Salvation

I wrote.

I have written myself out of it all.

I wrote when I was molested as a child,

fingers soft and unsure upon keys.

I wrote as a teen, far more troubled and unable to die,

my penmanship a horrid thing but salve for torrid thoughts.

The bump on my pinky remains-

not on my dominant hand, but a sympathetic and anxious picking habit.

As a young adult now broaching mid twenty I write. Lost. Uncertain. Trying to write myself to salvation.

My head burns with memories of things I cannot expel,

of people who do not care for me beyond my body or means,

and it is all too much.

Therapy was mandatory to continue my high school years, and now it forbids me any thought of self harm.

Even my own head is not my own,

but I do not demure.

With a belly full of constant anxiety that aches like a familiar broken bone, I write.

And hope that shall be enough.