(trigger warning)

Those things, you know, they ripped apart my childish soul

Greedily grabbed and pulled out its beating heart

They chewed it up, spat it out with contempt and

Stamped upon it as it lay dying in the mud.

Then you know what they did, they casually put it

Back in, as if they had just borrowed it a while.

And they walked away with arrogant nonchalance.

Shattered and battered, bruised and defiled

It shamefully lay down in its’ place

Hiding its’ face, covering its’ wounds, licking away the blood.

And there it stayed for many a year, too wounded to join

In the fun, too exhausted to stand up and run

Instead, it watched my deceit, with envy and disdain

As I played and laughed and kept its’ sinister secret

Denying its’ presence and ignoring its aching beat.

That injured shame-filled center of my soul,

Well it took its’ revenge

Sent out poisonous tendrils to maim and inflame

Until my whole being was writhing in pain

Screaming to be set free from the septic, seething grasp of

An agony ignored.

It would not rest nor release its’ hold until

Welcomed back into the fold, invited out of the dark

You are part of me.

Always have been and always will. I am sorry I left you in

There, all alone.

Come, come, take my hand and join me in the sun

I will hold you when you feel weak, bathe your wounds

Soothe your pain and put feathers under your feet

You deserve to be free, to fly from that

Cold, dark, sanctuary of despair

Join the world, open your eyes, smell the flowers,

Walk in the rain and feel the sunlight on your face.

Allow the warm embrace of joyous selfless love.

Take a ride with me.

Feel the roar,

Nirvana is knocking on your door.

This content was created and written by a guest blog contributor. Views expressed in any guest blog contributor post may not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation.

Esme Johnson

(trigger warning)thank you, t

For so long, a tortuous lifetime no doubt,
Trapped in a medieval pinball machine
No rubber bumper obstacles to bounce between.
Instead, an unremitting, unforgiving gauntlet to run
of barbed and poisoned memory spears
Each one dripping with the blood of an event
Too horrible to name, too cruel to endure
I have fought for a lifetime
To win the battle and survive
To come up for air, to not disappear
Down that dark hole of despair.
Each memory is etched in my soul, its’
Mocking laughter echoing through my veins,
Of infantile innocence irreparably defiled
And a soul shattered into shame-filled shards
Oh, how I tried to survive. I tried to thrive.
I took those memories and cleaved them from their pain
Hammered a wedge between the two
And with arms stretched wide and sinews askew
I stood in between and resisted their fatal attraction
Until I could resist no more.
My arms grew weak, my blood seeped into the soil
My heart slowed, my mind unraveled, my soul screamed.
Madness descended and death tantalizingly beckoned.
Please, please
Let death be my dominion and darkness, my savior
I can fight no more.
And so I bowed my head, sunk to my knees, closed my eyes.
I took up one of those poisoned spears
And drove it into my heart, hailing peace to come at last.
But death was defiant and peace was elsewhere
Instead, my nerves were on fire and I writhed in pain
Begging for freedom, calling for calm
I plummeted over the edge and into oblivion
Cascading through my past, craving annihilation.
Please, please
Let death be my dominion and darkness, my savior.
Then out of the darkness a tiny speck of light
Danced and sang and drew me in,
A ray of hope calling my name,
tempting me to follow.
You opened your door and let me in.
Oh what joy, succor for my sanity
With open arms, you caught me and passed
Me lovingly between your gentle hands,
One by one soothing me with your humanity,
Hearing me with your hearts, validating my pain
And bearing witness to my story.
You held me. You loved me. You rescued my hope.
You gave me the strength to go on.

This content was created and written by a guest blog contributor. Views expressed in any guest blog contributor post may not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation.

Esme Johnson