Poetry
==============================================A Silence
A thrown vase. A hole in the wall. A muffled scream. A tear-soaked pillow.
A wild accusation. Your cold rationale. A defense for everything. Your sincere concern.
I don’t want your concern. I don’t want your help.
I want to see you cry. I want to know I have that power. I want to know I matter enough to cry over.
A silence. A grave. An absence.
==============================================Beach
She tumbles over herself like a sheet pulled over a bed of ice, spraying saliva drops glittering in misty sunbeams. Excited to crash upon my shore. She lays there, heartbeat wetting the sand. She whispers to me and I listen, and go to her, and she embraces me cold and tender. All of creation contained in those waves, and she is mine.
Her gentleness and her rage, when she screams I listen. When she swallows Earth-hewn homes and ships, I go to her all the same, amidst graveyards of splintered wood. And she is calm again when I arrive. And I do not grieve for what she’s taken. They have gone ahead of me, and they’ll be there when I arrive.
Hair tressed in shadows, I take her deep and let her in. Her gentle agony, her warm dark. And I am one with her cosmos, stars trickling around me. And it’s all there, waiting for me.
Her Ending.
==============================================Rest
They will care.
They will care that you were here. They will care that you existed.
If you build it they will come, and they will embrace you and they will say with love in their hearts, “You have done well.”
and they will say, “You were enough.”
and they will say, “You have earned your life, and you have earned your love.”
and they will say, “You may close your eyes.”
“You may rest now.”
==============================================Creature
Dripping. Creaking. Cracks in the foundation. It stands defiant against its own decay. No one lives there now. Its builders are long gone. But it stands, swaying gently in the wind as if drunk on the rot. Stubbornly holding itself upright.
Inside a table set in the kitchen. Seats empty. An ocean of dust covers the tables, counters, and floors. Walls drip with dead angry mold. The fruit is black and dry. Even the bugs, the rats, the vermin and the strays have abandoned it.
Laughter echoes on the walls. Pale ghosts dance on flickering screen, dancing for no one in an empty bedroom. They sing and talk of an era long past. They sit in plush chairs and smile empty smiles and crowds cheer for them in the dark, their voices muffled by years of dust in the speakers.
It lives, empty and abandoned, but alive, and in pain. Nothing joyful takes place there. Nothing true is held inside it. It lives and it rots and it stands and it hurts. It creaks in the wind. It drips with death. It stands fragile and tall, lingering, waiting.
Its door open to the world, inviting, pleading, for something alive to come.
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