First Cut

First Cut

It has been said that the deepest cut is the first.
Not for me.
Peel back the defensive disguise to see
The scars of the unspoken.
It is a chronic problem yet each wound is fresh,
The toxin of contempt and the biting bitterness in her glares.

It has been said that sticks and stones my bones can break
But it is the words, those said and those repressed
Which paralyse my paradise.

And the silence

The silence which is unlike any other
It hangs in the air and gathers venom
It strips away the self esteem that was my shield
It plucks at the stitches placed by loved ones
who carefully try and pull the ragged edges of my soul together
when pierced
it revels as I wince
waiting for it all to end

I leave the room she enters
I smile at her disdain
But none of this brings it to an end
There is no end but a mere interval
When one of us steps onto a plane

It’s never the first cut which hurts the most for me
It’s the first after a pause
When I dare to hope that time away has changed it
And that hope leads me lamblike to try again

It’s that cut that causes me to gasp
To lose my breath and drown in tears
To think for just a moment that it’s justified
That I am so worthless that I deserve this

But I have mastered the art of the sarcastic sticky plaster

I know that there is naught to do but pick myself up and persevere
I fight pain with logic and let kind words of others hold back my fear

I don’t not wish it was different
That those scars were never made
But I can’t let myself wallow in what ifs
I must acknowledge and move on

But yet I never learn and each year that hope arises fresh
Perhaps one day she’ll tell me what I did or why but until then I must…