empty starlight, open ribcage (prose; 437w)
A/N: I wordbarf things like this when I feel lonely.
I have waited for you.
The falling leaves whisper to me that autumn has come, the dry chill of winter ready to descend upon the land. I have no quilts. I have no fireplace, no stack of lumber to last me through the winter. I cannot place anything under your Christmas tree nor climb into your stocking the way you have sneaked between my ribcage and carved a space for yourself in the hollows of my heart. What do you want, darling? It must be something that I cannot give you. I can only give the salt of my tears, my blood on your tongue, your prayers between my teeth. This is a dance under moonlight, this is a waltz with a silent partner, a trot with invisible arms. This is something no one has any need for. This is fire without flames, star without light, a empty expanse of darkness which used to be the night sky.
I offer you a bottle of champagne, bubbles coiling up to the surface as we welcome the new year like it might actually bring something new this time around. The ball drops and we are reminded that nothing ever truly changes; resolutions broken, relationships broken, that new bone china plate you bought for the steak thrown against the chipping blue paint and broken. We lie at awkward angles and try to stare through the same slit between the door and the ground, the fuzzy carpet tickling our nose, the musty scent saying no one has tread before this door for a long time. Our necks hurt. Our spines creak. There is not enough grease in this world to keep your gates from cringing and groaning, a squeaky declaration of pain and anguish and despair at every time I enter or leave.
I don’t enter. I don’t leave.
There is no resolution here. There is nothing to be broken.
The falling leaves whisper to me that autumn has come, the dry chill of winter ready to descend upon the land. I have a quilt to myself. I sit in front of my fireplace, burn my yule logs, stretch out the knots and kinks and strange coils of tension in my back. My ribcage cracks open, I crack my ribcage open, my ribcage is cracked open by the force of my conviction that if I could carve out my heart and slice out the section with you in it everything will right itself again. I leave my heart where it is. I pass the winter and repaint the walls and use something stronger than grease to oil the gates.
I wait.
[I've submitted this work for the 2015 Scholastic Art and Writing Awards!]
I have waited for you.
The falling leaves whisper to me that autumn has come, the dry chill of winter ready to descend upon the land. I have no quilts. I have no fireplace, no stack of lumber to last me through the winter. I cannot place anything under your Christmas tree nor climb into your stocking the way you have sneaked between my ribcage and carved a space for yourself in the hollows of my heart. What do you want, darling? It must be something that I cannot give you. I can only give the salt of my tears, my blood on your tongue, your prayers between my teeth. This is a dance under moonlight, this is a waltz with a silent partner, a trot with invisible arms. This is something no one has any need for. This is fire without flames, star without light, a empty expanse of darkness which used to be the night sky.
I offer you a bottle of champagne, bubbles coiling up to the surface as we welcome the new year like it might actually bring something new this time around. The ball drops and we are reminded that nothing ever truly changes; resolutions broken, relationships broken, that new bone china plate you bought for the steak thrown against the chipping blue paint and broken. We lie at awkward angles and try to stare through the same slit between the door and the ground, the fuzzy carpet tickling our nose, the musty scent saying no one has tread before this door for a long time. Our necks hurt. Our spines creak. There is not enough grease in this world to keep your gates from cringing and groaning, a squeaky declaration of pain and anguish and despair at every time I enter or leave.
I don’t enter. I don’t leave.
There is no resolution here. There is nothing to be broken.
The falling leaves whisper to me that autumn has come, the dry chill of winter ready to descend upon the land. I have a quilt to myself. I sit in front of my fireplace, burn my yule logs, stretch out the knots and kinks and strange coils of tension in my back. My ribcage cracks open, I crack my ribcage open, my ribcage is cracked open by the force of my conviction that if I could carve out my heart and slice out the section with you in it everything will right itself again. I leave my heart where it is. I pass the winter and repaint the walls and use something stronger than grease to oil the gates.
I wait.
[I've submitted this work for the 2015 Scholastic Art and Writing Awards!]