With the stroke of a hand, light betrays dark. The monsters slink under beds, and the rooster slices silence with its screams. All while I replay a dream.
My husband is in the background; his loving presence is quiet, like a family portrait on a mantel.
The main act is the weariness from years of shutting myself off like a splash park in winter. It’s him, that thug, shifty, with words sweet as candy. A finger down my throat forces me to stay. Time ticks and a blue moon passes, yet as the clock strikes midnight I glimpse my reflection. It’s bruised and shifted.
Not me.
It’s an old friend’s house; their smile and embrace to long and itchy for my capacity. Their intention to soothe changes nothing.
Forced into society’s cracks; a shadow in a soup kitchen, a lump under bridges, a thumb on the edge of the highway. Someone that was, but now that isn’t. A ghost.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 
This is a wonderful piece of writing. Thank you for sharing.
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