A Matter of Speaking

I could speak to you in metaphors, but I'm afraid you may not understand what I'm trying to say...

I could tell you that the fire in my stomach ignites my right hand and as my pen blazes across the page, in its wake leaves a trail of pure truth.

My emotions can't speak words, but when pen touches paper, I have a megaphone set on high and with no sound more than my hand rubbing against the page as I write I scream to the world exactly how much it hurts.

But then how would you know that when I speak I stutter, cause the feelings flood my brain and make me forget just the right words to describe it? How I open my mouth and what comes out even though I'm dying inside is simply, "I'm fine."

I could tell you that the pain etched into my body holds years of secrets that I can never escape from. That where I end and my pain begins will always be a blurred red line because my pain has become me.

But then how would you know about the nights where I stared at the bright light from the clock reading 4:02 am? That I could not make it to 4:03 without metal meeting flesh. You may see these scars but you may not see that they are not a metaphor, but they are my life. As I watched the blood drip off my fingers, swearing to myself that it would never be that bad again- if I said it was a river freely flowing to eternal bliss, you may not see the fear in my eyes and know how I prayed if this was the last time, just let it be quick.

I could tell you that I'm engulfed by liquid flames, sent crashing and burning into the deepest abyss of my mind, willing myself to be lost forever in white-hot silence.

But then how would you know that as he laid himself into me, it was all I could do to find that safe place in my head where his weight didn't hold me, pin me as his tongue ran over my body, as he held me hostage for his own sick pleasure, while I whispered to a deaf God to take me somewhere else?

I could speak to you in rhymes and with fancy word play.

Talk to you about how I was broke and broken, awake and awoken, clear and out of focus when I met a sneaky little demon who slid his hands around my neck and nearly choked me. I'd tell you of dirty public bathrooms that stink of piss and sorrow, my paradise where the snake eyes of society won't look down on me as I fill the syringe full of peace and inject escape into my arms.

But then you might not hear me telling you about that time on Christmas day when instead of a nice dinner around the table, the heroin that ran through my veins kept me stationed on the printed comforter in my rented motel room. You may not see the image of me slumped over on the park bench as school-age kids cross the street before they walk by, even though I just spent first period with them in the same room. You may not really open your eyes to someone who doesn't shower or brush their hair or eat a meal cause thats less time spent searching for that euphoria that was felt that very first time.

See, I could spit these words out as metaphors.

Say metaphorically speaking, I am a caged bird. I am a natural disaster. I am timeless destruction. I am noiseless pain. I am burning with a flame that's only too hot for me to touch. I am running in circles with scissors only I can see. I am the levies that broke, the water that floods, the city that's lost, and the people that hang onto rooftops pretending they can't swim. I am...so f*cked, that it doesn't matter how I phrase it- you still wont be able to see the hurt in my eyes.

But if I tell you, literally speaking, maybe you'll begin to understand.