Escapade

This is dedicated to all those kids who’ve been stepped on, lied to, taken advantage of, ignored, ridiculed, teased, rejected; who’ve ever felt lonely, betrayed, confused, furious, abashed and pushed beyond your limits.

The eyes are the portal way into the soul.

All it takes is one simple glance, if you care enough, into a person’s eyes and you can tell something about them.

You could see fear, anger, hesitation, curiosity, depression, anxiety, elation, self satisfaction, envy, self loathing, tenderness, passion, timorousness, confusion, rejection, and sometimes, only sometimes, you see nothing.

Just a color.

Maybe a plain color, like chocolate auburn,

Or an amazingly vivid pale crystal blue/green electric Bahamas ice shade.

But there’s no meaning behind those pretty eyes.

Inside rests rotting intestines, the outside merely a shell for display.

Everything works efficiently; limbs bend and twist, mouth forms believable words you can comprehend.

You can converse with this artificial being, ask it questions and get replies, hold its hand and feel warm, life like skin.

But this person without a soul is just a puppet.

You might never know if you’re not sure what to look for.

But I have a few questions;

How do you get that way?

How do you loose your soul like that?

Does it fade away?

Do you digest it,

Sweat it out through your pores?

Do you feel it go away?

Does it hurt like your ribs are being crushed to dust,

Like your stomach is torn inside out and acid radiates under your skin like an itch you can’t scratch?

Or is it gentle,

Like a sudden release of pressure and it’s all over.

Poof, and you’re dead on the inside.

Do you feel anything ever again, or does every sensation become vague?

Is it better that way?

Does it get harder to laugh, harder to cry?

You loose your morality, don’t you?

Not sure which way is up or down,

Always hungry for something more satisfying than food or company but can’t quite place what it is.

Maybe that’s you craving your soul back.

Does it ever return?

Or does it abandon you for good, hollow and alone?

 My pencil hesitates like the lead suddenly weighs a million pounds. I draw imaginary circles in the air over the crinkled paper, waiting for something else to hit me. I hate writing essays. Makes me want to Sparta kick an innocent bystander. I take a deep breath; puff it out through my cheeks. C’mon, I need to close it off somehow. I bite my lip. Chew. Just as the flavor of rust melts into my mouth, a light bulb goes off over my head so bright it explodes.