truth and love.

The mysterious wicked van Gogh who visits me every time I bow my head to sleep
paints relentless images on the walls of my eye lids that are hindrances to my state of awareness.
Images of an abuser lying in his casket.
This repeated image fails to conjure up emotions such as fear, hatred, trepidation, and a deeply rooted wretchedness that seems to have once floated past the roots beneath the surface of my soul.
I try to persuade the perpetual image to leave my mind,
Diversion exercises and focal points be damned.
A shocking number of people showed to mourn these two people.
The little girl whose hair he once grabbed to jerk her head so he could yell at her to tell her that Reba McEntire was a whore… that little girl, she wanted to stand up on top of his casket with a megaphone to tell everybody that this man that they were grieving for was a liar.
This was a man who said something so heinous when I was born that nobody will tell me what it was.
This was a man who told me, rather, screamed at me that I was too big of a bitch for him to leave me anything in his will.
This was a man who could barely look at me, if at all.
Just as blood clots cause cardiac infarctions,
his hatred caused his blood to coagulate.
This was a man who prized his barbecue sauce recipe more than his own children.
He was embarrassed to be seen in public with me.
He berated me as a child for the outfits that I would wear these sporadic times he would take me out.
He was livid that I wore cowboy boots to a rodeo.
He was always worried about his precious reputation…
I guess he outdid himself on this one.
When the coroner's report comes back the world will see what a drunken fool he was,
That my accusations over the course of the past 25 years were not just mere rhetoric.
The hatred that once flowed through him was ultimately his demise.
Hatred is like acid,
it will eat you up and kill you.
Thank heavens for my filters,
my mom, my Nana, my Mawmaw, Steve, my friends,…
and my wife.
If it weren't for them I would be spiraling down the rabbit hole towards my demise.
I, too, would have that very hatred clogging my arteries.
Thank heavens for love.
Because in the end my dear friend,
it is both truth and love that will set you free.