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
TenTwelve. 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.

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About cjbailee

I don't see myself as an author with a book, but a woman with a story and a message of hope and resilience. I want to use my lived experience and the lessons learned to help inspire others. Transforming the victim/trauma story and speaking to the possibility of what can be achieved when we have inner drive, a sense of worthiness and the love and support of others in our lives. I am a woman, a mother, friend, poet, writer, an advocate, an activist, a motivational speaker, a kid at heart, a deep thinker...a human being who suffered extreme abuse as a child and who continues to reclaim what was lost as an adult. I am someone who's been to hell and back and has come out whole on the other side of it to let others know they can do the same! I have an important message of hope, love, forgiveness and resilience. Come take a journey with me and discover how connected we all are and how truly achievable happiness and freedom is.
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5 Responses to Crimson

  1. Shannon says:

    My goodness,
    The power in that brought me to tears, and nausea rose to my throat. You are an incredibly strong woman x

  2. Victoria says:

    Amazingly, beautifully written.

  3. Buddhimind says:

    Powerful piece Carrie; raw, honest and evocative. Love to you my courageous friend X

  4. Lynette Walshe says:

    Great and powerful writing! It breaks my heart.
    Life can break you down.
    You are an inspiration with your
    courage and great strength.
    May the Angels wrap you in their arms
    and heal you. You are a hero!
    Keep positive Carrie, don’t let the Demons
    come. Keep up the writing it’s powerful

  5. freemind9469 says:

    Thankyou so much for sharing that poem Carrie. It was incredibly intense and captured your pain. I hope one day I can put pen to paper and write about horrific moments from my childhood. Love From Mary

    On 6 Oct 2016 7:55 p.m., “FLYING ON BROKEN WINGS” wrote:

    > cjbailee posted: “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 ” >

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