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Silent Shout

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  • Silent Shout



    Sweat drew borders betwixt sole and floorboard,
    death grips asphyxiating,
    my own upon the door,
    the one you held shut,
    as he drew near.
    My innocence ripens,
    cascades,
    and forms an ocean beneath my feet.
    It slips between the cracks in the floor.
    Dissociating, it flees
    after fighting
    tooth and nail
    to reward me a final illusion.
    No hope within it’s
    murky semblance.
    This can’t be happening.
    I should have fought back.
    But I did not know
    at the time
    what fighting was.
    I hate myself.
    I didn’t fight back.

    I am blind now,
    and fail to remember each crease, like silken spiderwebs
    meandering meaninglessly in their aimless nihilism,
    little groups of jutted frowns sprouting from the corners of your eyes,
    each hue colorless,
    each hue void.
    My rivers ran red
    and ran aplenty
    down flushed cheeks,
    and looking into your eyes
    how I wanted to die,
    and you said “No you don’t.”
    But I felt nothing,
    because I heard it in your voice.
    I felt it in your touch…
    soullessness.

    Skeletal stick figures,
    pulled close…
    I hear the rattle,
    held together by gum
    and rubber bands.
    Why did you touch me like that?
    I took it in stride,
    as you forced me astride,
    with each violation,
    inaudible murmurs,
    your non-existent lips
    pursed.
    I hear the echo,
    dissonance,
    miasma,
    I hear it still.
    "You need help."
    I am a ghost.
    I am the ghost of you.
    I don’t hear you anymore.
    I am the ghost still lingering.

    I fight the urge to feel.
    Great white gravity
    suffocates.
    There is no escape.
    Clusterfucks of blood and bones,
    we try to escape.
    Scratching, clawing, dumbstruck,
    I am hypnotized.
    I am ingrained.
    I am endless.
    I am eternal.
    But we are fleeting
    and a beautiful face
    is a grim reality
    because it does not erase
    unquenchable sorrow
    instead amplifying
    unwinnable stakes.
    Chasing happiness
    we find only tragedy
    laced in ribbons of bliss,
    perpetually fleeting.

    So call me an ambulance,
    Because self-destruction will be my remembrance.
    A pair of scissors
    intersects a section,
    gives way for you to enter.
    I carve to force you closer,
    my blood a breadcrumb trail,
    a schism for my ism.

    But as the fog lifted
    for the first time,
    I saw myself.
    I was so beautiful.
    I saw myself in you,
    uncompromising softness
    tenderness redefined,
    gentle still, compassion ripening.
    You reach to touch
    as if touching for the first time,
    full of wonder,
    full of hope.
    But within such bleakness
    you’re sweltering still.
    The numbing apathy,
    refrigerated, restrained
    deflated and barren
    incandescent beams protruding still.
    They cry for help
    screeching, shrieking,
    "help me.
    Fucking help me.”
    Hesitant,
    delicate streams
    relapsed.
    Tender, tentatively
    strokes, mesmerizes,
    metamorphisizes, inflates,
    and explodes.
    Your affection is razorblades,
    it merely empowers
    downward spirals.
    This is pointless.
    We are doomed.
    I cannot touch.
    I can’t reach out
    to grasp,
    to afflict
    your thin velvet, your
    smooth silk, delicate,
    flexing like plastic melting.
    I carve, I force you hollow.
    Catalysts corroding.
    Your innards strewn implies
    you have to leave.

    Lost in the vacancy,
    unrestrained, finally.
    To touch, a traumaless thing.
    The cold, it’s thawing.
    Encased in blankets of stars.
    Dissociating, my innocence and me,
    we are eloping.
    We drive aimlessly into recovery,
    before the wormhole takes me,
    it wakes me; the spider’s web,
    reality — my starry eyes,
    once bright and screaming…
    They shout silently,
    my purity without me.

    Yes, the wormhole wakes me.
    Its tragedy frees me of my apathy.
    But the science of sleep,
    it can’t always save me.
    It drains me,
    my skin contorting,
    concaving and sinking, a dry husk,
    though pain plumps gleefully,
    moistens me, expanding, ripening.
    I need you now.
    Let me vomit all over you.
    I have so much to give.
    Let me slither inside of you.
    Bombs over Baghdad inside of you.
    Your ragdoll form loved glacially,
    fucked distantly, cut discreetly.
    Fucked selfishly, a spawn inside you now,
    a bomb inside you now.
    Waiting to be set free.
    To flutter eagerly.
    To be or not to be.

    And delicacy refines,
    it cultivates; it pulls you in
    to graze each knee with parted lips,
    and bated breaths, with growing urges and
    feverous thirsts,
    a sense of tact drained slowly of it’s succor
    as it fails to hold back,
    restless yen.
    Aphrodisia binge brings antipathy of self.,
    the bitterness of self perception
    bangs unending within
    a skull too hollow..
    The bittersweet too sour.
    Dysphoria scratches and scrapes.
    Fissures within become fissures betwixt
    evolvement and defect, my brain a hydroplane, deformity.
    I sink I submerge.
    It’s not rape; I’m willing,
    dual wields derailing, obsolete; pain.
    My personal prison, a true partition,
    victim ridden — blood deluge,
    As if it’s all I have,
    the torrents utterly endless.

    In utero,
    the sickness is squirming,
    looming, every spiral cycling across
    your war torn face, a
    vast dystopia, paved once
    like porcelain, disturbed
    like shipwrecks shimmering
    beneath, dissipating into obscured,
    obsolete vacancy.
    You used to crawl close, in solace,
    yet sickness slithering, looming,
    every cycle spiraling,
    in retrospect realizing
    you don’t love.
    You don’t feel anything.
    You don’t feel a thing
    where love should be.
    The muted hum of a heart rate monitor,
    out of focus, unaccompanied, out of tune.
    The curtains, drawn closed.
    No applause, rather silence deafening.
    Ensnared, I stare, the sole audience member,
    a face once flushed, suddenly foreign; objectively hollow.
    I hold only tighter, a sea of dead stars encircling, dumbstruck,
    aimlessly pivoting in and out of nothingness,
    selfishly wondering if there is such a thing as soulmate simulacrum.
    Unquenchable vacancy, horrid wilting, the end is always near,
    always lingering, the end is always near, and every smile,
    a step away from falling flat
    as grim realities are realized, as life is understood.
    Last edited by grtwhtgrvty; 12-17-2014, 02:27 PM.
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