
The phone and number replaced, for when I call my friends and family. For when my children call home.
The kitchen floor, wood covers those scars, the floor will always be ***** no matter how much I scrub. My daughter is 14 and happy.
I cannot yet forget nor forgive the hateful words.
Everyday I know I was right to leave.
We are here...
We are happy and have begun to heal.
And so has our home.
Time eventually heals all wounds. And for the scars that are left behind, well... they must become the reason you move on and find happiness again. The things spoken have been the hardest to get past. I find it hard to trust anyone, but it is a work in progress... that too will come in time. We decorate our home with flowers, art, laughter, pets and music. It heals us. And it heals those places in our home that bare the invisible scars, the ones I can still see.
Written by
Little Bear
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