on the one who made me afraid .

i'm not sure what it was in your life that made you feel that
you had to shout to be heard 
and only violent hands could get your point across

i'm not sure what made you think of manipulation as
the only way to get what you're after
and faux-kindness something you can sell to the highest bidder (for a time)

somewhere in life you mastered the one-sided argument
and learned to twist words till they sound nothing the same as
when they came out

your voice became a siren in my nightmares
and i used to hear it right before i feel asleep, then re-awaken
heart pounding

and even after i got out, making sure i'd never cross your path again
even then i'd peek around corners and speak in hushed tones
and hold my breath when the phone would pierce through the silence

S. 

{Photo: Flickr Margaret Durow}

Silhouettes.

I've been living with the ghosts of all the things I've refused to say, shadows of lost possibility.

My remaining soul tries to fight against them - explaining that it is the curse of my humanity - pointing to another that has haunted me longer still: Fear. He, fixed fast upon my heart, won't let the words out.

I don't suppose these visitors care much. They're here to stay. Besides, what would be the use of winning this battle of reason? I've lost the war, my favor will never be regained, and that is why they haunt me.

But, truth be told, I'm not so sure I would want to be a part of something so terribly fragile; something so easily destroyed by swallowed words. Let these monsters taunt me; let them strip my heart of all it's substance, and let me claim the life of the tin man.

S. 

{Photo via: We Heart It}