Sometimes in whispers, sometimes in a yell, Eight's ready to talk; she's ready to tell. Expressions of feelings, details or smells, Eight's no longer afraid to come out of her shell.
The cat gave her back her tongue and it's super, super sharp and what's she saying is hard. But, I'm backing her up.
Her thoughts are dicing, slicing into shreds all the demons that have lived inside my head. She's cutting up the memories into pieces that make sense. She's telling me as she goes, what I wish hadn't happened and forgot but already know.
Let's do this....You talk and I'll draw. No edits, no redos, just stream-of-consciousness style. Sometimes it will be magnificent, sometimes raw. Sometimes super simple and other times a wreck. Sometimes burned and blackened. Sometimes a pitiful mess. Sometimes a dragon, a phoenix, rising up from the ash... Sometimes only to us, it'll make sense. And, I'm okay with that.
Because, it's what happened.
Bits and pieces taken over time..... pulled and forced out and apart yanked and thrust back in again... forgotten, deeply, deeply hidden.
Jagged pieces that still don't quite fit that nicely that don't make the prettiest picture... but are still ultra pricey... They’re at least back together.
I can see the patchy needlework and the nearly dead parts inside... still glowing, still glistening, still a little bit alive. Electric panic static frenetic. Yeah, You and I. Me and you.
We’re Trauma Frankensteins.
Eight, you're with me, through and through.
Eight, your faces, I can't erase. They've slowly unraveled from inside my head in a yarn full of sadness, madness, and dread.
But now, We've made a sweater of our beautiful sorrow and our wish for a happier tomorrow which we'll wear wherever we go. Black for the past and white for the future. Black, the prison bars of my childhood... White, the pure promise of freedom that I'll nurture.
Eight. Rollerskates and swimming pools. The year someone broke the biggest rule.
Eight, Snoopy Snowcone machines and swings. Pretty little kids made into ugly things.
Eight, puppies born in basements, cameras rolling and actors in their placements.
Eight, curse words, dance parties, blue birds, skinny-dipping, records skipping, kids muffled and never heard.
Eight. The age I am forever... the one I couldn't discuss... the one filled with disgust.... and shame.... and blame....
Our parts bang around 'til I'm insane. But I'm not. We're not. We're fragmented but not broken. We're stitched up, but still awoken. Hands are no longer choking my throat— I’m my own life-saver, my own lifeboat.
No more threats of death to keep things quiet, We're screaming, we're shouting, no more shrinking violets. We’re a bold red tulip, quiet in the snow that finally bursts out its petals to show.
Eight, my pretty flower girl with braids and sometimes a curl. I'm her voice, forever. Our partnership, we must never sever.
Trauma Frankensteins, ripped up, tripped up but no longer zipped up, still kicking, spitting fire and alive.
We're in this together. in any kind of weather… Not just foul or fair friend, but soul mates ‘til the end.
This is Eight. These are Eight's Faces. And no one can erase us.
