It wasn't as painful as the poem i wrote my senior year, written about the same subject, the same person, the same pain. that i had to read to the entire class, where i walked back to my seat, unbreathing, and scolded myself with "don't you dare cry right now. don't you DARE."
it wasn't as painful as reliving the memory would have been last year, two years ago, almost four years ago when it actually happened.
Writitng it did not bring back the familiar pain that i expected.
Instead, i walked out of that classroom feeling even more joyous than i had when i walked in. Leaving with nothing but the pure joy of knowing that i had just written a damn good essay. With only one thought it my head, "damn am i a good writer."
I walked out of the classroom, into the sunlight, headphones back in my ears
and i smiled.
"Cheer up its wednesday"
And tomorrow it will be, cheer up.
why?
because its thursday.
Be cheery for today. Smile at the thought of tomorrow. And let your heart sing at the hope for every day to come after that.
There is no need to be sad, today is here. and tomorrow is on its way.
Here is my painless essay;
Silent Fight
I’d like to say I’ve never been in a fight. However, that depends on your definition of the word ‘fight’. Some could perceive it as two people throwing blows, one person with his back to the ground while his opponent’s fists are crashing down, driving him deeper into the concrete. It could be simply verbal, words thrown, piercing the air, stabbing back at you. A fight could be defined as what you might see in a schoolyard; two people in the center, and a wall of bodies and chants surrounding them yelling fight! Fights can be loud, heard from across the neighborhood; guns firing, fists and breakable objects smashing against the walls, doors slam. Or they could be silent, hidden, not seen, not heard, so what is it even a fight? If a tree falls in the woods and there’s no one around to hear it, does it make a sound? My fight, stinging silent, could hardly be called a fight at all.
We sat in the back of my ’99 Tahoe, wearing nothing but skin. I kept telling him no. No, I wouldn’t do that. This was routine. This happened every month, every week. It was like a sitcom re run that I was so sick of seeing it made me sick to my stomach. However, this time, my level of uncomfortability did not turn itself into an acquiescent little girl, cowering in the corner. This time, I felt a spark of strength, deep inside. This time, I told him no. Such a helpless word; an insignificant combination of two single letters, usually one that comes out of a young child’s mouth six times daily. Such a word of weakness, and yet, a word of power and might; a word of weakened force. Little did I know what that single two letter word would lead to. So I kept laughing it off, hoping it would just turn into a joke; even a sick joke would have been fine. Laugh it off, and then we can just leave. But what I was hoping would just become dust in the wind, and blow right past us with the breeze, soon became a searing pain in my right cheek. You see it in the movies; when someone gets hit their head jerks to the other side with unbelievable force, such force that it almost looks fake, like movie magic. Well in real life that actually happens. It is in fact not movie magic; it’s called momentum.
It happened so fast at first I wasn’t too sure what had happened. My left hand, which had only half a second ago been clasped tightly, gripping for life, to my sweating right hand, was now awkwardly placed on the floor, holding up my weight. My face, which had only seconds before been scared, innocent, and unsuspecting, was now red with pain, my cheek burning from the feel of his hand, so forcefully burned into my skin, my mouth hanging open. I could feel salty wetness stinging my eyes. A lump forced it’s way up my throat, like an animal forcing its way through a hole in the ground, trying to find the sunlight, running from whatever cruel thing was chasing close behind it, its legs begging for escape. Much like how my entire vulnerably exposed body begged for an escape, a way out, the light at the end of the tunnel, the clothes on the back seat, a cover, a shield, the keys in the ignition, turned only one click, providing the music my brain was blocking out. Unable to choke the bolting animal in the base of my dry throat back, in the next instant I was also unable to breathe. My lungs were closed; my face was burnt, seared from the pattern on the skin of his hand, charred from his fingerprints which define him, just how this action, this single blow, defines him. This is who he is. My brain was unaware of everything around me. Little did I notice the daylight outside my only slightly tinted windows, if someone had walked by I wouldn’t have seen them. My brain was spinning, blocking out everything expect the overly receptive nerves in my cheek, screaming for relief. I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t know what to do. Apparently my mouth knew what to say, for the first thing out of it was a muttered, clogged and choked sentence; “What happened to ‘I don’t hit girls’?” His response, “you happened.” I wasn’t entirely sure which hurt worse, his hand, or his words. Two simple words to match my two simple letters. Like dominos crashing into one another, this was the beginning to a very long and drawn out end.
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me. As children we wish we could live up to this. Thinking back now, four years ago when this incident occurred, and even today, I wish that statement was true. For my bones will mend and my cuts will scab and peel and heal. But words find their way into my head, digging their way deep, with the claws of a rabid animal, they settle themselves in, and forever they will stay. Nesting, haunting, reminding. So was this a ‘fight’? Or was it just a confrontation? Some would say any form of pain-inflicting physical contact is a fight, but some would also argue that my lack of a responding attack made it not a fight, but only an ambush. A quick and near silent ambush, only ten words were spoken, and only one strike was thrown, one hand raised. This so called ‘fight’ took only a matter of minutes, yet it felt like forever, and lasted years.
And here is my painful poem from a year ago;
This Time
I could see all the anger and hate you kept inside
When you open your eyes and looked at me.
I close my eyes to the dark corners I hide,
Your vulgar emotions I do not wish to see.
I opened my eyes and you ignored the pain and sympathy
Look in them now and see the rage I’ve held for years,
For that is all that remains of me.
No longer can you see my fears;
No longer can you scorn my tears.
I will submit to you no more
Sit forever upon your liars’ chair
But my heart no longer will you sear.
This time I’ll let the truth pour,
This time it’s your heart my hands will tear.
The only time i ever wrote about him were in english assignments.
I think that suits it well though. HE was an assignment. That i both passed and failed.
There isn't a word for the things i will do to the people who have wronged me.
I have so much rage - just waiting
for someone to wrong me
-asw
B.
