As I watch my coffee swirl after I spin my cool silver spoon through it, the mundane action feels oddly reckless considering my thoughts.
I watch as the dark elixir slowly comes to a halt after my movements stop, returning to a still form, waiting to be used or stirred again so that it may find a purpose.
I watch it become the lifeless, empty form without my stirring or a simple sip.
And instead of stirring or sipping the silken bitterness that rests in my cup, my tears glide across my face and drip into the liquid.
Because, I am the coffee, being stirred by my own emotions, my echoing void of depression—a weight I cannot lift.
Once the silver spoon of my sterling sorrow—polished by despair—lifts, it leaves me with nothing.
Everything that I had felt, every part of me that I had grieved leaves before I could fix it.
It leaves me feeling nothing, doing nothing, being as still and hollow as an unstirred cup of coffee.
And the ruinous part is that I want the silver spoon back, the glistening lips of sorrow back to stir something—anything—within me—as if they alone could prove that I exist.
YOU ARE READING
Thoughts for the Eye
PoetryThoughts I wrote down, maybe they'll give you some comfort? "But I feel something deeper. Beneath the fear, there is a fire inside of me, one I cannot extinguish. It burns with the pain and the rage of all the women who came before me. " PS. If...
