A Damaged Psyche and a Warped Sense of Self
A damaged psyche and a warped sense of self.
This is what moulds the idea of courage into a hard and rigid foreign stone.
A selfless battle taking place in another dimension, against something that chills you to the bone. I don’t resemble the lion, therefore I am not the lion. I rang the bell. Heart pounding in a perpetual motion, in beat with steps that neared. The stark white paint that was peeling from the door pulled further from me as you drew in a ray of light, a slither for me to pass through. Your bitter belief that I am small, confirmed and solidified.
I made you tea. Like you asked. Like you commanded. You apologised for last night. Taking it too far. I couldn’t meet your eyes, just the purple shadowy tendrils that twirled around my arms like stylised tattoos of coiling serpents. I knelt on the ground, cuddling into the last breath of love this house held. I picked him up, stroking his silky blonde hair, beautiful as yours once was.
“We’re going for a walk,” I called to you, you in an apathetic oblivion.
This was courage, not a lion, not a tiger, not a bear, oh my, it was found in my beautiful, drooling angel. Never would a hand be laid on him again. I took my angel to the car, and we drove on, into an endless abyss, finding courage within each other to ride our way to freedom.
Courage is not knowing if we will make it at all.