Once the trigger has been pulled there’s no going back. No way to stop the waves of emotions, memories and false narratives from floating about. Like a paint gun splashes of color exploding on my skin, shirt, face, and groin.
Talking myself through the possibilities. Giving voice to the explosions against my body. I had no idea that TV show would go there. I thought it was a love pact suicide… someone you had thought was trustworthy and full of manly love was molesting these boys… the scripts dialogue was well researched it all rang true and deep.
And I know as I wake this am – it reverberates touches me – amplifies my grief…not trusting anyone. Trusting no adult – fearful of men will overpower me, isolating to keep safe – all the while wanting to be touched, loved and accepted by a safe, loving man who respects me and shares his tenderness… there’s the grief that space between the two forces – suspended time that keeps me from both…
I talked myself through the while the invisible bullets tore through my flesh. My entire being getting blurry and the coming into focus again.
Shipwrecked on this island beach – I sit and watch the rising sun. Wondering if there are other members of the tribe on this stretch of sand.