callmerachel
picture it:
an orphan boy, sitting
on the concrete, cool autumn air
hitting his face.
his hands out, grubby,
pudgy things, sticky and sweet
from plundered garbage,
begging for spare
change, do you have
any spare change, sir?
that orphan boy is residing between my lungs.
pleading, pleading for someone
to grab one of those chubby palms
and pull him to safety.
but if not that, just some spare change, sir,
to show him he's worth a little something
at the end of the night.
the brain is always competing with
the heart. thoughts always compete
with feelings.
my heart wins far too often.
then, after i have fucked up, my
heart cries to my brain, "look
at what we've done!"
and my brains just cackles back.
what assholes,
the both of them.
sometimes i try to figure out
what my mechanism is.
do you hear the rattling?
the clunking?
the metal scraping on bone?
most of the time, i realize
my mechanism is pretty fucked.
i feel my brain dissolving.
a gentle fizz at first,
a persistent throbbing as it
splinters into
my organs beginning to fail
while my thoughts
trail into a never-ending plea.
whywhywhywhywhywhy?
i wonder what the sun
thinks about the clouds.
they share the same sky,
yet some days
the clouds invade its technocolor
blue, leaving the sun
to shimmer weakly.
other days, the clouds
are driven into hiding, allowing
the sun to proclaim it's beauty.
however, sometimes i think
maybe the sun
just wants some friends.
my system is so fucked.
i don't know how to un-fuck it.
i want my system to be normal.
instead it is full of cracks
and holes
and scotch tape.
scotch tape doesn't hold for very long.
i'm waiting for my system to explode
and myself right alongside it.
knock knock,
the visitor is here.
she comes around every
couple of days
hoursminutes
seconds, when she's persistent.
the visitor isn't someone i particularly care for.
she steals away
all of the life from my
home, she takes
all of my food from the pantry.
she'll take me
out to the gym, but
she never lets me leave.
i wish she'd leave me alone,
but the visitor is at my door,
and i can't leave her out in the cold.
"this is the end of my rope."
you say it with shaking hands,
shaking body,
tremors
dancing in your voice.
i glance at you.
back to the floor.
my lines are next:
"this is the end
of everything."
in alabama, there aren't four Seasons, but two. sometimes we get three, but most of the time, we have
1. Blistering Hot
and
2. Just Cold Enough to Freeze Your Nipples but Not Get Snow
i like the second-long in-betweens, myself. those mini-seasons when you lay in the grass, drive around with the windows down, walk everywhere you possibly can so you can find religion for a brief moment before the Seasons find you again.
she laid there with a pensive look on her face.
"i am dying."
white lab coats looked at her with sadness, with horror, with pity, with regret.
the shock of red cascading from her wrists made her hair look dull and lifeless.
a voice came from the doctor to the right of her head.
"yes, my child, you are."
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