I can't stand the land
Coated in layer upon layer of concrete
Obfuscating the sins of the past
Bodies buried too deep
Blood soaked in the soil
Blood on the leaves
No matter how veraciously I claw at ground
Attempts to reconcile the past are made in vain
What was raught is what shall remains
Responsibility, as always, misplaced
I fear I too will be buried here
Enmeshed in this putrid place
The Soil is Rotten,
And I Will Not be Buried Here
I slowly extract the silver packet from the envelope.
Silver foil and clear plastic enclose each pearl like a row of little clams.
I gingerly pry the pearl from its shell and coax it down my throat,
this time without water, because I am feeling particularly brave.
Unlubricated, I feel it in each swallow. Past my uvula,
caught where my Adam's apple would have been if I was born a boy,
and finally down the little flap that delineates my esophagus from my stomach.
"God, I hope that works," I think quietly to myself, as I prepare for another roll of the dice.
While I was lost in the garden…
The Serpent sought me out in my misery
To corrupt and destroy me with resolute intent
I prayed to God to guide me away from the evils that tried to consume me
And I fell to my knees, scratching at the supple earth beneath my feet
My heart yearning to be held, my voice yearning to be heard
Hands held upward in submission, begging for grace
But my voice echoed into the ether and I was alone
My virtue not enough to save me from my desire
I called upon The Serpent and he came…
take my kindness into your hands
cradle my heart and nurture my spirit
welcome my forgiving nature without dismay
harsh words and selfish intentions
will only propagate apathy and abandonment
and you will long for those gentler days
you look into my eyes and see a reflection of your own greatness
i look into yours and see our future unfolding
i will not be decentered in my own story to placate any man's ego
I am not a prop in your narcissistic desire for legacy and greatness
As the outer limits of the world grew hazy in her periphery, she gazed longingly into her book. Between the two walls of tree pulp lay all she would ever need. Terrified to death of dying, she white-knuckled her way through the tumultuous ups and downs of life. But within those worn paperbacks, she could find solace.
"It's like you could live a thousand lives and never move from where you've sat," she would always say.
She would say this mainly in her mind (rarely aloud) but meant it nonetheless. It was a reference to that old adage about cowards. She was not too proud to admit her tendencies to err on the side of cowardice.
The voice of the author filled in the silence or spoke over the chaos. She grew to be friends with the versions of the writers she created in her head, their characters becoming a part of who she was. The worlds they built were all-encompassing, shutting her up from the beast of burden and the demon of dealing with reality.
And as each book came to an end, so too did she…suffering a little death but grateful to have lived an eternity within those pages.
Act 1
The sun broke through the sky
on a particularly cloudy day
And as its radiant glow met my face
I was reminded of the warmth of your embrace
Act Two
Free me of this spell I am under
Relinquish my heart
And vanquish the fire
That remains therein
My love you have left me
And I must be free