perhaps.

Another crack at prose poetry.

I'm a sensitive soul; perhaps too sensitive. What is it about me that I can drink the emotion of others to an unhealthily excessive weight? I am bloated. I carry the burden of others, and the burden of their indications of irritation. If I look in the mirror, I can see the cellulite molded by frown lines; wrinkles filling a dollar bill. A reminder that I perhaps may still be worth something, but I need to smooth things over in order to see that. I am a child trapped inside a timid old woman. Not too young, but young enough that I can still see the daisies trapped in cracks of dirt on concentration camp grounds. I walk through a butcher and I can still smell my Marc Jacobs through woven scents of different deaths. But I can distinctly pick out from the smell the particular way they died; metallic iron stench slit throat decay beating, bruised and basted meat for bored and sadistic flesh cutting masochists. Of course the man behind the counter will sneer at me; as he wipes his bloodied hands on his apron. Perhaps he likes his job a little too much; perhaps he doesn't like it enough at all. I can tell he does not have the same ability as I do; the ability to sense another, to pick out their smell within brooding crowds. This time, there is no match to light the fire. I will leave the butcher and return to poorly painted moors, where I will sit on a flat-faced rock with my notepad in my crotch. In this world, my pen will never run out of juice. Out here, there is not a single soul to drink emotion unnecessarily from. Unless once in a blue moon, when I'm feeling utterly depressed and just... dead. Perhaps I am sitting on the grave of a child who once felt like a million dollars but is now crumpled pile of bone and gone. I won't be having children at any point of my life; so these ones will stay buried. Until I've finished writing, until I've finished living.