I am dead: Thou livest; …draw thy breath in pain, To tell my story Hamlet Act V scene ii
(Content: CSA, suicide).
She simply died, infected by the touch of him. It began, this slow death, with a hand upon hers, iron fingers curled around small bones that could snap like twigs in an instant. A wrist too small, always too small for this. She was born small, stayed small, perfectly small for this.
Processing trauma can feel like an ongoing battle; at times a bloody war. I’ve always known that I must process all of it. If I leave any stone unturned I will trip up and fall, most likely landing flat on my face, with a broken rib or two. It’s best to clear the ground now. To prevent the inevitable.
Trigger warning: The following post contains themes relating to CSA that some may find upsetting.
Continue reading “What Lies Beneath”
