Sarah ptsd stories

patrickmurphy Community member
Autoplay OFF   •   3 years ago
A poetry series of letters and depiction of PTSD.


When I met Sarah

All I see, is that darkened silhouette

embroidered by Suicide's flame

dragging across the floor like

an impending AMBER alert.

spreading nothing but ash,

he rushed over her like wildfire.

First Date with Sarah

In wishes for more than some willow

with a sanctuary bleeding heart

and fingers that still shake

even after she swirls the Merlot.

Oh, how to love the darkness.

Quivering at the sight

of this raw dinner.

Our lips quench by

stained wine glasses,

leaving everything unscathed for eating

it purges the poisonous words

that I would normally

use in attempts

to drown that sickness.

Noticing her stuttered look,

her uncomfortable eyes glance away,

she holds back.

I am taken by her burnt interior

and only wish he wouldn't

have his way.

After the Date

I loved watching those curves quiver

cross the room,

where the wine still

circulates her veins

hopefully one day

I can be those AA meetings,

she always wanted to attend.

To Suicide: A letter from Recovery

You escape,

even though I lock the

basement door,


You still find your way loose

through the only window

I forget to board.

Suicide, you always damage

everything you touch.

You're a cigar where the last puff kills you,

but we still decide to play

Russian roulette with our lips.

Sarah is some porcelain figure

cracked and singed,

because of your delicate flame.

Your skin adjacent to hers sickens me.

I wish she would put you out for good

then leave half of you on table

and never look back.

To PTSD: A letter from Recovery

You claim to love them,

show them the door

hold safety in your arms

waiting for them to get close,

then you choke out the marrow

from inside their bones.

It gets you off

you're sick.

She found you on a low night

but you attach to her

like some addiction she can't shake.

She always finds her way back to you

right in your hands,

right in your arms.

To Recovery: A letter from Myself

Sarah still has the same flair

as she grabs the T.V. remote,

you can see her tremors.

Pressing scan channel,

in hopes to clear her head.

this is the easiest way

to move forward with a sense of self-control.

the morning buzz fills her ears,

she hates the confusion.

To Sarah: A Love Poem

Suicide is a forest fire

and honestly Sarah,

you're flammable in these woods.

We hide here,

because it's warm

but company,

in the dead heat

makes everything worthwhile.

Even if we might burn alive.

Thoughts of Sarah

If Sarah was this nightly ruse

waiting for someone new.

that vibrant person we use to know,

then maybe, I would sleep tonight.

shes not though and never will be,

it's not a triumphant victory,

it's more like some plea for help.

needing a long branch to pull her out

of that quicksand.

she sits at home

hiding from PTSD,

they are good friends

but, he sometimes thinks its ok

to call up suicide again.

It's not healthy

never will be.

Sarah knows this

keeping to herself.

However, she can only shine

when sun hits her skin.

She chooses to watch Netflix

with a T.V. dinner instead.

Paging Sarah

finding Sarah lost

in all those diary pages

that came to life.

it's hard to admit it,

but her world collapses

everytime this happens.

suicide is a major influence

and I grow weary,

he doesn't know when to stop.

I'm here with PTSD's wife,

she claims her husband is busy.

I'm not surprised.


You struck color

back when gray meant nothing.

I learned what its like

to hold hands with dark red ink blots

and fingerpaint our names across the sky.

However, you forget to look up now

you cannot read anything.

It seems the world comes and goes

as it passes your house,

alittle too frequently.

It now is some dark gray hue

sometimes black,

but, i still love and remember you

for the love you were always


Angst and pillows

Its still there in her skin,

I can see it, the terror.

Honestly, its hard to get turned on.

Her eyes reflect it

that whole night,

even words " I love you"

shake and quiver

from her lips.

The only warmth I get

is when her skin presses

next to mine.

Morning After


holding for air,

the night was rough even though

I gave good company.

The scratch marks aren't from the fun

she fights in her sleep.

PTSD works his rounds

its such a shame.

I wish I could sever that bond

once and for all.

To Sarah: My Condolences

You are stronger then you think,

you do not need my words

nor do you need me around.

Suicide might choke you

he lays his hands on you,

cuts your skin with knives.

However, soon you will retaliate

and he will fall like a dime in the ocean.

A Morning Stroll

I saw her exercising today,

It was right around the block

her favorite spot to run was adjacent

to a typical pattern

where the cars are best divided,

sunlight struck everywhere.

Its still a easy jog,

hands at waist at all times

legs moving frequently forward,

no phone this time.

This is good,

hopefully no calls from PTSD.

A Talk over Coffee

He still lurks in my halls

where my hands only feel the mirror.

I still cannot see my own reflection

without being haunted

I don't think it will ever truly go away

it just gets easier

Those were her words,

I still remember them.

They struck a grin so large

my cheekbones felt the need to resurface.

To PTSD: Another letter from Recovery

You dont understand how love works,

I guess we have that in common.

I know she cheats on me with you

I think I'm ok with that.

I see you still have suicide on speed-dial,

I'll never understand

why you guys are such good friends.

To PTSD's Wife: A letter from Recovery

I think its fair to know

that your husband,

will hopefully

get to spend more time with you.

It seems his job will be in remission soon.

Hold tight to your vows,

you'll need this.

A conversation with Sarah

So I handed my palms out to the mirror

where I struck my own silhoutte,

from the left over paint in the attic.

I thought it was cool to see myself

in a blue glow.

Don't ever play with color (she said)

its dangerous and gives too many memories.

If you keep everything neutral

atleast you won't get hurt.

That is true but I think that only applies for colors

such as red.

I dont understand what you're saying?

Red is like fire,

red is blood.

It provokes anger and rage

it is the essence of temper.

But I used blue,

to show my inner peace.

(she pauses) Well you can paint purple then

because if you ran your fingers on my mirror,

the cracks would cut your skin

as deep as my mind forgets

today is as important as yesterday.

A day under the Sun

she fell from her rightful spot

next to my hands

that once painted those blue words.

looking with fingertips

I trace exumberance from her spine

and feed it to my quarrels.

It's time like this we wish the beach

wasn't just a beach.

That following Night

She kept the curtains up this time

where they hung around the ceiling


They tango everytime we couple our hands

she is still timid,

she still fears this.

But, knowing her struggle and

where she came from.

Makes this feel like

new-born months

breathing for air.

To Recovery: A Letter to Myself Part 2

You breathe for this

the time when she no longer needs

to make those phone calls.

When the cigar still exists

but that last puff is left

deep inside the chamber.

You're an ocean

where it cycles past the coastline.

Coming in you bring new life

as you leave,

you take stuff with you

Relapse is something people should fear

it comes with the tide.

A diary entry

I think she loves

when the world flips,

unpside down.

It feels like a tunnel

where the world is so black

you can't keep your footing.

The mystery of tomorrow

wondering if you'll slip right away

and never climb back up.

Her adrenaline kept her swimming

past everything everyone wanted

to be an ocean.

There was treasure underneathe,

because everyday she swam

the dimes would fall.

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