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.
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.
a massive shard of re-enforced window glass- barbered- poking out of my right arm.
the back of my exes legs and back running up the stairs.
WHERE IS THE ORANGE JUICE?
WHERE IS THE GLASS?
WHERE IS MY EX?
An arm coated thick with blood. I wear it like an accessory
Blood makes noise.
I hear screaming.
Ex reappears and tries to grab me.
I try to run away.
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...
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 anything. quack 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?
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 ……“
“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.
I look down at the artwork the surgeon has done.
No more blood.
re-stuffed re-patched, recovered,
by a micro surgical hand.
Back to the carnival freak show.
I enter his home – a massacre.
Dry blood everywhere.
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 –
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.
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
Panic glares at them boots tossed near the scullery bin
Churns its stomach until it resembles a soiled salad
Brown shaded stemmed leaves.
A dice scarred thrice
The fourth Pleiades sister
Her face disfigured by a silhouette.
Speech dubbed over until she believes she is mute.
Declares her name as
The scarlet barnet.
Desperate to hold onto her last shred of dignity.
Shrouded into a solar
To luminosity dressed up
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.
Resurrect naked infants born with the soul clap.
Pure child neglect.
Raised on a hellish platform.
High on emotion fuelled
Noxious Martians grappling to lead the IDM pack.
Heavens gates part way for Entities egos
Superior to the kaffirs*
Squelching about barefoot
Abandoning their groundwork stained blueprint.
Fingers retrace its outline with fear &
Garments unravel to the ground
Reveal a strangers foot clubbed into inhabiting an Acute Depressive
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
By the seizures of our child?
It bear not the demeanour of a preacher
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
Blue blood runs yellow
Bloody piss takers.
Leave a heart
To the meaning of life.
Triggers free happy clappy believers
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 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.
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.
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 *
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.
rouge screen screams with a tremulous beep.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.