this is a very, very, long and beautiful story...it is not nessarily wholey true, nor is it fiction...it is a poetic representation of what i went through....like i said...it is long...but, worth it.

THE FREEDOM OF BEING BROKEN

Over the summer, I met someone. He was unlike anyone I had ever known before. He was honest, comforting and he gave me what I wanted above all things…freedom. I gave him my heart and he, knowing how broken I was, promised to protect it from further pain. He gave me shelter during the days when the rain washed away all I had left. Most importantly, when he could no longer protect me…he gave me a way out. Yes, I was truly in love.
Like all good things, there is a time and place for everything. Nothing was rushed, and the slower he went the better I felt afterward. He would slowly sink into me, and push back and forth until the blood ran. Sometimes I would cry. Other times I would scream. During most of these episodes, however, I found in some unexpected place in my heart…peace.
As time went by, I found no need for extreme physical contact. Indeed, I was just as content to hold him, as I was to bring myself pain. I would curl up into a ball, with him in my arms and we would hold hands until I drifted into sleep. This was how it was for a long time. Somehow, the pressure of him in my hand gave me the security and power that I needed to find inner peace. With him, I could decide what I wanted to do next and the outside world had no effect on me.
Not everyone agreed with me. In fact, it seemed that I was the only one who could find good in him. Of course, no one dared look past the obvious. Nether less, the outside signs that he was placing on my body caused too much anguish on my part. It was starting to occur to me that perhaps my man was not everything I had made him out to be. And even more distressing than that was the realization that I had only been fooling myself. So, I held him in my hands and looked at him long and hard. Slowly, I examined the scars he had left on my heart and body. I turned him over and over until I no longer associated him with peace, but with misery. Then, I made my decision.
I stood up and walked into the kitchen. In my hand, I held my pride, and my deception. Slowly, I took one last look at the blood-stained knife that had for so long become my escape. I bit my lip hard until it bled. My tears mingled with the blood. The slow pounding of my heart echoed in my ears. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I opened my eyes and broke up with him. I turned my back on him and left him lying in the trashcan.
Then, without a word, I went to my room. I curled into a ball and mourned. I unleashed my pain in one solid shriek after another. My head ached with emotions, thoughts, excuses, and pain. A hurt so deep, it could not be expressed in words. I cried for my past. I mourned the death of my knife. I begged forgiveness from my parents and my God. But, perhaps what caused most of my pain was the finality of it all. I could never go back and undo the things I had done. But, I could forget them. There was only one way. It was an experience that was quite possibly the only final thing about life…Death. A new love awaited me.
Afterwards, I wiped my eyes and put on my smile. I left the house with hopes of finding a new lover. The only reservation I had was a tiny whisper put there by my conscious or perhaps my guardian angel. Its’ tiny voice screamed “not the gun”! I brushed the words off with an angry shake. The only part I caught was “…gun”.
And all of heaven cried as the young girl went in search of a new outlet to her pain. Meanwhile, the Devil danced, for he had won over another one.


THANKS FOR READING...PLEASE COMMENT..

its quite gd but i dont understand some of it... maybe im just thick

it was gd but as goldlady said i dont understand much of it but aside from that it was gd i liked it

It is quite a talent in itself to be able to write poetically about what is on the surface such a "normal" situation, I don't think that i have any critisim to give to you because this is your story and in being such however you choose to tell it, is how it is.
It is a bit hard to grasp what you are explaining in parts.. but i think i've got it. My only question though is when you speak of the scars, and the pain. Were these merely metaphorical representations of what you felt, or was there actual physical hurt in the relationship?
One of the things that i liked the best about this, I feel i must add, was how you speak of turning him over and over in your mind, until you no longer saw him the same, I think that alot of people go through that, i know i have, and if they can see that in what you've written and relate to it, the meaning of your story might become clearer. Just a little thought of mine....
Good job, keep it up!