I take the words you give me, I beat them across my chest. Then tear, tear, tear down their skins, stripping them to the stark bone core. Is that where I find the truth? I can’t be sure.
Kindness plays tricks, but so do doubt and fear, leading me into ivy halls and porcelain labyrinths, misguiding me in directions where I should have walked away.
Should have. Could have. Would have. But I did not. I climbed into muddy holes, blindly reaching for concrete among the goo. I floated atop clouds, transcended the big picture with my bird’s-eye view. I wandered lost through forests of thick, gnarled trees, their limbs pointing toward the fog which crept in the brush.
I sit in rooms with four empty walls from which I once tried to erase the past and draw out the future, but the pen drew blank. Whatever invisible ink is etched into this paint remains unseen to the naked eye, and we are left to guess. Memories render crystal clear black where I try to place the picture of what I saw, who moved there, how did we speak. And the words trickle away with the tide, only to rush forward and pummel me in the storm.
Pain is the syrup which binds the crisp, flaky crusts of everything else together. The sweet dessert you tell yourself to avoid. By trying to ignore it, you find yourself craving it twice as much. Healthy moments are not enough to digest – they are bland and tasteless to the rich textures of anguish and remorse, longing and desire. Those do not melt and crumble as easily in the hands.
It is the pure elation of joy that I wish could last forever; how fleeting it feels among the rocks and boulders. A butterfly resting on the shoulder until it is jostled and flies away.
These words which tumble, stagger, or flow through me, drawing out feral wails, jovial laughs, clandestine smiles, as I cup them in my hands and hold them to my lips. I pull the air from deep within, and in one long breath, I blow them all away.
– Written by Miss A on July 11, 2012