In all crevices: what little remains of emotion. A range dramatically reduced, a chart with a flat line. Were I to grab at that glimmer of hope and hold on to it, perhaps pull it out of the corner, I may yet see the sunlight. Instead: darkness pervading the room, a distant glow tauntingly laughing at my demise from what seems a million miles away. Flies die in that same corner. If that’s hope, then doesn’t that just tell me that it’s lethal? Disdain for the happy, self-pity with the sad. Rain is drizzling on my shoulders as I stand on the porch, my tea getting diluted by what so refreshes my skin, makes me realize that I am still alive.
Then guilt takes me over. The guilt of leading a rather happy life and not being happy with it. The guilt of feeling guilty. The guilt of feeling. The guilt of being. In the distance a garage band’s guitar is fading at the end of a train wreck of a song. Where did it all go wrong?!
The times I have wanted more but couldn’t have it? The times I’ve decided the bed was all the world I needed and that the world would only be my final resting place? The times I’ve screamed at the mirror, not recognizing whoever I was yelling at? The times I have pushed away loved ones, afraid of affection, feeling as though I do not deserve it?
The rain is getting heavier, thunder pitches in, and this is the only conversation I have ever had with the sky. No words exchanged, but contact with my skin. The hope that water can purify me. The fear of being uncleansible. The fear of being me. The fear of being. The fear.