Drawing on the Melody of Experience, Part I

i not dirty;
and if i am;
stained; that is;
i am stained clean

them are drawing words;
her ashen skin whispered;
listening under a night’s sky.

them are drawing words;
her dark circles answered;
pretending to proudly effort
their gratitude.

them are drawing words alright;
her fingers and lips moved
beneath her surface
in the likeness of a being.

a willowy figure stands
dangling by her own scars,
as her words
unwelcome pity
and rub her horrors
into the paper.

yes, them are the drawing words!
they stain her clean.

There is no single line drawn or written able to tell the horror I or others have experienced. There is no shape quite empty enough to fill weeping wounds or hearts stitched together with blades of grass and flowers.

Yet, we still draw and we still write. Why? For the sake of our dreams!

There is nothing more false than to pretend forgiveness and healing makes it all okay. There is nothing more false than to set up a pedestal of higher functioning and make that the measurement of living.

We grieve fear, breathe panic startles, and cower at the click of heels on floors, the snap of belts, or voices rising in jest, laughter, or fervent conversation. Do not feel sorry for us or others.  Please, to pity us with sorrowful eyes is false and self-serving.

paint much love, always,
Connie Karleta Sales
a.k.a. This Crooked Little Flower