I have echoes.
She has ghosts.
I have echoes of grief, of strain and pain and agony.
She has ghosts that haunt her waking hour and monsters that peek behind curtains drawn.
I have echoes…
She has ghosts, and monsters lurking in dark corners. My monsters have grown snugly—fur babies that I tend to and stroke from time to time, just to remind myself of the feeling.
Her monsters are razor blades. Spiked, fanged creatures ready to rip apart every inch of your psyche in a crazed frenzy sprung forth by traumas unknown to the naked eye.
I have echoes. My echoes are distant calls from the abyss, the lingering abrasions caused by the pain of decades passed.
She has monsters clawing at her skirt, memories sharp as glass.
I wish I could share my monsters with her, to show her what happens when the edges dull, when the claws get caught in skin thick as callused knuckles you get by beating them into a wall shaped like his face.
I want to show her what it feels like to take the fangs in the palm of your hand and have them snap under the strength of your willpower.
I want to show her what the other side of the rainbow looks like–
The bright, clear sky she has to look forward to.
I want to show her what healing looks like.
But I have echoes, and she… has ghosts.
She is in a maze of her own making, the walls bloodied by the sins of the men we can’t face.
All I can do is call to her, hoping my echoes will lead her home.
I have echoes.