She convinced herself that she was whispering in this bright midnight. The abhorrent whispers always seemed to prove themselves to be the bells for everyone's new alarm clock. The tears never failed to create an inkblot on the pillow that kids called melancholy, and the therapists: a desolation for a depression that would metastasize. Surrounded by vanilla bean walls, and strangers calling her misfit a quarry. They are blaming something for doing its job. Her body hits the walls, ignoring the screaming calls like she was trapped in her own citadel. The throwing books and pillows constructed a hindrance, entrancing only the demons that were causing the midnight lights to go off.
She pretends not to notice the quarter note beats of each bang of the wall. She thrashes like a drunk dancing on a stripping pole; not destined for this 'bliss' everyone mistook for a game. They delaminate her like the rind layer called zest, dressed in panache and assurance. She pretends not to notice the pleasant turning into monstrous consequences, and she pretends to enjoy the midnight lights.
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Breathe [Collection of Short Stories/Spoken Word]
PoesíaCONTENT MAY BE TRIGGERING. Few short stories (and spoken word poetry) about the daily struggle for millions of people around the world. Whether or not you are aware of these problems, one many, unfeasibly cannot fit in our shoes. They know the probl...
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