A plaid-riddled couch tied to wooden floors
Flower vases unmoored by my eyes
Humble thoughts beyond the cabin lights
The fight breaks out in tumultuous swings
My bosom caressed for open wings
Granulated trinkets on steel pans
glisten on the troubling counter
Foolishly frantic, moonshined drinks
pour solemnly inside my throat
The caravan arrived with avowed decrepit
Mocking tender bodies as they walk by
That stiff couch remains untouched
The good days seemed far behind us, laying an affront for a future that we could not see or understand. My mother reminded me that the self is what you’ve created for the world, however, the soul remains within you simply waiting to be seen. She had a way about her that alluded my experience of life. Things were never as they seemed and always required absolution, leading me to believe that there was hardly ever a firm reason to readily agree to anything at all. I remained inquisitive, trying to take hold of myself when necessary, and winding myself up tightly so that others could not enter the threshold of my world.
It wasn’t long before she got involved in an affair with a younger man; reimagining her life in ways that I’d never seen. I was curious, believing her to be the stone that would never sink to the bottom of the lake. When you threw stones across the water, they’d caress just the surface, bringing about quirky splashes and plopping down. Although she was a stone, she always floated just above the surface, deciding that she was different than everyone else. Except she wasn’t. The water stirred and the sun gleamed harshly against the surface, watching her sink all the way to the bottom.
I am my own enemy, wreaking havoc in my own battlefield. Except, the only soldier that remains is myself, stunting the bullets as they spray against the wind. I wonder if I will ever be enough for the dreams that seem to only be dreams and the thoughts that cannot seem to form the right words. I am a wall against the wall, stuck between a place of sorts, a flower with no stem to ground, a stream that keeps on going to no availing end. The depths of the earth are spread amongst my feet. My legs carry me to the water and I tell myself to drink; I am parched and fragile. The heat beats down against my brow, the sweat that drips down the side of my face tastes like the only water that I will ever allow myself to drink. Heretically inclined, in sublime maneuvers, boundless in my internal preaching as it grinds against my ears. The clouds may threaten rain but I have already made myself believe that I may never see the sun again.