[untitled]

i am in need of a better word to describe this. it is no poem. it is more my feelings regarding my recently estranged sister.

Oh God. I’m vomiting. I taste it, rising up the back of my throat. I am bent double and I feel it in my mouth. I can’t think. I can’t do much, it hurts my throat, my stomach, and everything is spilling out. I feel like I am being cleaned by vile dirty hands. My head thumps.

            It has felt like a few hours of wandering, but I am finally alone. It’s dark here. It’s cool and damp. The dull throb slows to a painless pulse that I feel through my entire body. I’m probably sleeping. Everything is so defined, like there is an extra coat of real over the normal things. All I want is for everything to be soft. I want to feel a soft pillow under my head. I want to be wrapped in blankets so tight that the world outside is only a dream inside a dream. I want to feel things easier.

            I roll around in bed. I hold tightly onto my pillow. It is the pillar of my self-awareness, the thing holding up this entire world. My dream is an entirely different universe. This is the only place I can believe in anything. I retreat because it is so easy and safe to do so. It hurts no one. It is my secret to hide forever.

A dying tree, its limbs reaching dramatically towards nothing, is all that stands anywhere. Nothing hangs in the air, no shade of light or color in the sky. The deep black seems on the verge of swallowing me and this tree and the small patch of ground we stand on. Everything else is blank hopeless emptiness.

            You are a fissure. When I cut open your chest, I am always surprised at the topography of your soul. The mountains each represent a soaring high in your short life. I am cutting away the skin, examining the individual bones, cleaning the dirty parts that you would not want the world to see. I am going to spend the rest of my life tending you, till you are so beautiful it is unbearable to see you. And then I am going to slice off my fingers, in fear your perfection would spread through my body and make me a spectre.

            It only hurts me more to know this pain would level you. That you should bring to me what you could not bear, to create out of bone and dream the thing I love, and leave me severed from it…it could not crush me more completely. I am dust. I am in the air now. I am again too separate to be held together by a single idea. I am a single molecule in the air, drifting idly, lost in thought. I am of love, I am of passion. I am less perfection than most before me. I am more perfection than those I have seen coming after. I will build from a single molecule once again, in the hope you will take mercy on my passion and my love when we again meet. If you do not, I will level you more completely than I could have before.

            I awake, and it is days past the last time I have thought. I get up and shower. I feel a strange distance to my body. We will learn each other again, the ins and outs, soon enough. I find food and a shower, and I write. And I read. And I build a secret meadow in the dark corners of my mind.

Reviews

[Heavyhearted]

i love how surreal this is. i get such dreams sometimes but they are mostly lucid and more unpleasant.
i wish you would title every work. it makes each of them more appealing and individual.