Thursday, September 15, 2011

White Room with a 24-hour Sitter

Your lips possessed a fire pressed lightly
Gentle and warm, with no room to fight myself
I was the anemone,
something fragile.
Some of my swaying fronds discolored or frayed.
I revealed to you, my friend, a sweet smelling and slightly sweating hand
With which you used to pull me closer, with a touch of excitement.
But I misunderstood your purpose or you misunderstood your malice
I thought you held peace within your embrace but I was strung and laced with oiled string
That burned grooves into my collarbone
And something thrilling, with the fear I had tried to overlook and bury
Unearthed itself little by little
Anxiety building,
growing so tall that I had to force myself to let go
But it wasn’t soon enough
I hit the ground. I shattered. My anger died and was reborn into a monster that I had hoped would consume us both
But it’s only me that stares out of this white room, sitting on this white medical bed,
Looking out at a world that I wont rejoin
Until I piece back together what I thought was mine.

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