Prompt credit: From the gem who inspires me with her admirable writing flair and shared love for spoken word, mangos and obscure animals.
I shut my eyes and try, one more time. And then it hits me, dreams fade but their absence is so loud, glaring almost. Like the nightmares which send shivers down the spine of my alter ego.
I cling onto my mirage, wrap every ounce of my being around every second- trying to explode it before internalizing it (you have to, or you might never feel it. you want to feel it. And properly. Or, don’t. Like you always do.)
Ma don’t- shh- I am trying to think. I always pray for another day, to wrap myself in the pages that will promise me finality, where you cannot. I press the pen into my pulps of my fingers till it leaves a mark, till the callouses break and bleeds into the page, seeping deeper than my fountain pen. See?
Finality. Fox trot to tango. My writing is an exploding battery, it combusts, spontaneously. And then it sits. It never rolls. So I sit with it and through it, then hum a little. Maybe your voice will whisper into the cracks tonight- whipping my dream into the nightmare I spent weeks running from.
I scribble the last hanging thought down and shove it into the binder- as far back as it can go. I try to settle but my gaze fleets before reluctantly resting on the hands which have painstakenly unpicked every hem that held my heart – unmeshed every knot, applied a flame to every vessel and ruffled the brittle ends. Every attempt to pick at the brain culminated in multiple stabs at the heart- prying amidst tangled fibres, slowly nibbling at the edges of aeteries like a cannibal. How. Diabolical.
Yesterday, a sinister black letter rested in my trembling hands- another interrogation, another seal to the doubt, and another strike against a very familoar noun.
Trust, or lack there of, sears my skin a gentle pink. I pull back – sheer horror. Your expression reflects mine,just a little more twisted.
Fear- rises first, then burrows in a familiar space I thought I had sealed. I breathe, I feel my head thromb- acetone. Ah shit. I fumble around a little more. Where the fuck is my insulin?
I can barely make this out but your hands seem torched with the smog from a deed in the book I never actually witnessed. My lips have been scorched red by the ones that threatened to twirl around me, press themselves onto me and then keep me alive long enough to feel the crystals graze my skin and the frost bites, gently spill into the cracks.
I am the projection of your fears, I am the birthmark of shame you scramble to cover in obnoxious foundation, I am the fermented liquid you tilt to your lips, the burn you quell with another burn- the ammonia that bathes your brian. Still, you rest your cheek against my palm , nuzzling into my sleeve? Have we guzzled enough of this stale broken record?
I guess I’ll break the disc now. Truly, dreams fade but their absence is so loud, glaring almost. Like the nightmares which sent shivers down the spine of my alter ego, and tonight, down mine too.