This isn’t poetry.
There’s no way to poetically word
how your fist hit my cheek or how
your hands wrapped around my neck so tight I wore a scarf until New Years.
365 days have passed and I still remember how I spent Christmas;
with a bottle in one hand
and an ice pack in the other.
Trying to soften the bruises
and ease the swelling caused by
your not-so-sweet hands while you were nowhere to be found.
I spent it alone while you were probably out with her again.
Maybe I tried calling you,
if I did you didn’t answer.
That’s something I don’t need to
think hard about.
That’s something I was used to,
you disappearing after etching your fingerprints into the valleys of my skin, leaving reminders like
red ribbons on my forearms.
Yet it was never a gift, more like
a painful reminder of the present.
Hoping to forget your hate-filled words you spewed from the bottom of the stairs.
Hoping to not remember the fear that had risen in my chest,
hearing your footsteps get closer
as I lay in the dark.
I’ve always feared the dark,
but it comforted me more in times of pain than you ever had.
Now I lay in the dark,
bottle in one hand.. pen in the other.
I spent Christmas alone again,
this time by choice.
For these memories are the reason
I find the holidays not so jolly.
I’d rather just forget.