Wednesday, 20 July 2011
*Glass-ware heart idea original to THIS post.
How many times have I cried on these four walls; the shoulder on which I lean because there’s nothing and no one else, though not because no one cares – because I’ve slammed the door and locked myself behind it, inside these four walls, where I trap my screams every time the knife touches whatever I have that passes for a soul.
My heart may be shattered glass-ware inside a box with FRAGILE stamped upon all four sides, but my sanity is an asylum patient trapped behind the bathroom door, all screamed out.
These walls have absorbed more than tears and screams; they’ve absorbed my soul, my essence, and whatever was left of my humanity -- these scratches of paint and peeling plaster are all the scars that remain; the veins that I filled with my tears (the lifeblood); roots beneath the ground’s surface dripping oxygen-rich liquid into the open, gaping mouths of skeletons.
These four walls, my coffin; my final resting bed – a cold, tile bathroom floor covered in rich sanguine silk; filling the cracks between the tiles like my tears filled the veins I carved into the walls. I’ve given myself to this room my entire life, the least I can do is leave it my corpse.