My Journey With:

Hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos syndrome (hEDS) ~ Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome (POTS) ~ Focal Impaired Awareness Seizures (Complex Partial Seizures) ~ Fibromyalgia ~ Chronic Myofascial Pain (CMP) ~ Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (PCOS) ~ TMJ Dysfunction ~ Bipolar I Rapid Cycling With Psychosis ~ Migraines ~ Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (My OCD is currently in remission except for hoarding) ~ Keratosis Pilaris (KP) ~ Complex-Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (C-PTSD) ~ Panic Disorder ~ Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD) ~ Social Anxiety Disorder (SAD) ~ Non-suicidal Self-Injury (NSSI or SI) ~ Painful Piezogenic Pedal Papules ~ Hashimoto's Thyroiditis (Autoimmune Hypothyroidism) ~ Irritable Bowel Syndrome ~ Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) ~ Multiple Phobias ~ Chronic Headaches

Sunday, December 18, 2011

"The Creek"

I wrote this in June 2009.


“The Creek”

Slosh, slosh.
Red rain boots stomp
through the almost stagnant water.
She cups her hands,
cradling a jellied
mass of tadpoles.
I’ll raise these on my own,
she says.
Slosh, slosh.
The red rain boots go inside,
only to watch the tadpoles petrify, die.
Her nose isn’t safe
from the rotten smells,
yet childlike hope keeps her waiting, waiting,
for them to wake up.
Slosh, slosh,
he is waiting outside.
Seeking his approval
she catches him a crawdad.
It pinches her,
she bites her lip not to cry in front of him.
She wants to be brave.
He points out a rock,
slick with the slime of summer.
It used to be a frog, he says.
He lies.
She bites her lip,
tastes blood.
I hate you,
he tells her.
The tears slip out.
I love you,
I want to have a friend,
she whispers.
She wonders if the words should not
have passed her lips,
wondering if he won’t be her friend now.
She chastises herself on the inside,
where its safe.
Only she can hear herself speak now.
Loudly,
I’ll do anything,
she says.
She leans into his ear,
In a child’s whisper,
can I still be your friend?
Her eyes water as she stares into the sun.
God lives there, she knows.
Should she turn out her heart to Him,
or keep it safe inside?
I want to be a good girl,
she spells it to herself over and over.
I want to be a good girl.
She smiles, her mind lost in thought,
her fingers absently
bringing the ends of her hair to her mouth.
God lives behind the sun.
If she stares hard enough she could see Him.
Quietly, her eyes streaming,
she wonders if God would want to listen.
Turning her head toward damp earth,
she is suddenly chilled.
She holds her tears inside,
instead she follows him through the water,
deeper into the woods,
her red rain boots making
the only noise she can hear.
Slosh, slosh.

~Amy
June 2009

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