She used to think that she was different than the others.
That she was the lucky one.
Because she hadn’t let it get to her the way that they had.
She’d learned to dissociate.
And that felt like a superpower of sorts.
It felt like she was indestructible.
Nothing about it had altered her, had destroyed her.
They were broken down by it, stripped of everything…
And because of it, they crashed and burned.
All at once.
Not her.
Her pain stood on reserve,
waiting for the perfect moment to creep up on her,
when she least expected it.
And so it lingered within her for months, for years,
until it couldn’t anymore.
The power she’d felt had evaporated.
Everything built up, ready to explode.
The pain… it always catches up.
About the Creator
Love Odessa
Dreamy poetry about girlhood and the complexities of being a woman.
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Our Song
Evening has given way to night. Gently, I settle next to you on the comfortable, old love seat and reach for your hand. You snatch it away, again. It cuts me to the quick, but I hide the pain, understanding that the reaction is but part of your demented state. Since the accident, your presence here in our cozy home has been clouded by a haze I can't see. Nevertheless, I feel the frigidity of your expressions and it serves as an excruciating reminder of the immeasurable distance between us.
By Dana Crandell5 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
It does always catch up! Well done. Best to grieve fully right away. Let it out and out and out.