A single purple point stands in my field of vision, inflating and deflating into various forms and linear arrangements, messy like strings of flayed muscle ripped right off the tendon with its distressed runny edges. Now there's two, one for each of my bloodshot irises, they dance together swallowing the other whole then regurgitating it and continuing the same but differing pattern of movement.
Esophagus. Warm, dorm, sheep shorn.
Something primal and era of pre, makes you want to look away without realization, it makes me feel like I'm being smothered by something sticky and soft in the wrong way.
It follows me, I can tell, I can feel it's breath on my neck when I stop to listen, hearing the soft rasped quality of breath that can only belong to something other than human.
It. It refers to the pronoun of anything but human, not human but personified.
I'm conscious of it while I'm by myself, when I'm caught between state of lucidity and dream.
The most vulnerable hour of the night, before the sun comes up and after the moon goes down.
I sometimes wonder if anybody else has seen it, or if I've been chosen by it. Or I'm crazy.
If they do see it, they don't mention, and I can't ask. Oh the places I'd go, oh the places they'd send me.
There are times when it feels light, airy, and I can forget it's there, but then it becomes suddenly uncontrollably unbearable, heavy like a dead body that's hit the sidewalk, and I can feel it in my gut. Twisting and turning like its attacking single cells at a time till I feel every single one of them dying and being taken over by bacteria, pulling my intestine in all different directions.
At night it sits, stalks, observes, just as I do, predatory and hostile, mouth gaping and salivating like an animal ready hunting its next meal.
I am just like it, I study it while I feel my certain death impending, ready to bolt.
But then it stops, and we somehow come to the agreement of a truce, just for tonight, until tomorrow, until it proposes the truce again, says we will wait another night, and another night, and another night.
And one day, it will seize, when I have nothing to hide behind and no one to hold on too.
But that's for tomorrow.
- Eli
All works are my own originals, All rights reserved.
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Cracks In The Concrete
PoetryThis book is the progress I make over the years trying to detangle years of childhood trauma and mental issue's. To anyone else it may seem completely incomprehensible but that's okay. I write for the reason all writers write, paper is a better lis...
