I said it.
I wrote it down.
It was there in my mind,
So I wrote it down.
It felt so good to say it.
It just came out...flowed out onto the screen.
A part of me was talking.
There are so many parts.
You've only seen a few
And not the ones I would put on display for all to see.
You've seen the one that hurts
The young one, so very young...naive...still waiting for "him" to come into his room.
The old one who watches from a distance as the young one tries to tell him things that happened there.
He's frightened and he does not understand...this gnarled man.
Life has sent him things he can't begin to process.
He just watches and hopes there will be no more to see.
The one who shows the anger...always mad...always wants revenge...never says so...never says I'd kill him if I had the chance...I hate him in my inner soul...I hate him 'till it makes parts of me bleed.
The one who would be loved by anyone.
Hold me...love me...fuck me if you must to give me love...but give me love...don't leave me here alone...abuse is more than loneliness...I can stand to be abused...I cannot stand to be alone...love me...I'm over here in the corner in the dark.
I worry most about him. He is young...frightened...in despair.
He'll grasp at anything to be pulled up and out of where he is, and cannot see that that is how he got there...I pray for him.
The one who would be respected...for his strength...for his insight...for his support...for his honesty.
I worry for him, too.
He's not unlike the one who seeks the love...just in a different way.
The loving one...the one who would take the world in and lay it down and have it heal, and send it out to rotate happily from this day on.
The frightened one. Frightened much of who he is...of parts of himself he does not know. He writes here in fear that something sinister might flow out with all the rest...but prays that it will not...that he is only what he seems.
He perhaps the bravest one of all.
And there are others...some unseen...but all would be loved.
And when they write the things they write, they sit and wait to see who answers, comments on their souls.
I'm not all pain and goo and guts, you know... that lie upon the floor and writhe and cry.
One of me goes to work and does quite well.
One even pays the bills when they are due.
And one reluctantly will use the vacuum if cajoled.
We all are here. We fear you, for we all are very fragile like a crytal vase the teters on the highest shelf.
One breath from you can send us tumbling to the floor where we will break apart into our many selves.
But do not weep for us, oh no.
There is a final one of us...who picks up all the pieces when we're broken on the floor.
He's done it many times now, and we know that he will find the glue and patch us up and send us on our way.
Falling hurts, and life upon the tallest shelf is not without its apprehensions.
But we're survivors, are we not? Life cannot get us down...well, not that far...not down so far that we cannot get back up...not so far any way.
And that is why we write and sit in fear. Some day will come the hard and final blow, and even with the glue, the pieces will not hold, will fall apart.
And he will walk quite sadly out the door.
And leave us there, all shattered on the floor.
I'm healing now, and I wasn't sure I would.