"linoleum" poems
I am still
In deep thought-
Wondering, how easy I’ve let you slipped
From my hands
And from my heart
--
Let’s take a step back
And recount the moments
Recollect the memories
Reminisce the good old days
And reassess this overnight decision I’ve impulsively taken
Let’s take a few more steps back
And remember the first time I met you
Back in high school
The first time I said hi
And thought you were cute
You were a plethora of my firsts
The first boy bestfriend I’ve ever had
The first boy to ever ask me out on dates
The first boy to talk to me on a daily basis
The first boy I ever liked…. Who actually liked me back
Undoubtedly,
You were my first love
I thought I loved you like I’d never love anyone else
I told you everything
Wrecked these walls I’ve sheltered from for so long
Just to hand you this little fragile heart of mine
Through the cracked linoleum and the broken glass windows
I gave you a golden ticket and an aerial view
To my world
And after two years,
In the end,
You did decide to return the favour
You trusted me enough
To let me enter this mystical world of yours
These two dimensions you seem to always get lost in
Those two roads diverged in a wood
That you can never seem to wrap your head around
and choose
As I write this,
I start to realise why and how I stopped loving you
I think I got tired
Of trying to pull you up
As you let yourself drown in the seas
of your undecided thoughts
I stopped loving you
The moment you say “I’m going to change”
But the next day you woke up
You put on the same old clothes
You took the same route
To the place that led you exactly back to where you once were
I got sick of
Saying the same things
Over and over again
Asking you to change
Only to expect nothing in return
Truth be told
As similar as we are as people
We live in worlds too distant apart
Your world is too foreign for me, too fast and scary
Whereas my world is too small and tightly guarded, all child’s play
As much as I’d want to love you
I can’t seem to do so
And if I could, I'd say this a million times to you
I truly am sorry.
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 9:55 AM UTC
"Hello, hallway, linoleum tile,
I can't really see you but
I hope you're there."
Green spiders crawl through my smoked-up veins,
their spindles weave their webs of red
under eyelids gravitating towards sleep.
Retinal film flashes; each blink is an
unprocessed, scared/ __ , broken reel.
"Put your hands," he says, "on mine.
Breathe, look into my eyes."
Shaking fingertips touch his; snowflakes
gently collide with sunny ground.
They were afraid to melt,
even though they might want to.
I wish it had been 33°.
Nov 19, 2018
Nov 19, 2018 at 2:02 PM UTC
there lives a little white boy across the street,
i swear the chaps' got wings on his feet.
but he grovels around in charcoal and mud,
cos they say he hasn't got athletics in his blood.
he breaks British records, doesnt seem to stop,
but the Jamaican colours flutter from his rooftop.
Olympics the dream,but more than that,
little master Owens just wants to be Black.
there lives a little black girl just next door,
i can hear her tap dance on the linoleum floor.
she sings the opera from dusk to dawn,
she prances and twirls on the family's front lawn.
"your dancings' awkward, your voice baritone,"
it's not in your blood, leave the dreams alone.
she smears fairness creams day and night,
little miss Britney just wants to be White.
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 11:37 AM UTC
Serendipity.
You ******* what!
What you saying, pal?
Serendipity, oh aye, all right,
Aye, seren-fuckin-dipity; whatever!
Tell it to the raggedy soaked-wino,
Look into his rheumy eyes, really look,
Want to kiss his toothless grin, eh? Do you?
Feel his sore-ridden tongue searching you out,
Nay, I thought not, anyway, he hears nothing,
Nothing except the rattle of change.
Tell it to the punctured ****** go on,
Cold body on a cold linoleum floor,
He can’t hear you either, maybe though,
Maybe, slipping away on the last tide of life,
Do-gooder, maybe he will hear you call,
‘Serendipity’ and wonder: what the ****
Until blackness closes in, blanking the stars.
Tell it to the Fourth Bridge jumpers, go on,
Always falling; to them, falling forever,
In hearts and minds, the event horizon of death,
Trapped in limbo, leaving unbearable hurt behind,
Along with serendipity and bad choices.
And the young, oh they need serendipity,
Cruelty of life glittering in furtive wary eyes,
Old already, far beyond halcyon blue-skies,
Used and abused by those closest, the shame,
Erosion of trust and sincerity completed over night,
Christmas ghosts: slovenly laggards by comparison.
Resilient youth! Yep, they ******* need to be,
Grinding machine of town-life hunting them,
Scouring dark corners, gnashing jaws growling,
Crunching down darkened alleys, feeding,
Lapping up the young blood of runaways,
Slavering maw eating them alive; laughing.
With serendipity, they can lie low, maybe hide,
Dream of escape, for they all want out,
Putting misery behind them, quelling cruelty,
After all, they live in a lucky ******* town,
So escape is not impossible, no,
Unlikely, yes, poor wee ********
Serendipity should shout a loud warning,
Run, scrawny urchins, run if you can,
Run for your lives, the rest of your lives,
Town-life’s grinding machine awaits,
Watches for you, so keep running,
Never stop, never look back,
Not ever, not ever,
Serendipity.
©Paul Chafer 2014
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 7:32 PM UTC
Orange capsules of condensed vitamin C
Tumble out onto my cracked,
Outstretched palm,
As I arch my spine towards the bathroom sink,
Scooping lukewarm water from the faucet
Into my half closed mouth-
The tiny pills clog my upturned throat:
Just two of the numerous solutions
To a world too numb
To contest.
I've never felt more alive,
Than when I'm drowning my body
With handfuls of tap water
And magic remedies bottled up and
Marketed to a world
Afraid of growing old.
Lining the wall of local drug stores,
One isle over from office supplies
And scented laundry detergent.
Multicolored, multipurpose-
Labels proclaim the fountain of youth
To anyone alive enough to fear it.
There's never enough of reality
To reach our depleted veins
Through the ever present forms
Of the world. Enough isn't
Enough, until we've convoluted it into a tiny
Plastic oval, and forced it down the throats
Of those well enough to swallow it.
Pharmaceutical companies proclaim their
Daily gospel in the linoleum streets
Of hospital waiting rooms
And local grocery stores,
As I cross my heart and count the
Hours until my next prescribed dose
Of complacency. Who knew happiness
Could have the bitter after taste of
Vitamin B or
The credibility of Zoloft.
The sandman has been replaced by Benadryl,
While creativity lies stagnant
Beneath adderall's indifferent thumb.
Obsession is a 26 letter alphabet,
Strung together by a bunch of deficiencies,
Incoherently droning on
To the burden of Man,
And flickering neon light
Of a drive-thru pharmacy.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 1:41 AM UTC
I fell out of the top bunk once
completely naked
right onto the linoleum floor
of your dorm room,
praying that your roommate
wouldn't roll over and see my ***
at 3a.m.
I quietly crawled back up to you.
You cradled my spine,
I'm never letting you go again, I promise.
I told you I was fine,
so we both started laughing.
I had to cover your mouth
or else you'd wake the whole floor up.
You blare Kanye West from your speakers
when you're signing checks
or finishing that last math problem,
and I'll just sit next to you and grab
a piece of scrap paper to doodle on
while asking you stupid questions
just because I want to get you talking again.
Sometimes you take it out on me, but
sometimes we have cereal after ***
You spoon feed me while I sit on your lap
in just our underwear
gasping when the cold milk
drops on our skin--
fruit loop kisses
and detangling my hair with your fingers.
I wear your Polo pull-over backwards
to the boys bathroom sometimes
just because it's closer to your room
and because my name is no secret anymore.
And on Sunday's I fold your laundry
on a gray blanket I lay overtop my ***** carpet,
because I love the smell of clean boxers
and you don't know how to iron dress shirts right.
But you kiss me with your mouth open,
and you hold me when I fall asleep,
and you're all I want to wake up to.
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 4:46 PM UTC
The pendulum is a bull shark.
The hour of the savior is a pregnant bride's swan dive into the water.
The mighty mile is a figure 8 in the scoot of
non slop socks across the bare linoleum.
Blood and bright are the redness of the blanket.
divine terror at one hart beat per hour.
Finger nails green and black against a back drop
of the brightest, bluest eyes you've ever seen;
deep pools of liquid light that will shine when least expected.
And the obligation isn't one at all,
for when i breath in,
you breath out.
And when I gave consent 1000 years ago times 10-
you performed the exorcism under the shroud of my amnesia
and the spotted light from a crystal disco ball.
Shards of light moved upon the face of all the space between the stars.
My heart was in the highlands but now its in your hands.
Oct 2, 2020
Oct 2, 2020 at 8:15 PM UTC
Beauty out in the open, light falls on linoleum tiles like heel-worn stones
Windows to a sunny world sit at the end of locker-lined tunnels, beckoning beyond fluorescent mazes
Clotted with conversation, upperclassmen stroll like the elderly
Young blood doge or cling to the sides, scared of the critical runway that is us
Windows to a sunny world sit at the end of locker-lined tunnels, beckoning beyond fluorescent mazes
Eyes from all sides, thinking nothing yet are supplied by our own thoughts
Young blood doge or cling to the sides, scared of the critical runway that is us
Finding refuge in educational terrariums, an ecosystem that saves me from the weight
Eyes from all sides, thinking nothing yet are supplied by our own thoughts
Finding solace in stairwells, sealed off by doors and hold awkward opportunities
Finding refuge in educational terrariums, an ecosystem that saves me from the weight
Clanging like a child’s cry releases stress like floodgates, another trip into the shark tank
Finding solace in stairwells, sealed off by doors and hold awkward opportunities
Open doors that are actually closed; they are like aquariums – no tapping on the glass please.
Clanging like a child’s cry releases stress like floodgates, another trip into the shark tank
The longer I stay the more I wish to leave, away from substituted confrontations
Open doors that are actually closed; they are like aquariums – no tapping on the glass please.
Prejudice like heavy rain beats at my skin and soaks my clothes - but I know it was I who brought the downpour
The longer I stay the more I wish to leave, away from substituted confrontations
Must comparisons be so obvious when I walk alone, unprotected? They are lucky to have such equals to act as parents; they hold each other’s hands to keep from drowning
Prejudice like heavy rain beats at my skin and soaks my clothes – but I know it was I who brought the downpour
They pull like vultures at flesh; I am not allowed to wrap myself in hurricanes while out in the open
Must comparisons be so obvious when I walk alone, unprotected? They are lucky to have such equals to act as parents; they hold each other’s hands to keep from drowning
Ignorance is bliss, they say, and truth that is here – the less you know the less hate you bear the weight of.
They pull like vultures at flesh; I am not allowed to wrap myself in hurricanes while out in the open
Look down, one foot – and then the other!
Ignorance is bliss they say, and truth that is here – the less you know the less hate you bear the weight of.
Anger and sadness, guilt and fear turn like Viewmaster slides lit up by the sun
Or am I on my own here? Each boy's path runs along each other like long-exposure stars, leaving streaks between the darkness.
Jun 26, 2010
Jun 26, 2010 at 10:48 PM UTC
Embrace differs from suffocation
as love differs from hate
in the sense that
your passion of Christ
swings one way
but your compass rose
blooms in both yards
I’d never plant flowers by you.
Comparisons of beauty
pul-chrit-ud-i-n-ous
soil the soil
mark the territory
dog **** couldn’t save you
Bound by situation
a sad plight
out of my hands
not large enough to
cup a sufficient sip
water from the well
I couldn’t fall down
I’ll break the mug
shattered until shards
replace the linoleum floor
walking on eggshells
has never been so easy
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 11:24 PM UTC
Her voice is strained.
Her skin is fair.
Her ******* lay on the countertop.
I **** her until my thoughts stop.
She rejects the notion of love for all,
as she leans against my kitchen wall,
with a cigarette and an unbuttoned blouse-
she wants to be homeless in my house.
She keeps me in her necklace's locket,
and I keep her in the wallet in my pocket.
Her toes kiss the linoleum,
she walks like she's made of helium.
She mumbles that I taste like mint chocolate chip,
as she rubs against my hip.
Her breath smells like Malboro Lights,
and I hope she decides to stay the night.
Milky Ways and Vanilla Cakes,
she likes the way my body shakes,
as we lay and eat our troubles away.
Hurried words slow the day.
She asks me about my stretch marks and scars,
and if I've ever been hit by a car.
And I say no, but I've been hit by love before,
and it feels like getting your hand caught in a door.
Hurried smiles and bathroom stalls,
she likes the way my family never calls.
The words escape between her plump lips,
as my hand travels between her hips.
We move until we forget
that the world is moving faster.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 12:20 PM UTC
Go ahead and paint a picture of perfect
time slips between our fingers
like my tongue slipped between my lips
to say something stupid
politicians are sleeping soundly atop the knife
metal to the floor
pick up speed
pick up bad habits
linoleum is easy enough to clean
but khakis stain like a *****
but if you want to sell me your deepest darkest dream
I’ll haggle with you all night long
we give birth to Cobras and give them to the hungry mongoose
put me on the blacklist
my white flag is stained with blood and grey matter
but everybody in their right mind wants to get a chance
to walk through wrong altered perceptions
I stole your dream catcher
and I’m writing novels about your hopes
and faults and I track your arteries
along the fault lines of imaginary continents
is this insanity?
it’s easier said than done
play chicken with my train of thought
spine is steel is cowardice is machismo
put me under your microscope
tell me what’s wrong
I’ll give you a doodle on the back of a napkin
and a shoddily put together love poem
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 3:15 PM UTC
The shining, gleaming, easy-wipe
linoleum-tile future is here!
You’ll be the talk of the town,
with our new and improved model
hard at work in YOUR kitchen!
DE-LUX features now available
at a low low cost for the smartest, most efficient,
top-of-the-line psyche of your dreams!
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 4:34 PM UTC
He started feeling sorry for himself
long before he had seen his reflection
in shimmery linoleum tiles
that stretched into blind corners
before the snap of magnetic doors
woke melancholy macaroni people
strapped to rolling recliners
staring past Plexiglas TV's
He wore yesterday on his shirt
a step at a time...
one two, one two
felt breaths collectively stop
when he walked the halls...
one two, one two
like watching a one legged cricket
with your hand over your mouth
As cold as this place was
his head had been on fire
slammed into paper cups
filled with pastel colored
blues and pinks and
why pills
rattled at him like a baby
He fell face first into tomorrows
slobbered on wooden spoons
for vanilla ice cream
that he said tasted like Wednesday
He would get animated
when they ran out of Wednesday
and had many rattle cup nights
****** up through a syringe
hands and thumps
pressed him up against
heavy beds of oak bolted to the floor
gloves pulled his hair
when he smelled like yelling
into plastic mattresses
the same color as his *****
and no one wants him *******
while their eyes are closed
they want to see it
they want to say things like
"we'll talk about this later"
wrap his wrists in sheep's wool, in skin
from his ******* clasped by buckles, pulled
tight enough to close his eyes
He should have **** his pants
because chocolate doesn't have a taste
and neither did feeling sorry for himself
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 9:26 PM UTC
I bent my toes over the tub
like talons on a sunbaked branch
and clenched the curtain
in my gloved hands.
I sprayed Tilex on a scouring
pad and scrubbed the black mold
riddling the ceiling and caulked
edges of the shower like leprosy.
My lungs filled with nitrogen,
oxygen, and argon as well as
sodium hypochlorite and hydroxide,
spores, and mycotoxins.
I staggered backwards, trying
to find solid ground but found
only a dazed, curtain-wrapped
fall to the cold linoleum below.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 12:02 PM UTC
there's a hard silence here
and there is a fresh echo of the dim kitchen light
in the ***** linoleum tiles that zigzag the floor
even the air feels broken as it limps slowly
through the room
i stop near the door upon entering
and gather myself
like a ragman gathering the tattered remains
stitching the fragments of self with the thread of awareness
weave the image of self into the reality of the moment
with the hesitations of someone who has lived this moment too many times'
it will come to naught
she is alive but her heart is dead
the dust on my worn coat is from the graves of my
fallow field where we once laid a crop of hopes
but i cannot abandon her to this barren place
i know i perceive only the narrow sunstricken pages
faded and stained with the words legible only to the hardy eye
but its the deeper tale which
even the gardener of times bloodstained trophy's
would fear to tread
his leather shod hands worry the intricate gears
of the mechanical face she wears
he manipulates it to wear a lopsided grin
pantomime of happiness for my birthday
but i watch the vacant places behind the face and see that
with a blemished mechanical eye she looks out over the oncoming
evening through the livingroom window
its cracked and ***** surface turns
the setting sun into a parody of dawn
she greets me but just stares out the window
as if she is waiting a lovers return
i stand infront of her blankly
we wait for the hours to pass
i fix her tea even though it isn't broken
and make small talk
as she makes mechanical sounds
till she sleeps
i leave with the dawn
and make my way to my own bed at last
to fend off dreams that something somewhere could be different
and wake to the sorrowful song of a passing bard
his thin feet dancing on a moonlight hilltop
meant for lovers only
and he is dancing alone
alone
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 8:45 PM UTC
I had to walk out of physics today,
make my way to the back of the room
shoot for the door
with my hands on my hips.
Just started pacing.
I just stated pacing and pacing and pacing.
I followed the thin grey lines between the linoleum tiles
with my toes
counting every second I was out of class
and weighing that against how many more it would take
on a chance against hell
to get me back in there again.
I wasn't smart.
I never had been.
I just filled in bubbles correctly and I wrote
all the right things on a convincing, cliché
college paper.
I don't even know why I took physic,
but it sounded like a good idea when I was eighteen
and scared
and had some woman with a long braid screaming at me,
"advising" me that it was the "right direction."
I didn't even know who I was then so how could she.
I could mouth off a good response or two and I
probably embody every great literary character
in commercial fiction that is
the guy in the grey skinny jeans reading Shakespeare
in the corner of the dining hall.
Well, I'm not.
I'm not some stereotype for your next
creative writing assignment.
I just happen to think my *** looks good in skinny jeans,
I actually hate Shakespeare,
and the corner of the dining hall has the best air conditioning.
It's that simple.
There's your answer.
But my fingertips were shaking and my mind was racing
and there I was
just pacing and pacing and pacing
because this
is ********
This class is ********
This college is ********
And the whole world
might as well be ********
right along with it.
I never went back into class that day.
Which ***** actually because I lost a good backpack and calculator,
but in the long run it worked out alright
because here I am
writing this
and getting paid for it,
not that I'm greedy or anything
(I get paid a whole lot if you care to know)
but I'm writing more than just about
that day I couldn't breathe in physics class.
I'm writing to tell you
that there's quite a great deal of superficial things in this world
and if you find yourself a part of it
I'm demanding you leave.
Leave your good notebook, your steady job, your filthy marriage.
Leave it because it's actually true no matter how stupid it sounds
that life is too short
and things that are real
need to be attacked and clutched onto
if you want them to last.
I guess I can thank that institution actually
for teaching me everything I never wanted to know,
and for getting me to where I am
with multiple publications, a book signing or to, a beautiful wife,
three kids, a screenplay, oh
and a big
F U
to those that said I would never do it.
(Dr. Hefer, that means you).
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 12:17 PM UTC
family friends since we were small
tracing grout in linoleum floors
I watched your dad pull those tapes out
he drew his weapon you drew yores
I can't be mad I say to this day
generations cursed
my first boyfriend shook his head
"I thought I was your first?"
there was a lump in my throat
and I thought back to that game
little frog ran over by the cars
you taught me how to skip through lanes
first friend that I ever had
I still think that you knew better
simply "child's innocence"
crayon written apology letter
floral pattern sheets
I was a flower at full bloom
until you flung me on that bed
I wilted in that room
you told me sometimes that it hurts
but it'll be super quick
that I cannot say anything
people will think I'm sick
It all goes black soon after that
red stain, metal taste, a puncture
Did the right thing after the fact
though frozen like a sculpture
you went on and on again
and never really paid
those girls carried it with them
through 1st and 2nd grade
and now I am a grown up
with something in me hollow
a little froggy in my throat that I still cant seem to swallow
I told myself I'd get better
through hell or through high water
but then felt you pluck more petals
when I heard you had a daughter
Apr 25, 2019
Apr 25, 2019 at 2:11 PM UTC
This is the place where people come to forget that they will die one day.
They let their conscience build up on the linoleum floor in puddles,
deep and dark
And follow the crowd to the next store
And the next
And the next.
This place will bleed you.
It will tear your pockets out of your clothing
And your children’s hands from yours.
A new shirt.
A new TV.
Well done.
You’ve done well.
But when you leave the white walls
The music tinny and dim
Escalators and litter
You still won’t feel free.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 9:46 AM UTC
Every morning
I feed the mewling cats,
chug my hot instant coffee,
sit at my rickety linoleum kitchen table
and peer hopefully out my thin window,
through the cracks in the glass
beyond the rusted screen
into the acres of wet trainyards and commercial blocks.
There in one non-descript grey building
underneath the watertower
beside the Sheriff's substation
a band of laughing saints
craft delicate malas of lapis
and manzanita windchimes
while diaphonous angels all a-hover
manifest vast verdant grassland prairies,
great ocean waves, sunsets
and spring flowers hidden in rock crannies
where nobody will ever walk,
and they launch grand air balloons
bulging with epiphanies
that may drift my way.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 6:33 AM UTC
A barbie doll. A basketball. A mickey mouse sweatshirt.
A barbie doll. A basketball. A mickey mouse sweatshirt.
That is all that I see.
My knees are tucked against my chest
And my arms are wrapped around them.
My chin is positioned between my knees
And my eyes peer out between the spaces.
I shrug my shoulders against my ears
So that I don't have to hear
What's going on downstairs.
A barbie doll. A basketball. A mickey mouse sweatshirt.
But the words, like a poisonous gas,
Seep through the air vent.
***** **** You don't see
What's she's doing to us."
I tilt my head and bury
My face in my forearms.
I bite my lip and try
Not to cry.
But I can feel the heat building
And my chest tightening
As the tears begin
To crawl from
My eyes.
I listen again,
Unintentionally,
To the shrill voice
Piercing my not-so-silence.
"Take her home,
We can figure this out
On our own."
I try to breathe,
But oxygen escapes me,
As if it too hates me.
My chest shakes,
My heart rattling
In its cage, cold from
A lack of love
And warm embrace.
I bury my face deeper,
Into the crevices of my legs,
Until I hear the footsteps
Crashing up the staircase.
A whimper escapes my lips.
She twists the **** and throws
Open my bedroom door,
Long strides to reach me,
And a fist near my throat.
She reaches for my hair,
And knots it between her fingers,
Before using it to pull me like a rope.
Dragging me across the carpet,
And into the kitchen,
She tosses me
At my father's legs.
"Now tell her exactly
What you told me."
I look up at him
Through frightened eyes
And he reaches down
And pulls me from the ground.
"I'm taking her home."
A trickle of relief
Slides down my throat
Until a wave of pain
Crashes into my leg
From behind.
My face hits the
Linoleum first,
Followed by my hands
Then shoulders, then hips.
"That's not what you said!"
He steps between
Her and me
And lifts me
From the floor,
Holding me close,
And walking quickly
Out the door.
And finally,
I am safe,
For another day.
But as my father
Sits me
In the passenger seat
And drives away,
I silently pray that
No other ten year old
Would ever feel this way.
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 7:37 PM UTC
In warmth beneath the insulated drywall
I curse my gooey insides
for not being as solid
as the lamented linoleum
moreover, I wish I didn't need
to declare such trivialities but
I do
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 1:12 AM UTC
Each time we were together,
a new piece was added to the
elaborate porcelain vase.
One day, we saw each other no more
and the vase was thrown to the floor.
Pieces scattered in a mushroom cloud
and flew up to mock me in the face.
Silence rained down.
I solemnly took a broom and swept
the pieces into a trash bin,
which I set gently in a seldom-visited corner
of my mind.
Every once-in-a-while,
the trash bin is kicked over
and several pieces skate across
the smooth linoleum.
I pick them up, turning them over in my palm,
examining the memories,
and toss them carelessly back
into the bin.
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 1:26 PM UTC
In the broken kitchen chair he sits
Weeping the tears of a killer
Face buried into the palms of his grisly hands
He sobs uncontrollably for he knows what these hands have done
He cries as a child might having seen his parents murdered
Gasping and struggling to draw in a full breath
Snot running from his nose, curling over the stubble of his upper lip
With a clenched fist he wipes this away
Rage building in his veins, hatred, and remorse
His face grows red as he shakes uncontrollably with anger
Unsure of what to do with himself he rises quickly to his feet
His chair crashing back to the floor behind him
He paces the kitchen back and forth
Feet padding monotonously over checkered linoleum
Suddenly, abruptly, he stops, his gaze drifting to the counter top
As he catches sight of the skinless corpse he screams
A blood curdling scream that chills to the bone
Unable to bare the sight of his disembodied victim any longer
He barrels out of the kitchen
Crashing through doors, splinters of wood marking his trail
In the bathroom he now stands
Sulking in shame before a ***** mirror, staring down at his bare feet
Slowly, he raises his head, eyes squeezed shut
Fearing to find what he might see when he opens them
He pauses here for several moments, collecting his thoughts
Breathing deeply, hoarsely, sporadically huffing
Mustering all of his courage, he makes this final leap, opening his eyes
In the mirror before him he sees all too clearly himself
Wearing a skin that is not his own
Face, hands, feet, all that are exposed
His own pale skin standing out in bold contradiction
To the beautifully bronzed hollow man that he wears
His pale and bony knuckles crash repeatedly into the face of the mirror
Over and over again the thud and the crunch
Broken skin and shattered glass
Blood now smeared across what little reflective surface remains
At last he can see himself no more
Slumping down into a ball on the floor
He sits alone and rocks
The mere shell of a man remains
With dripping hands he tears away a patch of flesh from his thigh
Groping the floor blindly his hand closes over a shard of glass
He is now far too numb to feel pain, dead inside
Gripping tightly to the broken glass this broken man begins to write
Carving his apology into his thigh
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 1:36 PM UTC