A flashback to the final night.
July 2019:
I am not okay.
I am a total mess
back on the floor of
a home that has been
drenched in lighter fluid
and intentionally set on fire.
The walls are hot with flame,
the linoleum is melting under me,
but I remain curled up on the floor.
I want to cry out from the pain
as my skin is singed with
empty promises and
violent threats and
touch I did not authorize,
but the heat of chaos dries my eyes
and tells me I cannot cry here.
I watch as my safe space disintegrates,
crying out for someone to just
come and fucking rescue me.
I am not okay.
I am suffocating under the weight of
beams of complex trauma and
posts of vicious assault and
cement blocks of violation.
My voice is too tiny to hear,
or maybe no one fucking cares,
so I curl up tighter in my place,
allow the inferno to engulf me;
a reminder no matter how hard
I try to extinguish the fire,
I will always go up in flames.
Fire & Female 