By Christina Hennemann
Sleepless for two years and a half,
912 days in the dark but wide awake,
Black circles under my eyes, the shock
Sitting right on top of my pallid forehead.
Blurry Sepia photographs drill into my skin
Like barbed wire, a fence keeping me away
From a juicy sweet green meadow called peace –
My scarred fingers cry tiny bloody tears of shame.
But still, the leather photo album smells so
Velvety and soothing, heavenly bittersweet –
That my prefrontal cortex mourns past’s death.
I turn to look at you closely, examining:
Is there that uncanny shadow of doom
Flickering over your eyes as well, like
A daunting massive cloud of rainfall?
Never can nor will I be dragged there again,
Into the shade of silvery twisted spook,
Where icy droplets burn my sore limbs
And keep me insomniac, accompanied by
Crooked ghosts of the past, overshadowing
My present and future: my nights are always
Haunted, even though I am safe now.
I long to fall for your smile, fall asleep, fall softly,
But my muscles are froze up and tense, while
My heart keeps pumping fear through my veins.
I close the photo album.
Inhale, exhale, just breathe.
Christina Hennemann is a writer and photographer based in the West of Ireland but originally from Germany. At the age of six, she began writing her first English songs and poems with the help of a German-English dictionary. Since then, her English skills have much improved, she hopes. Her most recent publications include orangepeel, Maythorn Mag and The Sunshine Review.