They have stored nightmares within this container. They created longings for horrors, a visceral attraction to danger. Likewise, they folded the edges into spirals of obedience. Hidden bound writings. Hung at preferable times. Constricting the vessel, hoping it will endure their terrors. Their vilest dreams, their disturbing desires. Creating a tangle dependent on them.
They tore this container apart, every part of the person outlined. This bodily vessel can not contain more. Souls have been born that try to survive and protect their form. Hold these cracks together. Fine, dignified of deserving survival, at the mercy of the cores' breath. Here, foreign desires and disturbing longings will no longer haunt us, but the damage has already been done. Even vile terrors have been born inside.
Worn over the years. This vessel can no longer continue. The body has fallen ill. Could it be mental weight? Or is there something much darker lurking? Hidden between its hands, between its blood, between its intestines. It hides, it is hidden, there is something there unnoticed.
Silent.
Expecting.
Taking the air out of us. Leaving us buried in thorns. Interrupting the routine. Offering stressful, fallacious entertainment that can not be ignored. Is this mental, or is there something wrong? This pain runs throughout the body, this vessel.
Among the darkness of its horrors, of its most terrible retentions, is there peace within this vessel?
©Goathico December 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...
