Scribbled Thoughts

The original stain

a faint mark

but still visible

to remind you

of the beginning

of the end

and the limbo

you’re still

currently trapped in.

Count the tasks

and calculate

the space within

three days

you must fit them in,

bending and twisting

until they click,

but scream out in agony

at the misshapen

creation left over.

Touch grass

and judge the experience

by the quality,

brittle and dry

or vibrant and damp,

pressing against your palm

and deciding

how the outside

will be presented.

Revisit with another,

glimpsing their demeanor

with the familiar

instead of the polite mask

we are forced to wear

to please and pacify.

Take me to a river

and let grief consume,

screaming into a rushing waterfall

and choking with the dead,

while my body

curls into a ball

of pain

and anger

and all engulfing loss

at what they deserved

but what I couldn’t deliver.

Collide with anger

then feel it steam out,

wondering where it

hissed from

to begin with.

Harbour the dead,

shelter them from the world

who never even knew

they were meant to exist.

Cling to the corpse

a little longer

and pretend

miracles

can revive the gone.

Advertising his gaze

to any potential matches,

selling himself

with lingering looks

and flicking interest

with a tilt

that rolls

prospectives closer.

Your own body

lies to you,

convincing you of one thing

while the world says another.

Common sense and self-preservation

screams to brace for the harsh truth,

but your body

is still confused

and you are left

with painful hope.