Run

It was a wedding. Smiling, smiling, smiling. He held my hand. He twirled me on the dance floor. He bragged about my tight fitting dress and pointed to me from across the room. His eyes slowly becoming more and more glazed. Fun. That's what they see. We were always fun.

But at home I feel damaged. Every day, every night that passes I feel more and more damaged. Like the cracks are constantly showing and growing, and the glue wont hold anymore.

In a room of one hundred people I'm alone. Alone in my thoughts, my feelings, my emotions. Stay they say.

Stay? The version of him you see is the version of him he wants you to see. Closed doors are a truth serum to only those behind them. If you had the ability to see behind them, you'd be shouting "Flee!"

I feel as though I'm at a crossroads. Although the decision feels as though it's already been made for me. No one wants me to leave. Only because they don't know. This is the problem of the silent sufferer. Forever dismissed.

If words caused bruises, I'd be black and blue. Green and yellow. Brown and purple. Every shade of every grade of hurt. If it was visible, would you still ask me to try? Or would your eyes well up as you begged me to run?

If words caused cuts, I'd have bled out. Laying in a pool of my own life force, eyes glazed. Would you still ask me to stay? To try? Or would you hold me by scarlet shoulders shaking me to consciousness? Begging me to disappear.

If words caused breaks, every bone would be shattered. Sharp and piercing the skin. Would you still ask me to work harder? Or would you push me back together, wrap me in plaster and tell me to leave?

Invisible pain is pain. Emotional pain still bruises and breaks. Am I crazy, like he has told me time after time? No. I'm just now learning my worth. I'm not sorry.

Wrong. Right. Right. Wrong. I understand. I should work harder you say. But black and white still make shades of grey. My whites have become sullied with some drops of black, swirling into me, my purity gone, my options greyed.

If words left visible marks, would you scream for me? Would you scream out at the lacerations as loud as my heart is screaming now? See me. Please. Make noise for me. Silently suffering is not something I will survive anymore.

Tell me to run.