Brigits_Flame: April- Week 1
The rain is beginning to fall in solid sheets. My face pressed against the sliding glass door feels as if it's melting as one molecule at a time lands at my feet. "All of these waterlogged nights are drowning me." I say it like an offhand comment on the downpour in front of me. Just a mere fact that will become meaningless in the morning when the sun shines again. I lift my hand to wipe the streaked glass clean. My fingers look like strangers held out in front of me. It's as if they're asking me what I'm doing here. The answer is stuck between my vocal chords and a half-choked groan escapes in it's place.
My hand falls. My feet take their cue and my body swings around. In a flurry of new strength I pick up the picture I dropped on the floor earlier. I stare at the faces, this time with a new resolve. There are things that just shouldn't remain in plain sight. Memories that will break you as many times as you'll allow them to. I think of destroying this little piece of printed paper that sliced me deep tonight. But, what would be the point? The ghosts connected to it would be there, rattling like the shutters outside.
Picture in hand, I walk to the door. Walking out into the storm, it's as if my skin hasn't seen a drop of fresh water in years. I've been all saltwater puddles on the floor. I want to fall here on the ground and soak up every drop. And yet, I have a new purpose settling in my bones. Holding the picture tight, I fall and claw my fingers through the flowerbed. Drooping flowers fly out of my way. Petals splatter in the pools around my knees. After digging as far as my hands would allow, I place the picture face down. The soggy earth gets thrown back on top as I sob like tonight was a nightmare I won't ever wake up from if I don't learn to shake myself awake. Once the unearthed soil is level I scatter the sacrificed petals atop and mutter in my returning voice, "I hope something pretty grows in this spot."
These memories refuse to leave me and I've been cut so deep I forgot how to bleed. But it doesn't have to be all for naught if the earthworms do their job and the rain continues to fall. Let the dirt have all of this pain and make it something worth looking at. I'm letting it go.
My hand falls. My feet take their cue and my body swings around. In a flurry of new strength I pick up the picture I dropped on the floor earlier. I stare at the faces, this time with a new resolve. There are things that just shouldn't remain in plain sight. Memories that will break you as many times as you'll allow them to. I think of destroying this little piece of printed paper that sliced me deep tonight. But, what would be the point? The ghosts connected to it would be there, rattling like the shutters outside.
Picture in hand, I walk to the door. Walking out into the storm, it's as if my skin hasn't seen a drop of fresh water in years. I've been all saltwater puddles on the floor. I want to fall here on the ground and soak up every drop. And yet, I have a new purpose settling in my bones. Holding the picture tight, I fall and claw my fingers through the flowerbed. Drooping flowers fly out of my way. Petals splatter in the pools around my knees. After digging as far as my hands would allow, I place the picture face down. The soggy earth gets thrown back on top as I sob like tonight was a nightmare I won't ever wake up from if I don't learn to shake myself awake. Once the unearthed soil is level I scatter the sacrificed petals atop and mutter in my returning voice, "I hope something pretty grows in this spot."
These memories refuse to leave me and I've been cut so deep I forgot how to bleed. But it doesn't have to be all for naught if the earthworms do their job and the rain continues to fall. Let the dirt have all of this pain and make it something worth looking at. I'm letting it go.