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A Beautiful Mess

Her protective armour

By Colleen Millsteed Published about a year ago 1 min read
Image courtesy of Pixabay

She listened quietly,

Sitting within her truth,

The silence deafening,

Screams escalating,

Thoughts propelled violently,

Mind on overload,

Searching for answers.

**

She could taste her fear,

And sat within it for a while,

As it tepidly simmered,

She asked why it consumed her,

It replied,

“Because I’m the protection you never experienced.”

**

She could physically grasp her pain,

And sat within it for a while,

As it thumped in its throes,

She asked why it crippled her,

It replied,

“Because I’m the lessons you were never taught.”

**

She burned within her anger,

And sat within it for a while,

As it tormented and cloaked her in rage,

She asked why it kept score,

It replied,

“Because you’ve been wronged and no one was held accountable.”

**

She cried tears of never ending sadness,

And sat within it for a while,

As she pined for all she’d lost,

She asked why it never let her in peace,

It replied,

“Because I’m the empathy you never received.”

**

She ached with unrequited love,

And sat within it a while,

As her heart grew cold,

She asked why it made her so guarded,

It replied,

“Because I’m the adoration that was never returned.”

**

As she sat within her emotions,

She slowly began to understand,

These feelings were never her enemy,

As she’s always believed,

No, they were actually her scar tissue,

Her injuries, her unhealed trauma,

Begging to be shown the light of day.

**

This epiphany was monumental,

A gift that set her on the road to healing,

Within which her compassion rose to the occasion,

As she slowly stitched each festering wound,

Into neat scars, all with their own story,

Each perfect knot a reminder,

Of the strength which allowed her to survive.

Free Verse

About the Creator

Colleen Millsteed

My first love is poetry — it’s like a desperate need to write, to free up space in my mind, to escape the constant noise in my head. Most of the time the poems write themselves — I’m just the conduit holding the metaphorical pen.

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Comments (2)

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  • Babs Iversonabout a year ago

    Brilliantly written and loved it!!!❤️❤️💕

  • Gosh this hit me so hard on so many levels. This was so relatable as it resonated deeply with me. Loved it my friend!

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