Growing Blurry

I’m slowly going insane in a room with nine doors and no windows. The drain in the lowest part of the floor swallows each drip from the leaky ceiling. The wooden bench is pressed into a corner and can be easily turned into a battering ram if the need arises. The walls have grown dingy and are in need of a good scrub. The light bulb is flickering, attempting to emit the 60 watts of light allowed.
Thirty-four minutes left. It grows hotter. I become more insane. Only one door leads to the exit. The other eight lead to a drowning or burning death.
One more minute has passed. Drip, drip, swish, swish. I’ve fooled myself into believing another soul is present. The bench looks more and more like a violent weapon, its face scratched and eaten at by former inhabitants of this cell. Time moves slowly.
Thirty-one more minutes. The drain looks more and more homey. I can exit there find myself in a place where everything and everyone floats. I can start a family of mole children and we can thrive in the intricate system of drains. It is growing hotter as my body begins to shut down. The only sense of time I have glows faintly across the room.
Twenty-nine minutes. I hope I can deny insanity for that long. I’ve just noticed a vent. It may lead to safety. I dare not risk it as I continue watching the timer and observing the room. The gutter between the tiles is grungy. I feel the need to clean. Whoosh.
At twenty-seven minutes to zero I hear a sudden burst of water behind one of the doors. I dare not investigate for fear of disrupting the secretive process I am a part of. I’ve assumed the fetal position as I write. The light grows dimmer as I realize I’ve still got twenty-three more minutes. Another whoosh and my mind wanders again. At the end of these now…twenty-two minutes, what am I to do and where am I to go? I’ve only got a small sum of money and two bottles of liquid to sustain me, though the liquid does not appeal to my taste buds. I’ve just realized what a lovely blue this pen writes in.
No time has passed. I’m staring at the flickering bulb, willing it to go out to further my lunacy. I’d have no eyes but a heightened sense of hearing to keep me company. A new name for every sound, each unique whoosh, swirl, tumble, thump, growl and scuttle…they all come from somewhere-but where? What name makes the thumping or growling sound? This bench has paint on it. When were they painting here? I should ask it. I wonder if maybe it changed locations since paint was carelessly dribbled on it. These walls haven’t seen a fresh coat of paint, let alone a scrub, in many years.
Eighteen minutes and I grow weary. My eyes are closing and growing blurry. I blink and shadows dance to the beat of the flickering Tungsten. A fire extinguisher-How could there be a fire in such an anti-flammable room? It is scorching hot in here. I seem to have broken a sweat while feverishly recording my manic thoughts.
Sixteen, now fifteen minutes remain. I jump at each new noise-I know no one is coming and no one is watching. I am utterly alone with these nine doors, this bench, these tiles and stained walls, this drain, this notebook and pen. Why am I writing? It feels as if I’ll never see the light of day again. There are no windows here. No sign of grass-or any vegetation or wildlife for that matter, just me and my thoughts and the voices inside my head and the slow rumble and hum of the room-the sounds reverberating against the walls.
Twelve minutes. This room is quite empty. Again, the drain beckons to me. It looks so welcoming. Grime has built up around the circular edge of the grate as madness slowly takes hold of my brain. Ten minutes remain. I must continue writing. The crack in the base of this wall would make a perfect mouse house. The thought brings a tinge of hope to my sad heart. Another living being within ten square feet. I’m alone and I must resort to creating families out of dust and friends out of grime. I hear the rattle of change. Was it my imagination? No…
Seven minutes endure. I’m growing more anxious and impatient by the second. This has been a harrowing experience so far. I’ve just noticed a horrendous smell. It smells like decay and decomposition. Am I to die here?
Six minutes remain. Some of the aforementioned non-appealing liquid has found its way onto the bench. I want to wipe it away but I have nothing.
Five minutes. This time is inconceivable! It creeps on like a stalker in the night…silently it follows and teases the mind. Yes, you feel like someone is watching. Well, he is. Be frightened. Be terrified.
Four minutes. My back is in need of a good crack or realignment. Another whoosh.
Three minutes. The chain around my neck grows heavier with each passing moment. The rumble decrescendos to a dull roar and the whooshing stops all together.
One more minute. No sound. No sound. Where has the noise I’ve become so accustomed to gone?
Finally, the count reaches zero. I’m relieved.
Now, it’s time to start the dryer.
I refuse to sit here idly and wait. I choose the exit door.

Unfinished Prose

They’d lived in the upstairs of the train station for as long as she could remember. It was an old architectural marvel that always drew a crowd, gaggling over the buttresses and curvature of the cool stone. She’d sit on the roof sometimes, taking in the rich scent of steam and food wares: soft, questionable pretzels and hot coffee brewed far too long. She smiled at the thought of passers-by gazing up at the magnificence that was her home.

Her room was a tiny thing, and the door tilted sideways with the wear of the building. She’d jam it closed and have a little piece of somewhere to call her own. Each day she’d wrestle with the bed sheets to place them properly - properly, as she was wont to do - and each day she’d rack her head on the askew bookshelves that lined her walls. Her books were well-loved and musty with age but she still carefully dusted each one, lingering over the spines, touching the names of forgotten authors from a time since lost.

Often she’d catch herself gasping for breath when the room suddenly seemed to close in upon her, blackening before her very eyes. She would place her hand upon her chest whispering, “Not today.”

On one such occasion when she felt she was losing her sight for good, a man knocked upon her door with a force that knocked the air back into her lungs. Panting, she opened the door and gazed up at her savior.

replaced

dad sighs, he’s heard this all before
and can do no more than he ever could,
he can’t do anything at all.
the spaces inhabited by me and mine,
my thoughts bouncing, encompassing
the walls of my childhood room,
a room in which my childhood was stolen
by a monster, too crafty to hide in the night -
she hides in plain sight.
boxes packed and passed on through,
empty walls, dust-covered blinds,
temporarily blinded by uniform light —
a stranger to this forsaken land.
new paint changes nothing;
they’ll still find the desperate carvings
in the corner of the closet where i hid
(unsuccessfully) from fisted fury,
the blood, browned from age
fallen from bitten lips and slit wrists
still hiding within these walls.
i look back, i curse myself.
i am far too old to be so broken,
but i can’t help but be broken by you,
and i think you know it.
break me again; bring me back to that place,
and spare the others - they know not who you are.
deliver us.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You’re getting better at obeying now, although sometimes you think I’m playing with you. Anyone who knows me knows how serious this is - but they all just laugh! They think it’s funny that you can get me riled! Soon you will understand consequences, though!

11-1-92. I was 1 year and 2 months old.

Oh, how I understood. And will always understand.

You won.

Dream Boy

I fell so in love
with a boy from a dream;
which serves now to show
things are not what they seem..
The slippery slope ahead
leads to nothing but pain,
but what I wouldn’t give
to see my dream boy again.
From now on I’ll sleep
a little earlier each eve
and pray that he comes
and takes not his leave.
So then when I wake
he’ll stay here with me —
the venturesome boy,
escaped from a dream.

delinquent

broken bones cupped in hands held outstretched
phalangeal wings
twisted, curling mischievous smile forming,
"but mommy, i didn't mean it!"
signs all point to the inevitable;
the unmistakable truth
glass walls for prison cells and
he sells his modesty, honestly
while crushing those helpless in his hands.
they were made for strangling,
wrangling hyperactivity passed off
as normalcy but
behind double-sided glass,
toys strewn, pen scratching, tapping away,
his normalcy fades into concerned glances,
shrugged shoulders, and,
"well, we can't seem to find the problem."
this is how serial killers and abusers are made
they appear from mangled dolls and
broken wings, they come from magnifying glasses
and missing pets, a collar collection
hidden in a secret place.
they are made of honesty and promises,
manipulation and enabling mothers,
too sick and tired to do much of anything else.
this can only end when, exhausted,
they throw up their hands and scream,
"enough is enough!"
hands cupped in handcuffs,
the wind carries her baby away.

Vanishing Act

If you’ve a minute, please -
if you have time to spare,
I’ve got a few things to say,
come with me and I’ll take you there.
Through brambl’d, twisted paths,
crossed a Narrow Sea,
I found my way back to you,
and you found yours, to me.
Sweet symphonies praise you
with every passing note,
songs I’ve kept on repeat
perpetually drawing you close.
So now, my dear, sweet love
where do we go from here?
I hold fast to these moments
lest, like dreams, they disappear.

AD 2014

Words spill forth from your pretty lips:
they hang in the air, crystalline -
I can part them with my fingertips and
they become a part of me.
Sweet, bright, everlasting beacon,
you bookend my days with starlight;
you pierce darkened corners with
radiance, illumination -
wickedness lingers not with you near.
Secret smiles forming,
cheeks reddened with desire,
memories of times since passed
and pangs of guilt for time lost.
You carry Venus within your crest -
passing over, enduring…
I hear the chorus chanting -
their voices swelling
with adulatory praise for you:
Eärendil, hail Eärendil!
Brightest and most beloved of stars.