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Scars -a bloody unwanted reminder

Writing prompt -Scars

One scar I have is huge – it almost wraps all the way around my upper wrist -it is 2-3 cm wide.  Indented, It reminds me of a dried upriver.

The cause?

Domestic violence.

Before I continue…

Domestic abuse & Toxic relationships

Rape -NO means NO.

I’m going to state the obvious here.

Domestic violence is a relationship fucks about with your mental health, whether you love the person or not.

 

Toxic relationships have usually tipped me over into using shitty coping mechanisms like drinking too much, taking drugs, overdosing and not managing my medication or my eating disorder and Bipolar.

So back to the blood river scar.

One night- no

Another night of heavy drinking and arguing, I found me in a house -not mine- that looked like a slaughterhouse. all dirty browns. There was a rusty scent of blood impossible to ignore.

Every time I inhaled, the scent would drip down the back of my throat like a  tap -I could taste it too.

I  had mixed copious amounts of alcohol with my medication and all I remember is trying to push my ex away with my left hand ( I am left-handed), he grabbed my arm and I struggled back.

BLACKOUT

 

 An image.

An arm.

 

 a massive shard of re-enforced window glass- barbered-   poking out of my right arm.

 

Another image.

the back of my exes legs and back running up the stairs.

PANIC 

BLOOD

DRINK

VODKA

WHERE IS THE ORANGE JUICE?

WHERE IS THE GLASS?

WHERE IS MY EX?

BLOOD 

DRIP

BLOOD 

DRIP

BLOOD 

DRIP

BLOOD 

DRIP

PANIC 

PANIC

An arm coated thick with blood. I wear it like an accessory

Blood makes noise.

I hear screaming.

Mine.

Ex reappears and tries to grab me.

I try to run away.

PANIC 

BLOOD

DRIP

I NEED TO GET OUT OF HERE.

Why is my ex naked? 

In the middle of the street?

Rolling on the floor with me- trying to muffle my screams with his hand. Trying to stop me from running away...

BLOOD

MIND FUCKERY at its best.

“Look what you have done…” ex says.

6 hours later – location:  hospital.

The doctor asks to speak with me in private. My ex doesn’t want to leave my side.

I don’t say anythingquack quack! quack quack! quack quack!   the word on a loop…

 

“What happened?”  he wants to know.

“We don’t know. We were drinking. I can’t remember. It was an accident.” my ex speaks for us.

My head bows down,it almost appears as if I am nodding. I can’t quite remember.

What I do remember feels like I have made it up, it is so detached from my mind and emotions. It is about as close to me as Pluto or Saturn.

3 days in hospital my ex never left my side.

Not even to go home to wash or brush his teeth.

I wasn’t alone- my mother was with us too.

I was high on morphine for the pain.

Why didn’t they operate sooner? 

Did they want to monitor me? 

The situation? 

Us? 

three days later…  I’m being wheeled on the hospital bed- away from the stale, coughing ward…

“countback with me from 10,” says the anaesthetist.

10 , 9 ,8 ……

BLACKOUT

 

“1”. my eyes burst open. I gasp a breath. It is  like I’ve been living in a homemade sac filled with half shallow water and half air.

 Disorientated.

What happened?

I look down at the artwork the surgeon has done.

No more blood.

re-stuffed re-patched, recovered,

by a micro surgical  hand.

Discharged.

Back to the carnival freak show.

I enter his home – a massacre.

Dry blood everywhere.

Smell.

Bleach.

Sound.

Scrubbing brushes.

Stubborn blood. 

If only it could serve as a reminder of what actually happened that night.

“I don’t remember” the ex says.

How can he and I not know?

Every time I look at my scar I am reminded of the chaos that was my life for 4 years.

This scar says –

mutilation.

despair.

secrets.

emotions numbed.

detachment.

silence.

silence-1.jpg

This scar reminds me to NEVER be silent in the name of so-called love or a sense of loyalty to one who claimed to love me so much he would do anything to keep me.

http://www.vevo.com/watch/suzanne-vega/blood-makes-noise/USIV20300313

When I left him, I did not take his threats seriously.

 What he did next gave serious competition with the scar I see.

That everyone can see.

Toxic relationships result in a severe loss – sometimes that means your life.

Think carefully about what and who your life may include.

I was reborn again on the 06/05/2015.

The day the court ordered social services out of my life.

The day that my ex turned his back on me,  is the day I realised I had been holding my breath for years.

I had forgotten how to breathe.  I might have been dead- a wanderer.

06/05/2015 -I remembered not only how to breathe again but why.

Life -not just my own but that who is of me.

Life is precious

Life is my responsibility

resumption_by_jorgeremmy-d3drxy2.png

Bloody red tressed army

 

The red army draws collective breath whistles it out in a  howling gust of wind snarling.

She stands tall – her long  tresses raised to the heavens

A subtle message from Hell’s dwellers:  it was back to attack.

Every month,  they stalk her just as night follows day, full-mooned. Hairy palms, yellow slit eyes – she would rather die of an internal haemorrhage than be demeaned.

They see the blood trickling down her legs.

Draw in closer –  metallic scented pack.

Pro-choice in an era where science can make the dead come to life – yet still she must bleed whether she carries life inside her or expels the botanist’s seed.

Condemn her to a life in pro.  Micheal Jordan had space jam. A notorious – well-received flow. She blushes every time her breasts swells – nature twists in a  smile. Nipples point straight at the mouths of the hungry -ready for their feed.

To be Anonymous in a WikiLeaks world. Memes, social media information convulsing out  statements of change:

 Did you know?

 Think about how brainwashed – your mind is!

She knows she still rolls in her own shit.

Unfit for a carry one movie with Benny hill and the league of justice.

Dead pool eyes.

She knows this world is too abrasive

Her skin smooth

Her passion unhinged

One straight jacket away from having the whole collection of brand unfit.

‘It’s a happening, baby ‘-throwback to Allan Kaprow.

Everyone is crazy. Everyone has issues.

Everyone stand and link arms at the toll bridge

show solidarity for your fallen foes.

The ones who fell 20 feet from the building or overdosed on legal high drugs brought from some hoodie called  Jack Wills.

How to be seen and have her privacy in a cyberbully surveillance world?

Charity matters.

Throwdown your sticks allow overgrowth to infect the anti-stigma hedges trimmed neatly in a row.

She screams out in shrill

Ears sharp enough to raise the dead.

How is it possible no one sees or hears of her ills.

Despicable matters in the eyes of the living dead.

An out or an in.

A place that stirs broth from her blood flow  waits until her insulin levels drop to an all-time grave

So shallow.

Sugar-coated words nauseate her.

Her duty to be human and keep her heart on the ticker – inside she knows the hurricane won’t stop swaying the palm trees until she is torn from her roots

From below.

Mr Big has an acute perspective unable to see she is drowning with every weapon she draws.

It doesn’t take a hostage negotiation expert to know that eventually, even the savviest terrorist can be worn down to drop its ammunition.

Stockholm! Place of the cordial juiced up paedophiles.

Intensive herbal essence conditioning treatment is their only hope of showing her how to be free.

A Jesus embellished slice of toast to honour her first Butter valley communion.

She thinks she is free.

She knows it’s part of her syndrome.

 To admit her state of inferiority to herself would mean she ‘s dubious about her declaimed existence.

Her mind is her prison. She has the padlock and the pin number. She sits up to 24 hours a day punching in the password, unlocking the clunk of metal chains – on a loop.

An exercise in futile persistence.

The ending is found in her very beginnings  born out of blood, stained, crying

Pulled out with forceps the white coats defined her form from the moment they beat her into breathy life.

Smiling jokester with  broad shoulders fighting all corners of the globe

Her last breath will be when she lets go-

Stops giving.

In her state of   cocoon  expose her true misery to the world – look at her in  her strife

Don’t worry, folks

Blood will flow.

You will get your show.

Just know that she put up one hell of a fight

In order to finally see her vision of light.

Life Midwife

Panic  glares at them boots tossed near the scullery  bin

Churns its  stomach until it resembles a soiled salad

Curled

Brown shaded  stemmed leaves.

 

A dice scarred  thrice

Flag down

The fourth Pleiades  sister

Her face disfigured by a silhouette.

Speech dubbed over until she believes she is mute.

 

Declares her name as

Proprietor of

The scarlet barnet.

Gingerly

Desperate to hold onto her  last shred of dignity.

 

Shrouded into a solar

State

         Less

Honoured

To

Bow

Down

To  luminosity dressed up

Unperturbed

An impish grin inhabits incognisant  skin.

Burnt bloody blisters

Advertising big  lips

Still demanding to be heard.

What makes one positive push a negative

Then rebound ?

Perhaps its for effect….

 

The ribs don’t need  a tickle

To denounce the bastardisation of the butterfly effect.

 

Brazen Christians

Resurrect naked infants born with the soul clap.

Pure child neglect.

Raised on  a  hellish platform.

High  on  emotion fuelled

Atoms

Reformed into

Noxious Martians grappling to lead the IDM  pack.

 

Heavens gates part way for  Entities egos

Stumbling

Superior to the kaffirs*

Squelching about barefoot

Abandoning their   groundwork stained  blueprint.

 

Fingers retrace its  outline  with fear &
loathsome

Garments  unravel to the ground

Reveal a strangers  foot clubbed into inhabiting an  Acute Depressive

                                                                                                                      Indent.

Hands sculpt into  a perfect punch

Transforming into a  knuckle bled  fist.

Deafening  decibels desperate to  pump  up the jam.

 

Distinguished  from independent thought

Bedlams final safety net sets off.

 

Distinguished from the  shame

Prophets  betrayed my another  divine  kind.

How to love a self

                         Inflicted
Bond broken
By  the seizures  of our child?

It bear  not the demeanour of a preacher

Chanting  to

Sopranos  forced to be overshadowed by a blues  choir.

Doubt these  creatures.

Those with  eyes of a temptress.

 

Alpha romeos induced into crawling out of her womb

Thrust a pelvis

If merely to  humour.

 

 Break  down the odds of

Un

   Hinging

This beast.

Shame fulminates

Until

Blue blood  runs yellow

                                 Bloody piss takers.

Leave a heart

               Fully

Ignorant

To the  meaning of life.

Triggers free  happy clappy believers

Of  mirth.

 

Silenced to be reborn

By the creators personal  midwife.

(Kaffir-meaning ‘non believer’ in Islam and it was also the name given to African/mixed race people who lived under the apartheid regime in South Africa.)

Mrs Tersable

Mrs. Tersable had the patience of  Hades with a lengthy dose of blue ball build up  syndrome.

Beans on toast, eaten straight out of  a tin can –  this is not how she was used to living, outside of her comfort zone.

She wore wooly jumpers to cover  the razor sharp teeth piercing through her very own flesh.

She was so gifted in signing off with a  ‘kiss kiss’ and a ‘mwah mwah’  tres AbFab darling

 BBC  Nigella’s  best Italian  dish.

Unfortunate event, she was the kind of lady who had to learn how to suck the devil’s cock. Have her ass smacked  and molded into   a fine knight  mare.

The tragedy in her quest to rise to power in a Patriarchal society took a heavy blow on a high voltage setting ,following a trail  to the bully matriarch beatbox  competition at ye olde fayre.

She rose in stature  until she hit her own glass ceiling – a rose always  needs to be pruned. All flowers, eventually, lose their fragrance and bloom.

Every season there will always be another eager seedling waiting to come out and steal  her once-signature odorous  perfume.

It’s a lamentable world we live in when the people who are meant  to be  teachers and mentors,

refuse to listen to their own apprentice or student who  listens , then questions the station ranked  above.

Not all students  climb this far to then  curtsey disabled in  fear, at one vicious bark – all the way on the Yorkshire moors.

What does this say about us as parents, role models, teachers when we refuse to admit our own errors?

We pinch our noses to avoid inhaling one whiff of humble pie, no one saw  you order  a Miss Hannigan chaser.

An associate of those benefit drunks with the DT tremors?

Feedback at any age,gender ,role or title is crucial to evidence   your presence in eternal life learning.

Mistakes are a necessary jigsaw piece to conclude  this game.

It’s not  so much what we don’t say as to how we say it.

Oops, maybe that  15-year-old child shouldn’t have appeared to be marking that essay on the subject of learning to  ‘look  kept while she  is on the game-  earning’.

Bullies come in a plethora of forms – the ones with the sweetest touch can turn on a person like a stye in   the eye.

Manic and wide-eyed .

‘Attention , we  now  introduce you to Sir werewolf faint heart . ‘

His title gives him permission to tear down  the fourth wall but he promptly  decides to use off stage to indicate he has his role – his own part.

So changeable – so  constant.

If it weren’t for experimental  folk, you might believe  that the  very word  had been a word that ‘phantasmagoria -the shouting  star’ ,hurtled down to you from a startling  height in  a –

can you picture it?

A cosmic  sky.

Oh, how  some serfs do like a good old-fashioned backdrop.

Kitchen sink drama – ironing and puffing a cig so soon after a hideous operation tumor  larynx op.

I don’t mind  subjective commentary .

Political and social change is in a state of  osmosis.

Dame Equlibrium!

 Where is she hiding ? be a darling and throw us an adlib  objective  objection – based on some factual,theoretical documentary.

Ego  hypothetically propositioned and the  recent report is he is officially   unwounded.

Id is feeling indulgently  charitable.

Super ego is insulted on behalf of all the marginalized  it  chooses to write about.

Prepared to work with all senses engaged, ready to gain insight and  to ‘show and tell’  how flawed this world truly is .

Just because it says something  black  on white  – doesn’t mean it’s exempt from giving you a bad case of colonic  irrigation ,peppered doubt.

The biggest bullies are the  usual suspect atypical members – they all  have a hidden agenda.

Keep your cool and refuse to cower from the tirade of abuse screamed down the cord of a retro style, dial-up  telephone  – switch  on to radio channel smoothie blender.

Only you can be your greatest ally and defender.

Or,

you could   go on one hell of a  bender.

Never been an option for the author who has fought off more heated bitches in duplicitous  organizations with a questionable gender.

*Inspired by good old fashioned rotten to the core  bullies sitting in apple trees *

Esther Roe

Charlie met Esther on abortionist roe.

Hedges neatly trimmed – enough to dishevel a bearded vagabond to weep after his latest woe.

No coat hangers to gut the newborn sac.

Charlie stood for hours until her number came up.

Raging

rouge screen screams with a tremulous beep.

Surreal

Conceal

Unable

to strike the star lead role in a Bolly wood film deal.

 

Unsullied arrived in a cumulous cloud

stricken by a thunderous compulsion to wail.

 

Esther didn’t hear the bond lust, lilted scream.

memory hazed -by two fat ladies at gate number 8.

Efforts disarmed – inability to count down to the primal odd.

 

nebulous chlorophyll masked her mouth.

Envy immobilised to an unrecalled dream.

Innocents smile

swinging on tyres.

Freddie Kruger caught in a static slumber loses nightmare credibility to a sterile clinic;

Action paralysing every unconscious scene.

Stratham, London-night defends to keep watch.

Both stumble upon a tidy little room – 1970’s style. No disco defiblerater harmonizing jolts to the beat of

‘ Staying alive ‘

Old granny hoovered up flowers chocked in ivy a patterned carpet,

Mist of lavender lingers. This bitch knows how to spray.

Don’t mess with the O.G.

Peppered, seasoned hair, non-linear lines carve out a facial narrative.

Don’t be fooled by this kungfu hoe.

inebriated illiterates

desensitized to her strategy in a game of cruel cluedo.

It’s all so normal. It’s life, you know.

Scissors ready to stab a beating heart,

Positioned in foetal

Sucked out the uterus.

Pro-choice.

Pro voice.

Pro-life.

Pro midwife.

Tall walled wars.

Bricks bolster the Illusion of affairs in order.

Nobody is scrutinized so fiercely as the woman who maps out her own destiny – navigates the boundaries that her ideas can afford her.

Quality control.

The NHS paid for a private eye.

Two signatures deemed sufficient to see her through the hours of her sobering silence.

Shameless in her flowered disguise.

Ginger nuts, unsavoury tufts.

No, this wasn’t her nine month due – no ice cubes for killing in the name of freedom to govern her own vessel.

No need for pro-life Stepford wives lies.

Sins anoint.

Sins accumulate.

 

Where would our saints stand without a dissident at hand?

Society sits down, protest proudly.

Part the veil of clouds

Peer piously downwards,

ready to strike thunderbolts of judgement.

 

Rain down booming terror tactics.

Esther cares not for their gospel band

Society sips, exhaling wafts of fair trade, Ivory coast coffee beans.

Privilege smells of a modern holocaust of starving babies in bony mothers arms.

Who said any of these women consented to consummate?

Penetrative obedience to the phallic statues erected in morning glory psalms.

Civilized society!

 

What if God was one of us?

a scripture in the making.-

Touch and kiss the sky.

Would he become the true reflection we see, when we catch ourselves about to exhale the final breathe before we die?

Fantasies always signed off with a silver lining and promises of a rainbow.

Reality is cold,

winter serves a plateau of ice.

Frigid flowers are frozen in angst,

Shatter

like glass.

Rebel against their reproductive nature.

Air,

breathe.

One full gasp.

If only a mere raspy rant leaves on its depart.

It’s either them or an urban jungle of homo sapiens collecting another free day ride.

Ready to infect ignorance on every global ocean that has shores that go out at low tide.