Ghosts

As open and honest as I am with the world, I do keep a lot of material "in the vault." Most of my writing, believe it or not, is just for the purpose of journaling and later reflection. And you know what? It helps. Even when I read things that were written from a dark place, it helps me to measure my growth and look back toward the light. That's life. And I'm living it.

The below piece is out of the vault. I'm not really a poet, so I'm not sure why I wrote it in such a way. But I understand this girl (me) better than she understood herself when she wrote it. I'm sharing it now. For those of you who are close with me, you will know that I did not write this piece about my ex-husband. For those of you who are not close with me, I will just say that I recovered from this in a big way, but that I still struggle. Because again, that's life. And I'm living it.

Here goes:

Hands clapped over my ears, trying to forget the echo of your stinging words
Second-guessing everything I’ve ever liked about myself. Everything I’ve ever known about myself.
One hand trying to push you away into oblivion, the other holding on to your every sound.
Letting you talk me into hating myself. Making me avert my gaze from the mirror, avoiding my own eyes.

Who am I if you don’t think I’m anything? Who am I if you don’t think I’m worth it?
A woman who so surely speaks truths and walks through fires, surviving, unnerved by your swagger, by your veracity.
Liquid hate cursing through your veins, spewing into my face, melting it beyond recognition. Taking away all. Taking out everything in your path.
I never let go of you for long enough. Maybe I need to hate myself. Or maybe trying to make you want me is my only distinguishable measure of success.

I affect you. You infect me.

Stop letting me ask you for more.