But here I am, 28 years old standing before the opening doors of closeted memories. Memories worse than my nightmares, worse than what I had thought I escaped. Memories I thought I killed and buried have been dug out of their graves.
He’d done this all before. He’d talk to the girls and boys, fathers and mothers. He’d get what he could and he’d eat them up. Like I said, he wasn’t a person and he was not human. He was something else. It was something much simpler than that
The crack in the walls made me visible again
In disbelief of it all, he was there
The lights were on, the camera rolling
You held it right where I was
I want him to get through the painful aggression of my distance. Walk through my walls like he was born to do it. That’s the love I want
I remember the first time I inquired about suicide, I was 7 or 8 years old. I still shared a room with my sister.
My diary from 2016 is one of the most disruptively sorrowful journals, filled with entries dedicated to fear.
Not a spirit in the forest, nor a cloud in the sky
knows the words that blooms inside…
This THING THAT IS I.
The nightmares that have plagued me my entire life have not only revealed themselves to true, but worse than I could have ever let myself imagine.
The reemergence of repressed memories is a somewhat controversial subject, people don’t understand how you could possibly forget something you remember. It’s unnatural and incredibly difficult to describe while making sense tot he other party. […]