effiefelix
I burrow into my feelings and my deepest nightmares, layers upon layers of discarded information that built up over years like soil deposits. Reflection, real reflection, is an archaeological dig. You find yourself sectioning off the area into blocks and keeping track of what sites, what points in time in your life were the most active, which had something unique about them compared to the other years.
I feel old.
It hurts to see how much, how many parts of me, I've buried all this time.
We'll see about the chains, I whispered, low.
And they laughed, for they knew it wasn't in my power to decide.
They took me to a room. It had a chair, and a rope. They tied me to it.
It was the first in a chain of events I would never have predicted.
I chose the side who'd rather die. So I deserved what came next.
That, when night descended, and the first shot shook the block, and the first crash of glass shattered my mind,
that as the people yelled and screamed in arrhythmic war chant for release,
and the raids began and the tear gas poured and we collapsed over each other, suffocating,
With every egg they've snatched,
with every shell they'll try to crack,
poking and prodding to see just what caused
all the chaos and rioting.
They'll all be empty compared to what I have in me.
I see my old self,
in the space where time transcends the rib cage,
transforming iron bars to sun rays,
the cement beneath her bare feet soft grasses,
painfully recreating a world
in which I have let her free.
Lying on your side,
you speak to me
of all the lives you've never lived.
The smile betrays your lines
not from laughs.
I know your true intent.
Don't hope
that I'll relent.
These visits only keep
written note of your dreams
that I may twist
and burn them
and toss the ashes
to the seas.
One and a half seconds
and he goes in to kiss me.
Ha!
I don't like where this is going.
Half of me wants to be
in a hot air balloon sailing
the skies,
soaring past mountains,
adrift in the clouds,
seeing the sunsets.
Spending the night
with the fire overhead
igniting our passage
as we gaze at the towns
glowing
letting the stars
determine our course.
With our supplies in
a picnic basket
we sail the world.
Pull away from me,
town boy.
I'll not be held back.
Then again,
come with me.
And learn what it means
to kiss.
Don't even use that word with me, as if I'm a whiny brat who just wants this.
No, I need it.
This is a part of me, an everlasting fire fueled by conviction, determination, passion, love. This is the most sincere, dedicated part of my soul. Not, "I know what I want", but,
I know who I am.
And there is a part of me, this innermost, most beautiful part, that cannot go without this.
What a waste of words.
The writer, my love-- he paused, inhaled his incensed cigar-- should not seek approval.
But as he continued to drawl, all she could think of was how she, the tightrope walker, balanced the thread, did her tricks-- and with every acrobatic feat, she turned and beamed; they loved her work, she did it exceptionally well-- she didn't write to stir the masses, or to disgruntle them, although it could happen in the process, nay: she wrote, full of love.
They poured, together, over the ancient tomes. Faces paved in a tomb. The library reeked of decay, dusty, damp.. it had been abandoned sometime, in the aftermath of the shootings. What sadness, that all those who preceded them had been denied such haunting experiences.
It came as a threat; the words, "Let him falter, or he shall see light."
For I had not been accustomed to such talk. Falter, or light? It was precisely that kind of comprehension he did not want to come to terms with.
He would rather have stumbled; who was I to deny him his own desires?
My husband doesn't love me anymore.
I realize this as I send him text after text, and he doesn't reply.
I flip through text after text, waiting for him to come home.
And he doesn't-- he didn't even pack his bags.
One day becomes one week and I worry.
I try to call him, every day. I file a Missing Person Report.
Every second threatens to choke me, to strangle me, but still I live, and two days later, I'm informed: He is alive. He is in E__________.
Again, I remember:
We had exchanged a few words, they hung briefly in the air. He said he had to go out. His footsteps crossed the threshold...
I never saw him again.
The fingers loosen their grip on the handle.
Now he will never see me.
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writing since 2011 · 36 entries · 28 days shown up
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the words Effie reaches for
lovelightnowsmilepasteyesbeautifulsunwordsexistencestandingnightrealizefirealonestop