Back then,
I had a compulsive need
to purge my hate.

My verbal vomit
scattered across the page,
eroding the smooth facade
of my denial.

I couldn’t think of my father,
without feeling the bottomless pit
of pain and loathing.
I only saw the colours crimson and black.

Now when I think of him,
I feel dead inside–there remains
a large, gaping hole.

There’s a vast space of memory,
which I am slowly filling back up
with sunshine yellow and cerulean blue.

Layers of colour, hues of happiness,
fortify my life now.

It’s not that I have re-invented myself,
but have finally grown into who I was meant to be.
I have become unstuck.
I have found the flow of life.

I can’t erase my childhood,
but I can smudge the charcoal
of my memory.

I can blur the lines of pain and sorrow,
and leave them in the background,
highlighting happy moments.

I am bathed in the healing rays
of warmth, light and love.


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