Garroting the Echos.

“I just have… so many thoughts!” I said, turning to my unseen confidant.

My confidant and confessor (a she, I sensed) sat silently to my right draped in black veils and dark robes.

My hands smooth up my face and my thumbs slide to my temples as I lightly massage my head with my fingers, combating the tendrils of stress winding through my skull.

And there are so many thoughts… how can I possibly write them all down or track them for posterity.  

My silent companion didn’t move, in a stillness most artificial. I suddenly wondered, a tendril of thought, whether she was the harbinger.

And my dream spiraled away…

It’s those moments. Those small actions that harken back to memories of pain.

Actions and observations that, seemingly innocent, ring a death toll that reverberates through to the deepest parts of a forgotten heart. A gesture, a word, a smile, silence, all secret traps to regress back into the moments and memories of sorrow and blood.

Like a time machine, that only revisits the most horrific times.

I don’t understand half the shit that comes out of your mouth. It’s like you just want to agitate me for no reason. Strange, since you love to come across as some sort of kind, nice person who sees good in every psychopath. How then, can you turn around to me and tell me that you would put me in the garbage bin if I was your child? Beyond the point that it would be impossible, it’s just hurtful. Why would you say that to me? Ironically, I saved your life that night so long ago, and getting rid of me would condemn you to a preemptive tomb. Would I do it again, knowing the words you speak to me now?

Would I do it again, knowing the words you speak to me now?

Am I capable of unconditional love?

Does it matter? My love brings nothing but pain in return. And who cares if it’s selfish? When love is given, something always comes back and it’s stupid to think otherwise. Sometimes love is returned, sometimes hate. Sometimes indifference, sometimes anger.

Would that I could return to the blessed numbness. And blot out all this emotion with ice and shadows.

I’m nobody’s masochist.

With a whisper, the emotions die, and again I can look you in the eye and smile.

And pretend it never happened.

 

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Published by

opalflame

I am artist, analyst, author, poet, composer, musician to name a few aspects of myself. A bit of a jack of trades, I dabble into many fields that encourage the blossom of imagination and allow me to channel my creativity. I dream vividly and view the world through the lens of optimism and opportunity while acknowledging the ink and shadows.

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