Stain
I’m listening to : Slaves by Poova (on YouTube)
I have it all. And I doubt it all and more.
I am nearing three years of my silent, implicit recovery. Things have been going great – in fact, it’s been going brilliant – but I keep getting recurring thoughts and dreams of it. I was so sure to have put it all behind, but the truth is it never left. Somewhere in my subconscious mind it has been tailing me everywhere I go, every other second of the day. Just waiting.
The damp, musty odor.
The metallic taste of blood in my mouth.
Its skin hanging on bones. Keeping me from another escape.
If I believed in god, angels and demons I would self-assuringly tell you I have met one of the latter. But I don’t and you wouldn’t believe me.
But it is not that which saddens me. Or frustrates me. Or angers me. It is you, the one who believes me. Because I don’t know if all this drowning in my own sea is fair for the rescuer among us. Because I don’t know if I should be loved at all. And because. Just because.
*******
Because the filth that stains my skin will never wear off.
