B is for Blush

I am not sure how old I was when I loat my first friend. I know I was fairly young and the idea of death wasn’t really big. I knew people died but it didn’t really mean much. Death was final and yet not final at the same time. This may have been because I went to my first funeral when I was around two years old.

I remember the casket clearly. Or as clear as a possible two year old can. It was white…maybe pink. So very very tiny. It held the body of a young girl who had died in her sleep. She seemed big to me though I have been told that the girl was around my age.

Her casket was tiny but she appeared so big.

I remember dancing and playing in the aisles as people cried. There was so much crying going on. I didn’t know this girl…it wasn’t until I was older that I realized I never would.

As I aged I went to a lot of funerals. Never again a child and nearly always males. The female line of my family tends to live forever it seems. I only have one grandfather who is still alive. I have lost many uncles and great uncles and great great uncles. And make cousins…yes…I have lost plenty of those as well.

But

That casket.

That tiny casket with the not so tiny girl. She has always stuck in my mind.

I am not sure if I was related to her. My mother doesn’t like to talk about her much since she was born the same year as my older sister. I think maybe even just hours apart and at the same hospital. I think it makes my mom feel guilty that her child lived while the other ladies child did not.

I am not sure though. I have only met the mother once. I remember the hungry look in her eyes every time she glanced at my sister.

As a kid I figred she was some creepy lady. As in adult I understand. I understand her looks and shaking hands as she patted my sisters face. I understand why she ignored me. I understand why her and my mother walked on egg shells when they spoke. I understand it all to well.

See while I have never lost a child I lost a friend at a very young age. I have lost siblings. I have seen friends cry after they spoke of the children they had lost.

I have seen blushing brides with a baby bump turn to tear stained widows with scars.

I have seen it all and more.

So, while I have never lost a child, I can still grieve with them. I can hold them close and understand. Maybe not fully but enough to be there when needed

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Ask and answer

I often ask myself silly questions I would not dare bring up to anyone else.

Thing that make me blush or smile. Things that make me cry awhile.

I ask myself these things because they help me feel alive.

For awhile I have the will to survive.

What kind of future will she have?

Will I be there or will I be dead?

How can I make her happy?

How will she feel if I hold her on my lap, even when she is 20?

I ask myself because I can.

I ask myself so that I may continue till the end.

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***Warning. This will touch on a very delicate subject for some and could be triggering. This deals with sexual abuse as a child. If you are unable to read about such things please skip over this post. I don’t write about this often so feel free to read my other stories. Thank you ****

As a child I was free
I didn’t have very many dreams
But I could dance and I could sing
I could be just about anything
I was poor though, no money in sight
I remember all those sleepless nights
All those times my family would fight
Trivial things in a child eyes
Things that could easily be solved
Just by being nice
But one day
Careless as can be
I was

Broken

Grace
Fully

I was held and I was hurt
I was told such hurtful words

What I craved

Was
Taken

Away

I become a slave

To there…

To that place

I was 8

When I first learned hate

I was 9

When I first wanted to die

I was 10

When I begin to sin

Cursing through my veins was insane
Try again
Try again
Try it again
I will hurt you
Cut you
Beat you
I will hate you with my whole being
I will make you as broken as me

My grandmother sat there
Heard and didn’t care
Gave me a warning
The night is was near
She knew
She knew

She fucking knew
His intent was to go deeper
But sweet revenge wouldn’t allow that
I was 8
The day I decided to kill a man
I was 9 when I had dreams about doing  it
Over
And over
And over again.

He is alive by the grace of God
He is alive because death would be
Should be
A treat

Suffer he now as time goes on
But

I suffer more
As ages past

I am 22 now
I hate my past
I hate so much
I want to die

I want to take
That putrid worms life

But

I can’t
I
Won’t

There is someone who needs me more.
So suffer the children who must make do

Who must go on
Live and be held by someone who alway knew.
Least time heals all wounds
Go on
Go
Go on
Time heals some wounds.