DEAD

Whatever is in my heart has been strewn about like a rag-doll on a merry-go-round

Filled with trepidation and fear when all things spoken gel into one silver bullet

Once broken by those lies flung at me haphazardly in the heat of an argument

One thousand one hundred and eighty seven days later I’m no longer victorious

I’m dead I know that my eyes are closed restricting free thought to my brain

Still sensitive to the insensitive brutes who initiate games in my head for sport

Even now time stands still and I question my own judgment my own sound mind

My cheerleader skirt is dirty from shouting, “I’m free! I won! He didn't beat me.”

Yet facing this one and that one similar in make-up and build I’m not so sure

I’m dead I know that my heart has stopped talking to my body feeding me life

Shit I thought I was over the hurt but now I must burn my worn survivor shirt

So on my tippy toes I reach for the Band-Aids my wounds are so far from healed

I cry out in the darkness to the Spirit for my wounded soul to again take flight

Sadly the falling feathers of my wings glow like molten embers settling at my feet

I’m dead I know that my shero succumbed to his kryptonite. I’m dead I know.