The Heat of Chaos

[Repost from September 2nd, 2020]

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.