She sits at a huge dining table
That was crafted amateurly
But with great care, in rich mahogany
Low warm lighting surrounds her
Stars twinkle through the windows
Her arms across her chest, she holds herself
Staring at an item on the table
Pondering
She remembers that she hates the smell of metal…
In the centre of some distant stone village
She sits cross-legged in the cobblestone square…
Sharp, shallow adventures
Just below the exterior
Still the vibrations
Before they melt the wall
I’ll quiet this interior…
Maybe the destination
Won’t be acceptance after all
Maybe it won’t be calm
Won’t be peace
Won’t be love…
Stormy skies pound down onto dark shorelines
Anger whips branches and brambles to and fro
Thunder and lighting tear the sky into pieces
Echoing a desperate rage
Found in any lifetime of faulty connections
Dark clouds oppressive with no end in sight
Mix with a melancholy
Only the perpetually lonely can understand…
I suppress the surges, even when I don’t mean to.
They swell, then subside.
I swallow and swallow and swallow them. I push them so far down, I think they must be gone.
Empty in the outer layers, but, underneath, tiny vibrations, too far away to register with a label, yet present enough to remind me of my worth.
Why do I automatically suppress anything that feels powerful, unless (until?) it becomes too strong to ignore?
Innate loneliness
Decision wants to be made
To stay or to go
I’m screaming and screaming and screaming and screaming
to myself, silently
into the dark
hoping for catharsis
but I’m still just as fucked
Wouldn’t it hurt far less
in the grand scheme of everything
if, instead…