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By JD Date: 2004 Dec 01 Comment on this Work [[2004.12.01.02.05.32529]] |
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Death sits with me every night. I feel it creeping over my tired body as I cling to framed faded photographs, as my fingers claw painfully against the glass. I curl in my bed and feel a cold sweat congeal on every pore of skin, on every inch of flesh, yet I still cling, almost in a panic, hoping that you'd hear me somehow, that perhaps you will look out towards the mango trees, and feel the bristling of wind, and know that Death is over me tonight, that Death has taken over me tonight. There is cure for heartbreak. There is no cure for loneliness. No medical mumbo-jumbo to explain how I feel. So I writhe in my bed, my far too expensive sheets, my Ethan-Allen registry serving only to indulge my irrational feminine desires, and strangely, I feel, covered in Egyptian Cotton, that I am being suffocated. Slowly suffocated, being pulled violently by my own tears, fears, and a three-headed dog. The image of mango trees in our still photographs is never any comfort. We are no longer laughing. We are no longer happy. We are no longer in love. And every night, Death sits over me, like sweat, and silky Queen Duvets, and I am forever clawing at you, trying to scratch the surface of your life. I never succeed. You remain behind your glass walls. And that realization is just another way I die each night. |