I call it scary, the way the windows close and the door opens. It's not that I'm afraid of them, it's the dread of the outskirts that everyday life demands and begs for. Needs that I cannot fulfill even if I wanted to. It's like I'm in danger anywhere, I become a lost soul.
People are like the monsters I once thought lived in the dark. Starting conversations with them is like the thread that ends or gets tangled. My vowels become cursive and misshapen. Like writing with a pen that has little soul left, I barely mark my desires.
Being perceived... causes a lack of control in me. Not to mention when I'm outside, talking, or in the center.
The end of the world in my chest.
My being suffocates.
I lose vision.
The notion of time is a blur.
The unbearable and embarrassing tremor that I cannot control only makes my gaze heavy. I end up hidden, away from a crowd of shadows. Hidden in me.
I call it scary, the way the windows open and the door closes.
©Goathico March 2021
YOU ARE READING
Tell Death Where They Hid My Bones
Short StorySometimes I don't know if I write from my heart or from my head. Drowned in grief and sorrow, I try to get up to escape to never ever. I would like to be reborn again. Born in my body. Collection of writings by the artist and writer Goathico. ©Goa...
