The Banging
I can feel all the things that used to paralyze me banging at my door.
I am not answering.
My back bows and threatens to break under the weight of their ceaseless—relentless—banging.
Their voices are garbled, like ripped throats gesticulating sound pushed from lungs wrapped in barbed wire.
What do I do this time?
I slayed some monsters. Embraced others. What does this one need?
Do you need me to lend you my voice?
Because I will.
Shame swallowed me whole. Made me physically ill. She still visits sometimes.
But I do not allow her to steer, anymore.
Your banging strips me raw. Once again flayed. Heart starts to race.
Is it wrong to find comfort in this feeling? You are far more familiar than the joy painting my walls in sunshine, these days.
Come now.
I've decided to embrace.
Let your blood stain my sheets.
I will neither resist, nor erase.
Lets see what your hand in mine can make,