Spilled Silence.

He whispers the same energy that lead her to the gates of hell where her heart was captive. Don’t tell nobody. You mustn’t tell a soul to how she once began. It all started so innocent. Was it the lack of life I feed into you that made you filled with hatred? Or was it the lingering thought of never having me that ended with me with blood between my innocence. I remember, the feeling of being betrayed. The silent prayer underwater slipping from every least of my shattering breath. Suffocating from the very existence to my knowledge that I can never accept love, slipping its way past my fingers. The silent whimpers at night hoping death will walk past my bedroom door opening its arms with promises to never look back at what I can’t seem to forget I remember. Nothing seems to matter we can never seem to cry over spilled milk. Isn’t it too late to scream over pouring blood? From the longing of knowing that the sacred birthing of the lavender walls telling my truth that many blame me for due to what pain you have caused me. Muting the white noise that covers me from the relentless nights or the empty pill bottles that only numb the pain for a minute. Minutes turn to seconds of me lying there hopeless I remember. Don’t feel sorry for me this is between you and I. Don’t tell a living soul what you witnessed. Not the bruises imprinted on me due to the aggression. Not the backlash form supposed loved ones. Not even the baring words “It is your fault.” Or the meaningless “you’re pregnant.” I bare nothing but the flesh I developed over time and the markings of how I got to this point. But finally, I remember lying there feeling empty after the unmindful pattern of truths I indeed remember.