When nightmares are memories
Waking up is as painful as the nightmare.
The smell of blood that awoke me from my sleep
Is the smell of my broken heart bleeding from my chest.
I wake up in a sweat, and instead of comforting myself by saying, “it’s only a nightmare”, instead I say, “it’s 2019, and he is not in my bed”.
The memories of the molestation weigh me down, threatening to emerge through my eyes at any second.
My eyes, all they see are his smile as he molests my tiny body. My body, all it feels is him. Them.
Damn it. I’m a 25 year old woman. Why can’t I just get my work done, why can’t I wash my dishes, run errands, do what I have to do instead of dwelling on something that happened 23 years ago.
Because after a nightmare like that, the terror is a fresh as the sunrise.
I can only hope that sunset will bring healing.
But as I close my eyes at night, I know that hope will not save me from my memories.