Painful Memories


On a moonless night, the stars don’t shine. They hide ‘neath pillows of grey. The sky, as black as my heart, speaks not a word. The chilled breeze drifts past me, adding to the sense of my loneliness.

As the moon peeks from the clouds, I feel as if it’s mocking me. Taunting me. Glowing and sparkling around my jaded self like a shattered prism. Still the ebony sky speaks nothing. My soul is cold, weak.

Once more the haughty moon hides from mine eyes. I can feel the cold air wash past me, sending memories shivering down my spine. My heart aches and tears fall, but my cries go unheard.

Silence is my voice
Black is my soul

I feel as if I’m fading away.
Into a pool of the forgotten.
Drowning in memories that haunt.

My mind replays each painful thing like an unending movie. My life is subtitled with shame and guilt. There are no extras. No deleted scenes. No alternate ending.

But, my story is not finished. Much like the bright moons glare. I look to the heavens above for answers and all I receive are those horrid memories. All I can see are the scars left behind.

A road map to hell.

Can I survive this?
Am I strong enough?

Or, like angels before me, have I fallen for eternity?


(Copyright Ace of Spades 1995-2013
Nevermore Creations 2017)
Written August 19th 2013

“As a writer, I’ve found an outlet for the pains I’ve felt. A way to express things I cannot verbalize. Being a mom, writer, and survivor, I just take it a day at a time.” – Channing W. Milburn

Follow Channing on Twitter and Facebook.

For Jason

image1 (3)

For Jason

I penned your obituary the other afternoon, while laying in the bed of my new lover. He must have known my thoughts had turned to you, yet again, and found a reason to excuse himself and leave me with my unrelenting demons. An act of kindness, really.

Such a strange thing to do, but then again perhaps not. You aren’t dead but I had to bury you. I have to bury you. I will bury you. Past. Present. Future. Around and round we go. It’s a long slow process, not at linear, this getting over you.


Jason James, age 43. Suicide.

I was fifteen years old when I met you – you with your long hair, bass guitar, and eyes so sad they brought me to my knees. I think I loved you even then. It would be another twenty years or so before you finally invited me for a cocktail and then wasted no time in turning my world upside down.

From the instant you touched my hand at the table, we had a love. Big love. What I thought was real love. ‘I’d die for you’ love. It was ‘everything I imagined it was supposed to be’ love. Until it became dishes shattered, holes in the wall, blood on the floor, sirens wailing love.

How am I supposed to grieve you? My king, my almost husband, my villain, my captor, my everything. I left you five times in total, the last being the most painful. I thought my final departure was the most suffering I’d ever endure but you had to, of course, prove me wrong.

You suffered childhood wounds so great you thought nothing would heal them. Nothing but booze and denial and self hatred. You tried to drink yourself to death, nearly drowning everyone around you. You told the time of day by the amount of whiskey left in your 26 and I always talked to God when you neared the bottom. I wonder now if I tempted fate one too many times by praying you’d die before you hit me again.


I killed you off by suicide. I’m sorry if that’s cruel. It’s that there’s a part of me that wished, for just moment, that you’d conclude you couldn’t live with the knowledge of what you’d done to me.

Maybe somewhere in your mind, underneath the drunken blackouts, you would recall the nights we had. When you ripped out my hair in fistfuls and made me sleep on the floor while the dog was invited to rest on my pillow. When you called me a filthy whore and forced me to lay still while you angrily did as you pleased. When you told the police the tv was just too loud after putting a hole in the drywall with my head. I wished, for just a moment, the guilt would consume you the way your violence consumed me.


It’s difficult, this task of writing about you. I loved you. I hated you. Though whatever I felt, we were bound together by some invisible thread that would not break. Some past life pact, a soul connection. There was no denying it. You always said in the deep dark moments with your fist raised that we’d never be finished as long as we were both alive. And now you are gone.

I’m not exactly certain as what to do next. But I promise to visit your favourite places. I promise to give your guitar to that busker we once met. I promise to tell everyone that you are sorry because I know you would want me to. And I promise to fall in love with a man better than you, like you asked me the last time I saw you.


So, to me, you are dead now. It’s the only way I can continue. I hope you understand.


I loved you Jason. I hated you. Goodbye.


About Jennifer

Jennifer Lee is a writer, wanderer, and witchy woman, currently residing in the Canadian prairies. She has lived a hundred lives and survived to tell the tale. This is her first published piece


She Falls



His fist was strong, his punch fierce. As her flesh tore, her mortality was real. Broken hearted. Ashamed. Sad. Pitiful. She fell. At first, she denied the truth. Lied to herself. She tried to understand how she caused this. Had she tempted those above her? Had she committed a sin so great, that it merited this torture?

Broken bones came next. Stitched flesh. Actual scars. Mental and physical. She’d never forget. Her sobs at night would not let her. Her dreams replayed the days horrors. A movie in her mind. Angels wings ripped from their sockets. Halo crushed beneath the Demons foot. Heavenly release would never come. She was nothing.

Her only solace; The stars. Oh, how she wished she could return to them. Yet, knew she could never be able to do so. Her kingdom was lost. Blood flowed for what seemed an eternity. Body broke down. Spirit crushed. Her will to live was gone. She prayed each night for the Gods to take her, end her suffering. Yet, they did not.

Something was brewing beneath her calm, placid exterior. A tempestuous storm. Could she fight back? The chips were stacked against her, but the Goddess stood defiant. Dark gaze never left his icy stare as she stood toe to toe with a demon.

Words flew, they dueled into the night and the Goddess never faltered. He swung once and that was all it took. She broke. When she swung, her punch landed true. Struck his jaw with all her might. Finally! The Demon bled too!

His lip split and his blood was shed. Her pent up rage and anger began to swell. Finally, it broke the surface. She fought her hardest that night. She never knew she could battle that hard until that Demon pushed her to the limit.

Unknown strength was found and forced outward. Her deed was done. Her freedom was her gift from the Gods. Scarred and beaten. Broken and tainted. She was Free.

Glistening tears on a cherubs face remind me of those times. Having seen the Madonna cry in my dreams, brings memories to the surface. Blood trickling down my face shows, I am human. Time heals all wounds. I am the Goddess and I, alone, reclaimed my throne.

Copyright Nevermore Creations 1993-2017 

“As a writer, I’ve found an outlet for the pains I’ve felt. A way to express things I cannot verbalize. Being a mom, writer, and survivor, I just take it a day at a time.” – Channing W. Milburn

Follow Channing on Twitter and Facebook.