~ your nearly opaque shroud of despair

somewhat poetic prose; i write merely to exercise my right to write

monsieur scalpel,

off late

whenever i hear from you

i disintegrate

and end up in the dark dungeon

where you thrive

i sob for hours

and experience the intense distress

that you derive your resilience from

i don't know how many patients

you've lost

and how you cope

but i know how you feel

from the way i fall into your abyss

and linger there with you

but after some time

when you go silent

and i start feeling the distance

between you and me

i have only one wish in my heart

and that is to be nine years old again

i cannot bear the pain of being an adult

with you

because i cannot bear the pain

of being an adult any more

i cannot live in the dungeon of despair

and not think about fireflies and flutterbys

i cannot stop dreaming of ice cream

and chocolate syrup

i cannot begin to believe

that there is no poetic justice in poetry

and life unravels only in the bleakest shades of grey

i tried my best to be an adult

i tried to be dark and brooding

but i just cannot be heartbroken

after seeing you

through your nearly opaque shroud of despair

your existence makes me deeply happy

and your devotion to surgery

makes me want to be devoted to your happiness

so let me be the nine year old

and send you the little twig i need to

and let's stop being adults

forever

deal with me like you would

with a child

and i'll be as mild as i am

when i am not compelled

to grow up

it's who i am

when i am me

fearlessly

and i know

you don't like it

when i feel afraid of you

Author's Note