The Hollow

It starts quietly, creeping, like he did. I find myself lightheaded, sweaty and anxious all of a sudden. It’s like an unwanted high, scary and harsh, it consumes me. Me whole, everything I am masses and mashes into a ball of cluster, a per-verbal cluster fuck of flashes. Not memories, flash backs to the horrid acts that overtook one evening. A headache, throbbing directly behind my eyes. Almost as if my brain, in itself, doesn’t want to try to remember. As a side note, I don’t remember everything. Just the aftermath mostly, the very real pain and shock of the unforgivable. My eyes burn, I don’t want to blink into another image. With each image comes the remembrance of the feelings, with the feelings comes the fear. I am not pregnant. I am not pregnant. I am not pregnant from this. You recite the mantra until you remember the tests came back negative. But even with reassurance, you can remember the fear that chilled you to the bone. You did not want a baby with that monster. The creature that crept and crawled with ease and silence into your bed. You try to come back, reality is here. You try to keep with it, but you are dragged under and back to all the sickness in your mind. Anxiety they say, depression they say, PTSD they say. Hollow I say, scarred as if actually stabbed I say, a piece of me cut out to rot and die away, a piece of me died, and hollowness grew where the piece is gone. Hollow chest, hollow heart, hollow stomach, hollow parts. I am a hollow being, bringing hollow feeling wherever I go. 


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