Monday, 27 July 2015

wreckage .

when he found me i was a pile of bones and embers and broken words
a kaleidoscope mess
who said yes to things that made me sad.

i let him tear out pieces of me and
wear them
i watched him parade them around like a trophy
that he had won —
movement of hand
and i found that when i went to
pull myself back into something i could recognize
i was missing some important bones
to stand on
to reach
to run.

i found my embers did not reignite
because he had stolen the ones
that still glowed
and left me the ashes.

and i found that the shards of words and promises
that once made up my soul
no longer fit together like they should
no longer held meaning —
pages of my favourite book ripped out and
tossed to the wind.

and i hated him
for a long time.

hated him for coming to me when i was weak
for taking what wasn't his
for sitting on my chest until i couldn't breathe anything but him.

but i have learned
that i still
can dance on broken bones,
that there are parts of me that will catch fire
even when i'm most numb,
that i was born with a pen at my fingertips
and i could re-write every last word that i lost
or i can leave the torn and crumpled papers where they are
and write a new part.



  1. That's the reason I go on living, because I know I still can. You wrote it well.


  2. S... I love your writing... I hope ine day I can ignite what is left and dance on broken bones... there's always hope right? .... ♡

  3. SHIT. This is exactly how my last relationship felt. It was a mess of him stealing every single part of me until I was nothing at all. It's taken me a long time to reach the same realization of this piece, that I could still be broken and beautiful. You capture this journey and this struggle so so well, S. Gorgeous as always.

  4. You are an ignited fire on those broken bones. Your writing exemplifies it.

  5. saddens me to see "regret" in the tags, this breaking has fused you. pykrete is 14% sawdust and 86% ice, made literally of broken things and the ocean, it can withstand being stretched or pulled 3x as much as concrete. you might be made of shreds and ice but goddamn, isn't it beautiful?

  6. This is beautiful. And it's sad and horribly tragic that it happened to you, that it happened to me, that it happens to anyone, ever, at all.
    I still hate him. Sometimes I think I shouldn't, because I'd like to think him ignorant instead of cruel, but that never removes the hate.
    One day, I hope I let myself write a new chapter, instead of holding the book shut.