deepundergroundpoetry.com
Traumatic Leaves ( Asphodelus )
A flash of hot green dips into my drink and I fear I may look deeper,
freeze now as 'fathers' footsteps bring his clutch to my arm, pulling against my small frame to follow.
"Dad, where are we going?" I ask, gentleand hushed.
He does not answer when the basement is out of my reach and the black silk of the car I am trapped in.
The leather how it burns through the fabric of my dress when I see the dark haired man known as Charles.
Though I am older, I still am confused, the window is black and the driver won't talk.
I'm being stared at...
I feel him staring at my knees for they show under red and white tights.
The room we are in is dark.
Damp.
Smells of mold and dew.
I hear metal against concrete.
"You think you're fucking tough Emma?" 'Father' so grumbles or growls.
I swallow, try to focus in the dark.
Dark, dark, dark, too dark to see but too quiet to hear.
There's a spark from metal being dragged on the ground, the sheer sound, a 'ting', and finally a thud.
The object hits my jaw and send me to the ground, alone and gasping for release.
"You'll never be like your brother." He says, shifting his position.
The object hits my stomach and hits my ribs and hits my hip and everywhere inbetween.
I feel my heart in my head and my lungs override when his weight is ontop of me.
The tea is now cold and I am left sitting at my Aunt Becca's kitchen table,
suffocating and holding my chest.
The echoing sound of something metal dropped on concrete outside,
brought me back in time to a place so long ago.
A time warped in the space in my mind,
frozen and ready to become my present reality.
A new disorder, thank you, called:
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
freeze now as 'fathers' footsteps bring his clutch to my arm, pulling against my small frame to follow.
"Dad, where are we going?" I ask, gentleand hushed.
He does not answer when the basement is out of my reach and the black silk of the car I am trapped in.
The leather how it burns through the fabric of my dress when I see the dark haired man known as Charles.
Though I am older, I still am confused, the window is black and the driver won't talk.
I'm being stared at...
I feel him staring at my knees for they show under red and white tights.
The room we are in is dark.
Damp.
Smells of mold and dew.
I hear metal against concrete.
"You think you're fucking tough Emma?" 'Father' so grumbles or growls.
I swallow, try to focus in the dark.
Dark, dark, dark, too dark to see but too quiet to hear.
There's a spark from metal being dragged on the ground, the sheer sound, a 'ting', and finally a thud.
The object hits my jaw and send me to the ground, alone and gasping for release.
"You'll never be like your brother." He says, shifting his position.
The object hits my stomach and hits my ribs and hits my hip and everywhere inbetween.
I feel my heart in my head and my lungs override when his weight is ontop of me.
The tea is now cold and I am left sitting at my Aunt Becca's kitchen table,
suffocating and holding my chest.
The echoing sound of something metal dropped on concrete outside,
brought me back in time to a place so long ago.
A time warped in the space in my mind,
frozen and ready to become my present reality.
A new disorder, thank you, called:
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
Published 24th Oct 2011
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