~Esther Mitchell, 2014~
Three little letters.
They reach through the web of wires,
The pulsing electrical current,
Pushed on by the strike of a key.
Do you know how each blow pummels me to the ground?
How the letters are meant as erasers,
To eradicate a past you can’t bear to witness,
Remove all traces of it from your sight,
White-wash your vision with roses and light.
Light hits my face as I break the surface,
The water scented with chemicals,
Burned into my brain, until the smell gags me,
Before the light is ripped away,
Turned blue like the glow of a mocking spectre,
Swallowing up color in darting wriggles of light,
Until the dank smell of old water mixes with blood.
Ever notice how blood smells so rich?
Like a mineral parade making a winding road of my body,
Learning the creases of my skin like a lover,
Leaving behind a part of myself I can never retrieve.
Retrieving my messages online, I see those three little letters,
Blinking at me, in response to my pain.
They’re supposed to tell me someone’s listening.
They’re supposed to tell me someone cares.
But how can someone listen when the words screaming in my silence,
Are “don’t touch me” and “help me” all rolled together?
How can anyone care when I can’t help but shrink away,
From those three words that blink on my screen.