Sometimes the heart just needs to bleed out words. And so I did, tonight.
Worse things fall like snowflakes;
dozens of them, like crystallized art descending down a stanza made of midnight
and moon, each one different and unique, landing softly on exposed flesh.
Cold kisses imbue reality into my bones;
like a tattoo, almost.
A blizzard upon and among me, wrapping me, delicately.
The softness of each shock, twitch, and tingle takes my breath
away; into a place where fears echo back to ears dripping
promising whispers, sharing cruel words of never, not soon, not any time again.
I feel that;
the naked honesty that relief does not wait around the corner, that tomorrow does not
bring brighter days, and most of all that the beginning of the end only marks the turn of the cul-de-sac.
Even if I could run, there would be nowhere to go.
I am trapped in here; a prisoner
feasting on tears and prayers, and one last plea, to please hear . . . me.
Hope changes clothes almost every hour.
A vagabond with unkempt hair and a stench that travels, that buys
because they’re easier to digest.
I don’t like this hope;
so I turn away and search for the others.
They band together, form a stalwart fleet of macedon and cottony mountain.
Racing toward them, my knees quake and shoulder blades burn, but I beg my soul
to overtake my body;
breathless and weeping to the feet of Salvation and Grace;
so that I might rest, if only to brought to the End of the world, where my body is finally
stripped away and I emerge; the real me; the girl
who laughs with her eyes and her mouth at the same time.
Who looks around
at the world and its humans, and thinks up scenarios, playing with people in her mind;
possibly taking them to her books, where she can look and wonder, make him
make her complex, intertwine their worlds like a lanyard of licorice and sorghum.
But these worse things continue to fall, faster and heavier, making all that creativity feel like a snare;
a pack of singing sirens reminding of all that I used to be.
I used to be beautiful.
I used to be alluring.
I used to smile in secret, for no reason at all.
I used to be strong.
I used to be clever.
I used to listen, really listen, and that was my favorite of all.
i used to think that miracles weren’t things, but people
just being themselves; forgetting to be perfect long enough to let something in
Now I am absorbed with myself. I can’t
think while my head screams, while fingers reach up behind me and poke my ribs, startling
me when I only want to live.
I want to live!
A living nightmare is all I find, and this takes a toll
It seems to me all that’s left is to decide:
I can be startled and afraid, acknowledge each and every limitation,
Or . . .
I can survive, like this;
live one more day and see what happens.
There’s this saying: “whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”
Call me contumacious, but I’ve always thought that whatever doesn’t kill you
Sugar coating life is all well and good until it rains, and the gutters flood with sweet, filthy waste.
The truth is,
the heart’s response to pain and misery is to clam and close, to pull the veil down
and swing the shield around.
I’ve never liked shields.