prose/poem posted to a community
Sometimes, I don't know how this world keeps on turning, ignoring me in my oblivion, going on as if I didn't matter.
Insignificant.
Sometimes, I sit down and breathe, hoping that this world, too, will sit down and take a break with me, but it spins away and I am more breathless than before. An oxygen debt, sleep deprivation, living in negative space, trying to catch up to my proper time, only falling more behind.
I flounder, kicking at my headstone, one foot out of the grave, one hand clawing its way to life, refusing, as yet, to die.
And still the world spins, and still I can't catch up.
But I'm not dead yet. As the walls close in behind me, my feet keep moving forward, whether I will them to or not. It's not time to give up, and there's no choice in losing, so I'll just keep going, whether or not I know where, knowing that I'll fall, knowing still, that I can always pick myself up afterwards.
I'm bound to fall sooner or later, but I'm never bound to stay there.
A shiny, polished surface resides
beneath my broken fingernails.
Slowly melting candle wax
drips like honey from a comb.
Partially opened letters
left where they began.
An empty glass beside me
confides its deepest fears.
Somewhere midst the quiet
a door closes shut.
Never does it open
or greet my empty cup.
Fingers come to motion,
scooping up the wax.
A glint alights vacant eyes,
reflected candle flame.
Polish turns to fire,
the floor set to burn.
Flesh turns black, hair to ash.
A quick sigh of release,
and a breathy unending gasp
sound within the empty room.
And the mug has, as yet, one more secret.
But with no one to confide in.
Insignificant.
Sometimes, I sit down and breathe, hoping that this world, too, will sit down and take a break with me, but it spins away and I am more breathless than before. An oxygen debt, sleep deprivation, living in negative space, trying to catch up to my proper time, only falling more behind.
I flounder, kicking at my headstone, one foot out of the grave, one hand clawing its way to life, refusing, as yet, to die.
And still the world spins, and still I can't catch up.
But I'm not dead yet. As the walls close in behind me, my feet keep moving forward, whether I will them to or not. It's not time to give up, and there's no choice in losing, so I'll just keep going, whether or not I know where, knowing that I'll fall, knowing still, that I can always pick myself up afterwards.
I'm bound to fall sooner or later, but I'm never bound to stay there.
A shiny, polished surface resides
beneath my broken fingernails.
Slowly melting candle wax
drips like honey from a comb.
Partially opened letters
left where they began.
An empty glass beside me
confides its deepest fears.
Somewhere midst the quiet
a door closes shut.
Never does it open
or greet my empty cup.
Fingers come to motion,
scooping up the wax.
A glint alights vacant eyes,
reflected candle flame.
Polish turns to fire,
the floor set to burn.
Flesh turns black, hair to ash.
A quick sigh of release,
and a breathy unending gasp
sound within the empty room.
And the mug has, as yet, one more secret.
But with no one to confide in.