Numb Triangles

Words. They both fascinate and confuse. So many collected over the years, some retained more than others. Treasures crammed in my mind have stained my tongue too. My hand remembers, my fingers prove. But my spirit reluctant to do so to. The outline of sentences I long to say float past my eyes like vitreous floaters, taunting me.
My head, my heart, my mouth know not. At very best it will be an unconvincing “I’m okay”. A beautiful car crash of slurred, soft-spoken speech. Spilled over shaken, broken lips. How I wish it were only my lips that were broken.
Words are complex. To say is one thing, to mean is another. Right now, I can’t seem to do either. Notice what I did there? Did you see the ‘seen’? Uselessly used so I don’t have to admit that ‘I CAN NOT’ is truly what I mean. The remains of a soul surviving on excuses. Too numb to let herself know. To admit I know what I don’t want to know. Confused yet? Me too. #Me too
They say a triangle is the strongest shape. I found out the hard way. 10th august 2020, room 70 something, three figures standing over me.
Next to me? Near me? Not quite sure.
Her mind blanks
Where was she? Where was…I?
The elder of the pack an intimidating base, two younger helpers played a repulsive point each; a support system needed to maintain control over the prey. My memory is diluted, impeccably broken and vague. Clumps of confusion thicken the lining of my mind, but my body tells me differently. A mental daze. Obscurity from a heavy and potent alcohol induced haze. They know her inconspicuously and yet they know the entirety of my physicality. Used for their pleasure, they steal all capacity for mine. The grip of six hands stain muscles with aches, the skin eventually releasing the blue and purple fingerprints of trauma trapped beneath. Painfully adorned but the spirit stings more. Bruises fade as real pain begins. Betrayed by flawless skin. Dirty and guilty walk hand in hand in my head. Did it happen because of something I wore, did or said? Of course not. Silly accusations hurt me hard, but still I accuse.
A pill for lunch. Three days later, not quite the morning after, but better late than never? They investigate my everything.
Swab in. Swab out. Swab in. Swab out. Swab in. Swab out.
Swab in. Swab out. Swab in. Swab out. Swab in. Swab out.
With a jab in the arm, and a solitary, sombre vile of blood collected, she’s informed she’s clear. Clear of everything but shame. The shame of a crime she did not commit. The one thing they can’t detect the very thing she is so heavily infected.
The shame of a crime I did not commit smeared onto, into, me. So contagious it consumes body, mind, and soul. The kind that burns alcohol down HER throat, tares HER skin with HER knife by HER own hand. Acidic tears so lethal they eat away at the last molecules of mascara that helped hide HER.
She knows sadness more than herself and she’d revel in her insomnia if it was nightmares she was spared. Am I broken beyond repair? Not yet claimed in faith, but if the time is ever it’s now…or so she begs in prayer.

Triad of Tears

Once an irrational fear, now confirmed truth.

I had a crush on you, but you crushed me. 

Her gut the judge, their mouths the jury. Guilty are the accused. But of what crime?

Not technically uncouth, but some wrong doings done.

Two infatuated with an idea, and an unrequited onlooker. 

Stabbed in the back by a blade of actions – not metal or steel.

She who so desires peace, pierced. 

But a year of being led on, unwanted and now replaced has taken its toll and a ransom they must pay. A heart hardly healed now sliced, diced, and seared. 

Once the three musketeers, now reduced to a triad of tears. 

Change is a challenge.
Change is inevitable and yet forever uncertain.
It’s past, present, and future.
It’s exciting and it’s terrifying.
It is as quick as life and as slow as death.
Happy and sad. Right and wrong.
Change is the once fresh, plump flesh of youth turning grey and wrinkled like scrunched up newspaper. But the skin tells stories better than paper. A wrinkle, a laugh line, a freckle, a tear worth more than a careful selection of words.
It’s the leaves fading from brown to green, and orange as peel.
It’s the laws of land transforming from old to reformed.
It’s the gentle jingle of coins found in pockets on rainy days.

Whether the will of God or the schemes of Satan, change is carried out by the souls and hands of humanity.
No-one escapes change. Unlike facemasks, no one is exempt.
Change is a challenge.

                                                                           But what a blessing it is that it can be done.