I’m very English sometimes, apologising to the stranger staggering by, shoulder swung into mine, sorry caught in the air with the dust cloud he trails. So I’ll repeat in case repetition makes up for distance, for an inability to find fire until much later on when I am a city or more away and still thinking about bone and muscle and a sharp snap of ‘move now!’ No please.
I have tried to rise above but some days are like mires, memories bubble up from the ground to catch my feet, and there’s no pushing past the darkness when the backs of my eyelids become cinema screens for the voice in the my head that’s always judging every move I make. It tells me friends are only pretending to my face, and when I’m gone they are talking about me. It knows exactly what they are saying when I’m out of earshot so it repeats the words like a mantra over the patter of memories I thought dealt with, sealed into their graves long ago, but somehow resurrected just when everything seemed to be going so well. This type of cold cannot be shrugged off, instead it chills every bone in my body to the point where I become brittle as glass, ready to shatter at the slightest tremor. Somebody tell me, how do I rise above this? Daily Post: Above
I’ve already put more thought into your next sentence than you have. Can you hear them? All the words chattering behind my eyes working out a way to get inside your mouth? I know you’re not a bad person. Lord knows I know you would never say these things! But there’s that part of my brain ticking over and over and over and over and each time it ticks there’s another snipe, jeer, remark worming deeper into my grey matter to the squirming core of lies I create for myself. When I go home I will dissect this conversation. Post-mortem my comments until I’ve found every mistake. Run your talk through countless translations hunting for the hidden meanings you didn’t plant just so I can wonder what you meant by it and who else you could have said it to? All the while we will be smiling, all the while we will be happy, all the while I won’t say anything about these thoughts buzzing in my brain. Last week I was reading …
My chest has drawstrings. Some days they pull so tight my lungs cram up into my throat. They stop words from forming, keep me from telling you why I can’t keep my hands still or quite catch my breath. They keep me trapped, alone. Quadrilles are perhaps my favourite form of poetry at the moment. They’re short, sharp, and oh so punchy. Tonight’s prompt from the dVerse Poets Pub is to write a quadrille using the word ‘fear’ as your inspiration. Unfortunately this is a word I have a fair amount of experience with, I’ve let anxiety box me into corners more often than I like to admit. If you want to join in then click the badge above and check out the pub and all its patrons. I’ve no doubt they’ll be overjoyed to meet you.