Toska

There is a hole in my chest, bellowing streams of salt that roll and trip and scream. A gaping hole. Not a wound. No. This isn’t the aftermath of my debut on the battlefield. This is not the crater left behind by bullets or blades. This is what remains of what I believe I never had. This is the Grand Canyon. Thousands of years ago it was a river. Every day, sheets and shale fall apart and run the circuit. And every day, this stream cuts into my flesh like an executioner. Now, I tell you, this river is dry and my flesh is in two. One for the east. One for the west. Please understand, though, the river is only a metaphor for my soul. My flesh still pumps fluid like an oiled machine. My blood takes trips on roller coasters. Heaving back and forth and screaming with excitement. I caution you - keep your arms and legs inside the ride at all times. And the deluge that denies my soul drifts over and around me like the the wind in a twister that must push and pull to keep from falling apart. 

There is a hole in my chest, pouring joy and sorrow like a concession for the masses. Come and drink and you will know more than even I. But know that I know nothing worth keeping. I have lost something imperative to the human life. If I need to tell you, then you do not deserve to know. I wish I could say it was stolen, but if it is gone, then it is because of my own will. For I know that I cannot be plucked from His hand, so then, to be here, I have wandered away of my own choosing. I step through the forest wearing curious eyes and cold glances on my bare skin. Trees gaze upon me and whisper to each other words that were meant unspoken. Branches hiss and coil. My fangs pierce through the skin of knowledge of good and evil; his fangs pierce through the paper thin skin that is bound at my spine. Venom that sinks into me like ink, writing on me words that brushed through the wind between those trees.

There is a hole in my chest, mourning the loss of the cork that dammed and damned these emotions, locking them in my ribcage and turning out the lights before anyone can see. Before anyone can know that I am bursting at the seams. For I am like the oceans tide, which pulls people near and then pushes them away. I do not have the strength to lick my own wounds, so they fester and rot. And I will walk this earth as a dead man among the living. My own stench cloaking the scent of life that surrounds me. I will cry tears of tenesmus, leaving the salt to dry, flake and fall with the six-sided snow that tells tales of worlds where evil is overcome by a hero. I will survive because it is my tendency. I will breathe this putrid air and know that every sin that has brought me here was a choice. That I chose to pull out my heart and feed it to the rabid beast that  promised... That promised... But there was no promise.

There is a hole in my chest, teetering on the edge of life and quaking with every staggered inhale. The sulfur that burns in veins. The fire that grows ever stronger from the bellows puffing in my core. I am the same beast that ravaged my own chest. And I am alone. For the banquet of the King will serve many, but the feast that I have gathered will satiate no one. So I will purge my flesh of these insensitivities. I will bite my tongue and deny my hunger. Until my skin cakes my bones and I fall desperate to the ebony floor. I believe lies, but know the truth. Contradictions that collide and form mountains. Building up cities that crumble and fall apart, only to be rebuilt, broken and rebuilt again.

There was a hole in my chest, beckoning for love but filled with everything else. Stretched and unsatisfied. Drinking cheap wine and devouring rotten food. The unfaithful bride. I remember now, that when I was feasting at the table of Your enemy, You stood at the door and knocked. I heard, but I did not let You in. I remember, that when I was in the bed of Your enemy, You stood at the door and knocked. I listened, but I did not let You in. You stood there. And You stood there. Enraged by Your persistence, Your enemy gathered his men. They tore down the door, board by board, and fashioned it into death itself. They sacked You and ridiculed You. You stood at the door and knocked, so they nailed Your hand to it. And You stood at the door and knocked, so they nailed Your hand to it. And You stood at the door, and kicked it with Your feet, so they nailed Your feet to it. I sat there and mocked You, but the tears streamed down my face and I could not control myself. I ran to the door and let You in. 

Author's Note

Not so sure about the ending...

Reviews

[CHRIS ANDES]

a lot of imagery here
but you did it well in representing your emotions
which i like
=]

[Veritatis Cupitor]

Poetry. You told this story like a poem, with abstract meaning, powerful word choice, and detail to the image you were drawing for us. You led us along a riveting journey which kept our attention from beginning to end. You made me feel the extent and depth of the complex emotions in which you described. By the end, I exhaled great, only realizing that I had been holding my breath for some time.

There is something mysterious to this piece. It keeps drawing you in, even after reading. I feel to re-read it. And I probably will re-read it after I finish type this.

And I cannot seem to get over the way in which you described emotions.. Its like you painted a picture in blood and then forced open my eyes to witness the scene. It's intense and... wonderful. You truly wrote this well.