artesianalpondscum

[artesianalpondscum]

Transcamera

#trans #lgbtq #lgbtqia

[artesianalpondscum]

[artesianalpondscum]

[artesianalpondscum]

[artesianalpondscum]

[artesianalpondscum]

[artesianalpondscum]

[artesianalpondscum]

#ALL I DO ON THIS APP IS CRY

[artesianalpondscum]

The Fire, and the Arsonist?

TW: non sexual child abuse

the following is a genuine metaphorical expression of how I experience and interact with my childhood trauma

There are times when I feel like I’m standing in a dark, empty void, and the only thing I see is a library. An archive, and in it are the scrolls of every single hope, dream, aspiration I ever desired or had ever hoped to achieve that has been taken away from me by fear, weaved into the very fiber of my being by the loom of failure and repudiation.

There are times when I feel brave enough to run into that burning library and grab a few scrolls. As I reach for those scrolls of hopes and dreams with an almost childlike naivety to bring them back, to bring me back, I start to feel the flames start to scorch.

The searing pain of my father’s words as he lashed out at my interests with words only meant to draw screams and cries. The embering throbbing of every hit that he placed upon my body to make me feel the pain of his bruised ego with each searing open palm and fist landing to make me quiver in subservience. Every singe of my hair being pulled, feeling as if my scalp were about to be pulled from my skull to drag me back down into the obedience he demanded of me. Every feeling of those burning memories hit my flesh all in one moment.

As I fight past the pain of being burned alive, I try grabbing what I can, but most of what I can reach cracks into ashes no sooner than it is touched while a pain pain more intense than the rest burns stronger on the scars tied to that scroll. When I feel my blood boiling and my eyes starting to melt, losing sight of why I am even in here, I retreat out and into the safety of the void to stare again at that burning library. As I tend to my wounds, I begin to wonder.

Is the library’s fire all my fault? How has the fire been burning for so long? I am 33 now. The library goes back at least 25 years. Was the fire already burning then? Did I not notice it and keep adding scrolls only to add fuel to the fire, or did I think they would survive? Was the fire always this big? Was I at one point able to stand in the center of the flames unbothered? Or maybe, did I never notice the fire burning in time to grab an extinguisher to save it? Were there even extinguishers? I know I didn’t start the fire, but what if I am the only reason why it’s still burning? If the fire is burning for so long because of me, does who started the fire even matter? Am I the arsonist?

Further and further I follow these thoughts until all that I am left to feel is the comfortable numbing cold of the void. The cold is nicer than the heat of the fires, the numbness is better than the searing. In the void, I am nothing but who I remain. Looking around, I see nothing, an empty, vacuous void until inevitably a warm wind blows and my eyes are brought back to the library, and the fire that engulfs it, and I start to feel brave again.

#tw #Trauma #childhood trauma #childhood abuse #creative writing

[artesianalpondscum]

[artesianalpondscum]

[artesianalpondscum]

[artesianalpondscum]

[artesianalpondscum]

Art by @dayrisfelix

[artesianalpondscum]

[artesianalpondscum]

[artesianalpondscum]