I tip-toe around our home,
as if it's never belonged to me.
I shrink back into my room -
my gut tells me to stay there -
it's safe here.
You knock on my door, and wonder what I am doing,
asking me to come downstairs,
pretending as if there isn't anything down there that could possibly make me feel uncomfortable.
Most days when, when the memories are being shoved in my face, vaunting their existence.
I stay silent.
I ignore them.
They say silence speaks louder than words...
Well here I am.
Tight lipped, teeth grinding, purple faced...
Am I loud enough?
Can you hear the silence?
I don't want to talk about it anymore.
I just want you to look at me and understand that I have grown exhausted over the subject.
Though, it's not enough for you is it?
You must keep acknowledging it, as if you don't recognize that I do not care.
And I am not ashamed...
I do not fear feeling indifferent towards the things that make me unhappy.
Everything that has brought me misery has been buried.
But you want to exhume the remains -
resuscitate the decomposed body of horrible memories.
You want to dress it up and speak about it as if it's a miracle that it stands.
Well the shovel is in your hand,
I can see it clearly...
I can see you propping up the limp, rotten, corpse.
You do not have the power to bring back what is dead.
Allow me to never speak of the trauma that I had to endure.
Understand, the next time you walk in, once I say "I don't care,"
I am saying:
"Please do not make me relive this again. I have been through so much pain and I am trying to heal, I am trying to move on and you are not letting me."
Give me the freedom to stand in my own home and state,"I no longer wish to acknowledge what I hate."
I want to be able to set myself free.
I want to move on without you handing me the hand of this corpse, trying to convince me it'll keep me company.
I don't need it.
I never wanted it...