She was an evil stepmother.
In her old age she is slowly dying
in an empty hovel.

She shudders
like a clutch of burnt paper.
She does not remember that she was evil.
But she knows
that she feels cold.

The memories,
Those awful dark times
Will always play.
But this is my prize.
I simply cannot throw it away.
As I glance at it, the pain cuts through me
The hurt washes over me .
Drowning. Suffocating.
I hold it in my palm,
Twiddle it around loosely between my fingers
Flashbacks. Nightmares. Distorted images and figures -
Like a film playing in my mind
Throw it!
No, keep it!
It's yours.
That smooth silver-grey 2 inches of metal
Cool to the touch.
It was your friend. It was your enemy.
It's your pride and your glory.


**© maria.who

(Comment below please)

the tears
are the worst part
of depression.

the choking
the little sobs that sneak out
making you feel         p a t h e t i c .

you wipe your eyes
rubbing them raw
and wait for them to stop leaking.

though
it
takes
a
while
.