Crimson

Because sometimes there are no words to describe the stories that have long become secrets.
Muted memories of an unequivocal hell cloaked in ravenous darkness.
And so they remain untold.
Stifled screams. Swallowed cries.
A spreading night of remembrance lay in my belly. Long kissed goodbye. Only to rise with the tide. The sun. The moon.
I run.
Counting…
One…
I always felt it the most, just before it reached my ankles. I don’t know why as it would travel fast. Then slow. Steady rolling the entire length of my nine year old. Ten year old. Twelve year old legs.
Two…
A sensation unregistered upon the nerves of my skin. Inside the cells of my brain. My pride and my shame. Perhaps one in the same. Unaware of its journey. Until it reached my ankles.
Three…
Rocking. Running. Pacing.
To fully understand bone shattering pain. Don’t look back but open your eyes. Look up to the skies and count to
Four…
My mind fog thick with fears. My age not measured by years. Only hours. Anguish not relinquished by tears. Surrendered powers. Their moans still burn in my ears. Fucking cowards.
Five…
Perhaps cooled by the steady measure of time. Temperature falling inconsequential. Forced to take notice. Timing essential. Heading toward my ankles. And here I count to
Six…
Falling. Finding. Fighting my way back to my body. Walking that tight rope toward the jagged edge of sanity. Ebbed and flowing. Bone deep pain. Broken open. Sisterly familiar knowing. I am still able to recall the sensation.
Seven…
The tickle. The trickle. The drip. Drips. Dripping. I remember sanity is measured by numbers. Sequential. A pattern repeated. Like history. Just like the drips I counted. Religiously. Until I get to
Eight…
My head once held high cast my eyes from the skies down the barren plains of my thighs. Stained tracks followed like a dirt path. Down toward the insides of my…
Nine…
Ten…Twelve. Because eleven remains incidental. Memory expunged. Outcome consequential. From what they did for fun.
But what I do remember is this:
Crimson is the colour of my blood. Counting drips as they fall from my ankles.