Dec 2016
Snow white curls, lagoon blue eyes so sullen. How does it feel? To feel too much. Everything is never done nor felt by halves. It is felt as a whole. A sharp twist of the stomach and weakening of the knees. The slow decent to the floor, with black smearing tears cascading with every inch. On the floor wrapped in a ball. Weeping into her own embrace. Every noise a sound of sorrow.
This is what its like to feel so much and too much. Like a bolt of lightning against the bark, splintered to ash. The fire scorches the heart and consumes it, it is dampened by her weeping tears. She has felt this pain before. She was so happy, her smiles so rare worth more than gold. She put effort and work this time as many times before, and it was all in vain. She remembers...
A little girl barely 13 or 14. Waiting. Hair styled, clothes smart. Pocket money in her purse and such tender selfless love in her heart. That was all in vain. He never turned up. He let her down, and he would repeat this offence as if he had no conscience. She remembers her unanswered calls and texts. She remembers.
Now, she sits crying into her tiny arms again. She is that little girl again. She just wanted to make someone happy, she just wanted to love someone. Just as before. Now as then excuses. He spoke of them, to cover his spineless back. Someone else was to blame. As was this time. She remembers the pain. The pain of whatever I do, no matter how much I love it is not good enough...
The past reminds her. The past haunts her. Poor Dove. Such a frail creature, so hurt, so scared, so forlorn, cannot handle such torment. It is a trigger, a trigger upon a gun. Reaching out, the pain is too great! Like gasoline unto the fire, the flames engulf her. The fires of pain. She reaches out, to self destruction. Convert the inner torment to physical. Poor Dove, she will clip her own wings. She will baptise herself, in blood. Bleed the pain away. The fires of torture, of the past will fade with every cut. The deeper the better. Because she only wants to sleep. Peace.
Peace from the hurt, the past, the triggers, from it all. She grips the blade, a tiny left hand trembling against the flesh. Sitting on her bed, heavily breathing. Tears still flowing down her cheeks into the softness of her *****. The red streams dance down the contours and curves of her legs. It runs between her fingers and down her arm. It is warm, it is the hurt too great to take. The fire which burns her. The past which tortures her. She is quick and furious with every strike, it is her own downfall which brings her comfort. It is her own death which will silence the demons of her past. She begs to meet God. She, Little Dove feels too much, tis too much to take.
This is what its like to feel so much and too much. Like a bolt of lightning against the bark, splintered to ash. The fire scorches the heart and consumes it, it is dampened by her weeping tears. She has felt this pain before. She was so happy, her smiles so rare worth more than gold. She put effort and work this time as many times before, and it was all in vain. She remembers...
A little girl barely 13 or 14. Waiting. Hair styled, clothes smart. Pocket money in her purse and such tender selfless love in her heart. That was all in vain. He never turned up. He let her down, and he would repeat this offence as if he had no conscience. She remembers her unanswered calls and texts. She remembers.
Now, she sits crying into her tiny arms again. She is that little girl again. She just wanted to make someone happy, she just wanted to love someone. Just as before. Now as then excuses. He spoke of them, to cover his spineless back. Someone else was to blame. As was this time. She remembers the pain. The pain of whatever I do, no matter how much I love it is not good enough...
The past reminds her. The past haunts her. Poor Dove. Such a frail creature, so hurt, so scared, so forlorn, cannot handle such torment. It is a trigger, a trigger upon a gun. Reaching out, the pain is too great! Like gasoline unto the fire, the flames engulf her. The fires of pain. She reaches out, to self destruction. Convert the inner torment to physical. Poor Dove, she will clip her own wings. She will baptise herself, in blood. Bleed the pain away. The fires of torture, of the past will fade with every cut. The deeper the better. Because she only wants to sleep. Peace.
Peace from the hurt, the past, the triggers, from it all. She grips the blade, a tiny left hand trembling against the flesh. Sitting on her bed, heavily breathing. Tears still flowing down her cheeks into the softness of her *****. The red streams dance down the contours and curves of her legs. It runs between her fingers and down her arm. It is warm, it is the hurt too great to take. The fire which burns her. The past which tortures her. She is quick and furious with every strike, it is her own downfall which brings her comfort. It is her own death which will silence the demons of her past. She begs to meet God. She, Little Dove feels too much, tis too much to take.
