If he was standing right here, in front of me, I don’t believe that I would have any questions for Him to answer.

Not about “Death”, not about the truth, not about the future, not about the “Why’s?”

If he was to be right in front of me, at this very second, I think I would stare.

The truths that I’ve buried and the lies that I’ve spoken,

The words that were deliberately whispered to harm…

they would consume me.

Like the words that I’ve prayed for strength when I knew I was causing the pain.

Like the words that I’ve prayed for peace when I knew I was someone’s chaos.

If God was in front of me right now, would I wallow in embarrassment? Would I feel anything?

Would he know that every word I’ve ever said was unmistakably spoken? And that “regret” is not something I am capable of feeling?

Would he scold me at that very instance for lying about love?

About His Love.

About the love that I tell my students that he unconditionally has, yet I feel like I can’t be fully loved by Him?

Or would he make me fall to the ground and physically make me carry all burdens I said I was carrying alone?

Its dreams

happen...

behind the closed

(windows, doors)

and nightmare'd

from off shelves

(emptied stores)

the sense of lack

the utter full

(quest for mores)

the tick of guilt

the tock of dead

(ceiling, floors)

the haunt of lids

that flutter on

(jars, folklore)

in once read tomes

untouched volumes

(paper, cores)

Its dream

happen...

behind the closed

and nightmare'd

from off shelves

the sense of lack

the utter full

the tick of guilt

the tock of dead

the haunt of lids

that flutter on

in once read tomes

untouched volumes

Its dreams

happen...

behind the closed

(windows, doors)

(quest for mores)

(emptied stores)

(ceilings, floors)

(jars, folklores)

(papers, cores)

Its dreams

happen...

behind the closed.

01.15.2024

Behind closed doors... Poetry or Prose challenge @dctezcan

The sound of cotton on skin is a low, slow rasp. It reminds me of opening a belated Christmas gift; free from the frenzy and rush of being surrounded by presents and pomp, this is to be savored. Hers is a gift unexpected. The touch of our skin as she is slowly unwrapped is a longing ache finally satisfied.

It's often said that the thought is what counts, but we are not thinking at all. Our direction is determined by feeling and by feel, driven by passions barely contained.

Except.

My mind is racing to record every detail. Some moments in life, I've thought to myself, remember this, and here is one of those precious times.

And so, I unwrap this gift slowly. Not in the way our grandmothers would try to preserve paper, but in a way that speaks to how desperately I want to rip and tear. Oh, I want to shred those threads, I want to claw my way to the prize beneath, but I won't. Restraint builds anticipation, and I know we're both beyond ready for what's next. Every sound she makes, every breath, every whimper and low moan is registered, recorded. The word savor isn't adequate, it's not quite enough, but it's the closest thing I can think of to describe this.

The sound of cotton on skin is a low, slow rasp, and the creak of bedsprings is never heard under the sounds we make with each other.

Our gifts, once opened, are given throughout the night

Behind closed doors an oak tree extends its branches next to the window that I lay

In the silence it scratches at my window

Embracing life’s sadness, abundance and pain

But as I’m listening to the vibrato in the dropping of the rain

I feel a release in my strain

As I have found a love that distracts me from the mountain of pain that accumulate again and again

I look out with aching limbs, but no worse than a tree during a storm

Holding on to make it through the worst of the day

And behind close doors I lay in wait, ready for my lover to come home to help shelter me from sadness and pain

My love is equivalent to what the sunshine is to a tree after a day of rain

My therapist said, "Children are islands." She said that when something is going on at home, something the child cannot articulate but knows inherently is toxic, the child can pretend at school that they are just fine. She said, "You might not know that other children are going through the same thing because the children learn that there are certain things about which they cannot speak."

There's images on the internet, memes, that break down trauma into bite sized pieces, as if therapy can be consumed in a single second and then scrolled past. One image says: "You can't erase trauma, but you can reduce it." It shows a brain with a big scribble in the center, and the next image is of a brain with a smaller scribble in the center.

It doesn't get much more simple than that, I suppose.

Behind closed doors, there are things about which many people cannot speak. They become, as adults, islands unto themselves. They learn they are alone in their struggle. It might be obvious to other people that "they are not alone." But just as a simple meme cannot cure trauma, neither can an outsider who has not, themselves, been an island.

For it is secret, and complex, and lonely, to be at the center of a brain with scribbles instead of coherent structure.

It can be hard to speak.

behind closed doors is where you hide.

where your body creaks and cracks

shifts into its monstrous form

the winter chill flutters through an open window

the night air cool against peeling skin

you don't have to see the moon to feel its hypnotizing pull

you've done this hundreds of times

but it never gets easier

the pain never dulls

the hunger never stops

teeth grow sharp, gnawing on imagined prey

claws dig into splintered wood, barring similar marks from past nights

fur sprouts from split skin, a warm blanket you use to hide

heavy breaths turn ragged

your body fights against your mind

threatening to take away the last thing that makes you human

you curl up beneath your bed

waging war on yourself

fighting down the longing taste

of fresh blood down your throat

it's just one night

one of thousands more

you grit your teeth

knowing this will pass

wishing you had something to distract you from the pain

the temptation

wishing you didn't have to hide yourself

behind closed doors

In those frequent daily moments where I scurry away quietly

and hide,

I find those sudden "bathroom breaks"

have become necessary habits

(a must for my survival,

an essential part of my healing).

Excuses are vital to gain my private time.

Though, behind closed doors,

not one ear other than my own will ever have to

bear the heaviness of the grief,

and of the mistake,

that has come of my life.

I do not admire swimming in the swamps of self-pity,

however,

I cry for myself once in a while

because I am the only one who truly understands

or cares

just exactly what I've been through.

So, if you find me behind closed doors,

please,

allow me those few minutes to weep.

Do not make me feel ashamed in this tender moment

with my shattered heart,

as I am the only one who feels the pressure of the pain as it

pulses groggily,

and thickly,

through every fiber of my being.

And behind closed doors,

I grip tight my favorite hand towel,

wickedly wanting to rip each thread out,

but only screaming into the bunch of it instead.

I clear my throat. Blot my eyes. Wipe away the smudged mascara.

And head right back out to my audience

as if I hadn't just relived a little rerun from my own personal hell and

completely lost touch with my emotions for a minute there.

The private battles that can sometimes stop us dead in our tracks,

are the ones we keep hidden

behind closed doors.

Beater in the driveway

One yellow headlight out

Fogging up the windshield

Both real good kids for sure

Not even touching only

Holding her hand gentle

Birdlike not wasting hours

Intentional planning

Porch light tells them it’s nine

He tells her sometime in June

Ain’t never seen her body

Only kissed her soft jaw

Working six days a week

Putting back a little

Each of them what they can

Since they’re sure what they want

Can’t wait much longer now

Every second heavy

One long hug in the yard

Heart beats keys jingle

She feeds the cats watches

The window reflection

One headlight backing up

Soon folks can’t say nothing

Dr. Smith tried to keep a smile on her face, her pen hovering above the notepad. "And you say these urges are what brought you here?"

Across the desk, Ethan shrugged, "I can't help it. They're like whispers in my head."

Smith’s pen resumed, but this time a little more nervously. She asked, "you've acted on these urges?"

Ethan's smile slowly returned with a chill. "Oh yes, many times."

The next thing Dr. Smith knew, a cold hand had clamped around her wrist. Ethan's eyes, once vacant, now gleamed with a predatory light. "The whispers are telling me you’re next.”

The pen fell to the floor as Smith attempted to scream. Ethan had wrapped his hand around her windpipe, silencing her.

"Hush, I’m hearing the whispers.”

Her lifeless body fell to the floor. Ethan straightened, his smile widening. The whispers had grown louder.

Is it right? I ask myself when I want to spend the night

Is It right? I ask myself this when I turn on the bedroom light

Is It right? That I think of someone else behind closed doors

Is it right? That I want them both next to me, and more-

Is it right? That I am selfish, and I want both of them

Is it right? That I keep this to myself, because I don’t want my marriage to end

Is it right? Can someone tell me?

for now I write this down-

sometimes it doesn’t feel right

Now In my own feelings I drown-

Is

It

right?

No!

so now….

I…..

scream