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The Things I Could Never Tell You (for my former self)

Taylor P.Comment

I felt like I was trapped in glass and smothered in smoke. The claustrophobia was infuriating; I couldn’t breathe and I couldn’t think. I stared out the window, the lush symmetry of the pane diluting my harsh circumference and furious convolution. I was self-conscious, immune to false findings, although in muted reaction I could see some semblance of demonstrative dalliance. Wherewithal I couldn’t feel the misery or the pain; only jagged shards of who I once was and what I used to be. “I was human, once,” I reminisced. These echoes of confusion were unabashedly charred by guilt and an emotional incontinence. The fervent mentality was onset by a plague of doubts and inconsistencies that were bereft only with a dim misunderstanding that I myself could contend with. I would have loved to place the blame on some minimal ignorance on my part, for perhaps it would be better attributed to my lack of age or inadequate knowledge of the human genome. Instead, I find myself in a room of fog and mirrors. In these walls, I see the reflection of the monstrosity I could have prevented but did not. I see a sensual prowess capable of destruction of flesh and blood and do not feel the strength to aid in its prevention. I see her now, still, a caterpillar in want of a cocoon. I see all too well the wanton gaze and difficult smile that would hang on dull surfaces, perched beneath fragile walls and cataclysmic sub-ordinance.

I remember her sleeping form, a vagrant shape of lilac and soft blues in the morning light. She would smile, sleepily. The many curves, crevices, and dimples of her so calculated and demure. When she left, every aspect of me that was good and decent left with her. I remember staring at the door, minutes after it closed for the last time.  Discarding myself, I ceased to exist. I was a wandering ghost now. 

The walls here hold a more curious spectrum; a languid maelstrom of conceit, envy, heartache, and infinite joy. They remember the hushed voices, the slammed doors, the loving gazes, and those articles thrown about in the heat of passion. They expunge the negative artifices that clung to them, weighted by a monotonous nobility that could only seek a tragic calamity such as this. The arbitrariness of human nature cascades down the stairwell- the many ironies of the bleeding beautiful human heart.  They coincide now with a tendency to dominate, to eradicate the vicious sectarianism that would only exist in the foyer of indecency. Oh, how I would have longed for that place, even in my direst hour, but the strength eluded my promise. I would wake many nights from a frigid sleep, ill and convulsing in pain from an unknown tie to the place. It was as if I was held by many ribbons, each bound solidly to my appendages. Submission to this most adamant of dexterous fronts was clearly inevitable. My origins sought this place long before my birth and would seek her out long after my demise.

Furiousness combined with fear imitates my very façade. I feel emotionally bankrupt, starved by the prophetic lies and murky depths of the heart. Have I any heart left anymore? Perhaps it is just a naïveté; an innocent shell of the former self. Preponderance and care seems to include even the rashest of devices, yet I find my own reputation soiled with greed and lust. I reconcile my weight, furthering the inevitable opulence of segregating from my former self. My life has become a wilted flower, so to speak; a humble burning flame that is quenching its breath for its beloved. I am very self-aware now of my detriments and moreso my weaknesses. I am without conscientious tidings of good faith and choose only to reverberate false criticisms with a morose clairvoyance that strengthens my inner bindings. Shall I quicken the pace towards my rapid state of delusion?  But this inner sanctum is something I find less palatable. My current state of wanton exorcism clearly demonstrates an exercise in tranquility. Balance of circumstantial sequestering is in order. The callow finitudes are congruent. The very source of All is but a belligerent source of disparaging complication, in my mind. I could serve a blind eye to these walls and live under a pretense that they, too, are unaware of the events that have taken place. Years prior I would have sought a more visible ally, for in my home there has always been a temperament of sincere and just provision. But you will find nothing evident of compassion here. The lack of empathy is stifling. She holds only apathy now and consequence of failure. I sit by the bedside, anticipating the stillness that will soon envelop my soul. There is no light; only darkness in the void of that which I call my home.