Brutal

I had the worst nights sleep for a long time last night.
Caught between nightmare after nightmare, it would have been easier to have stayed awake.

And so this morning, I'm left with the devastation and destruction my own mind has caused.

There's a tower block somewhere in Manchester that I try to avoid like the plague. When I enter the city, I choose my path wisely and make sure it stays out of my view.
Strange to live in a place that invokes such fear. Such memory.

Sarah's dad took a wrong turn with me sat in the back of the car. We parked practically outside where it happened and I had to wind down the window so as not to be sick.
I was filled with such anger.
My hand squeezed the door handle and I shut my eyes. I can't bare to look at it.

And yet, with my eyes closed its more vivid than it ever was. I retrace my steps, the lift, metal clanging, creaking to the dreaded floor, take a left and there's the door. Bright red, number x and it will forever be the door that closed behind me. Locked behind me. The door that wouldn't let me out.

My dreams last night were like rewinding time, seeing it all through fresh eyes, like my brain was telling me not to forget.
So vivid. Sounds. Smells. Reliving history.

The door closes and I see the look in his eyes change, to danger, to smugness, and I realise I'm in trouble, make my excuses to go back to my friends, his friends, and put my hand on the door. He puts his hand on the door and says with a laugh “I don't think so”

So then I know what's about to happen and my brain overloads looking at windows, doors, weapons?
We are so high up even if I tried I wouldn't be able to.

It's strange how dreams can take you back in time, sometimes it's a blessing. Last night was a curse.

I have to exorcise this. I woke feeling sick this morning. With tears on my cheek. My fingernails imprinted on my own palms. The fear rocked through from subconscious to conscious and I'm having a wobble.

That day destroyed any chance of me understanding who I was. Thankfully enough time has passed for the wounds to heal and for me to piece my life back together.
But that day set in motion my destructive choices.

I loved those jeans. My brother had the same pair.
River Island, with a woman's silhouette painted down one leg.
In the days of being a size 12, I went out in those jeans and a blazer with just a bra.
Feeling pretty fucking hot. Hitting up the gay bars with my friends.

Ive never been able to feel that way since.
Certainly never strived to look that way again.
I gave up.

I can't even look at myself today, I feel like I could burst into tears from searing memories.
For days I had grazes on my cheek, burnt against the carpet, made to look at it all take place.
The day after my jeans were so torn they were barely worth clinging onto, blood, knees bleeding, elbows, barely able to stand.
I saw myself in the smashed mirror that had been my front row seat the night before, beaten, bloodied but set free.
I stared at myself in that mirror last night.

I sat in a bath and the colour changing to red and I washed.

And that was the end of it.

My dreams shifted last night from one horror to another.

From the monster to the pretender; a girl I thought I loved, my cocaine partner in crime, a relationship fuelled on fantasy and white powder.
She was angry. Frustrated with me for saying no to her latest flight of fancy. One hit. Two hits. Three. I hit the floor, wiping the blood from my lips.

And it became apparent, these destructions are part of who I am. From day one. To now.

Love?
No.

Dragged to the bathroom to “clean myself up” – she said I was s mess and as I reached for the cloth my face smashed against the toilet bowl, on my knees again, blood pouring. Tears pouring. I lay on the bathroom floor and closed the door.

So this is who I am
This is all my worth.
This is what I am to become.

I can't let you close. Because You're too delicate
You might break.

I wake.
Feeling sick.
Feeling loss.

I didn't realise how much I needed you until just now.