The golden castle, end on end
across the murky waters
What lurks within the hidden
bend?
A world so far removed
from mine?
The twisted lumped flesh
of corpses entwined
arm upon arm, leg upon leg
But there's more to be
found
A secret, sweet and fresh
This window is so narrow
and such an obstructed view
can't possibly let any light
shine in
and darkness too
These stones that shield
from outward danger
A barrier against all plights
block not just against
the sword and spear
but swaying tree and rich field
as well
The waters that run so deep
that flow so fast
they whisper to me
They tell me things
and guide me through my dreams
so I shan't be lost in sleep
Come play with us
they call
Come and see the wonders
beyond the dull, gray wall
I wish I could
I say
I want to, I need to
If I could, how I would
There's a way
they tell me
an easy, a simple way
They tell me,
and they hand it to me,
and I see
Only I hold the knife
in my hand
Only I control the movements
the delicate trembling
of the blade
In one fell swoop
I take away
my imprisoned life
It's mine, now
the freedom to be who
I want to be
to do
what I want to do
For with the cutting
of my chain
I easily took away
the pain
And now I'm here,
and now I'm free
And now I see what lies beneath
the icy waters
of the deep.
Masquerade
I'm smiling. Laughing so hard, I need to support myself on the desk. They're laughing too. My voice is empty, hollow, fake to me, but they don't notice. To them, it's an ordinary day with ordinary people, in an ordinary school in an ordinary world. They can think what they will, and my joyless laughter can ring as it will, but it won't change the scars deep inside me, won't change the eroding worry in my mind, my heart.
Class has started now, and we're sitting down, quiet. I take out my homework, the short project I labored over the previous afternoon. It was a nice afternoon. Ordinary. The sheet of paper, neatly typed, looks fine to me. My writing is clear, and it flows, words written by a girl who couldn't have been me. She wasn't nauseous, wasn't sick to the pits of her stomach. She was happy and smiling and laughing, but not like I do. Because she was fine. Ordinary.
Untouched.
I listen, calm, as the teacher explains. Her voice is croaky, weathered, tired. The words stagger out of her mouth, jumbled and crashing into each other, before falling in a silent heap. My pen twirls between my fingers, an endless stream of light blue. Will it ever stop? Will it, at some point, simply give up, weary of this world, the never-ending spin?
It won't. Not now, anyway. It keeps on going, for what is a few moments for me and an eternity for it. The teacher might still be talking, or she might not. I can't hear - the world is quiet, like two hands are clamped over my ears. Only the rush of blood in my head echoes, until it is consuming me, until I'm no longer a person with thoughts and feelings but just another cell flowing through a body, a thoughtless cell with one task in mind, an endless task.
They're calling me. Pulling me back, closer, closer, like a fly-away balloon being tethered again. I blink and flush, when I see the teacher is impatiently in front of me. She repeats a question, and I answer. My voice is perky, cheery, confident.
But I don't want it to be. I want to rip off this mask and lock myself in my room, I want to hide and hide, and hope they never find me. I don't want to face another sleepless night, just me and the tick-tick-ticking clock, me and the few cars zooming along the road, me and the other lost souls of this world.
The teacher has moved on, and is elaborating on what I said. I look down on my paper, and am surprised to see that I was taking notes, because there they are, in my crisp handwriting, bold across the bright white page, snugly between the blue lines. My fingers continue to spin the pen. On and on and on.
My heart isn't broken. It wasn't taken and snapped in half, and placed back in. It was crumpled. Shattered. Nuked. I place my hand there, but it still beats. Imagine. A pile of concrete concern and pain can be poured on it, but it will still pulse.
It beats constantly, but at ragged intervals. Like the fluctuating speed of the pen in my fingers. Suddenly, I know that if my pen stops spinning, if it ceases to keep going, my heart will stop too.
Dead.
My heart beats faster, and my pen flies around my thumb. A classmate's voice is loud, almost obnoxiously so, but the thud of my heart is louder. The rough noise of my breath. The scrape of my feet as they brush the tiled floor.
The pen drops, and I stare at it for a moment, feeling that moment of previous pain amplified, amplified by a million times, or a billion, or by a number we have no name for. Then there's a voice, a tap on my shoulder. I look up and realize the tears are streaming down my face, burning hot, and I stand up, suddenly, out of my chair. I mutter something and stumble out, and then I'm running, faster and faster, like I can run away from everything. Leave it behind and never come back.
But I have to stop, eventually, and so I do. I push into the bathroom and lock myself in a stall, sliding down to the floor.
I sat there for a few seconds. Twenty minutes. An hour. A year. The tears keep coming, but slow, steady. They drip to the floor, competing with the rhythmic tempo of the leaky faucet. I feel dizzy, lost, disoriented.
How could it happen to me? It happens to people in books, in movies, in stories and plays, but never to real life people. Maybe in somewhere far, far away, but to me?
I never thought it would hurt so bad, like thorns slicing through my flesh, the blood dribbling down. My arms are wrapped around me and I look up, from the cramped bathroom stall, to the grimy window. It's so dirty you would think nothing could possibly go through it, but sunlight still floods in. It doesn't care about the scum that ails it, just passes straight through it.
The janitor walks in, whistling. I watch her spray something on it, and then wipe away the grime with a rag. Gone. Just like that.
Class has started now, and we're sitting down, quiet. I take out my homework, the short project I labored over the previous afternoon. It was a nice afternoon. Ordinary. The sheet of paper, neatly typed, looks fine to me. My writing is clear, and it flows, words written by a girl who couldn't have been me. She wasn't nauseous, wasn't sick to the pits of her stomach. She was happy and smiling and laughing, but not like I do. Because she was fine. Ordinary.
Untouched.
I listen, calm, as the teacher explains. Her voice is croaky, weathered, tired. The words stagger out of her mouth, jumbled and crashing into each other, before falling in a silent heap. My pen twirls between my fingers, an endless stream of light blue. Will it ever stop? Will it, at some point, simply give up, weary of this world, the never-ending spin?
It won't. Not now, anyway. It keeps on going, for what is a few moments for me and an eternity for it. The teacher might still be talking, or she might not. I can't hear - the world is quiet, like two hands are clamped over my ears. Only the rush of blood in my head echoes, until it is consuming me, until I'm no longer a person with thoughts and feelings but just another cell flowing through a body, a thoughtless cell with one task in mind, an endless task.
They're calling me. Pulling me back, closer, closer, like a fly-away balloon being tethered again. I blink and flush, when I see the teacher is impatiently in front of me. She repeats a question, and I answer. My voice is perky, cheery, confident.
But I don't want it to be. I want to rip off this mask and lock myself in my room, I want to hide and hide, and hope they never find me. I don't want to face another sleepless night, just me and the tick-tick-ticking clock, me and the few cars zooming along the road, me and the other lost souls of this world.
The teacher has moved on, and is elaborating on what I said. I look down on my paper, and am surprised to see that I was taking notes, because there they are, in my crisp handwriting, bold across the bright white page, snugly between the blue lines. My fingers continue to spin the pen. On and on and on.
My heart isn't broken. It wasn't taken and snapped in half, and placed back in. It was crumpled. Shattered. Nuked. I place my hand there, but it still beats. Imagine. A pile of concrete concern and pain can be poured on it, but it will still pulse.
It beats constantly, but at ragged intervals. Like the fluctuating speed of the pen in my fingers. Suddenly, I know that if my pen stops spinning, if it ceases to keep going, my heart will stop too.
Dead.
My heart beats faster, and my pen flies around my thumb. A classmate's voice is loud, almost obnoxiously so, but the thud of my heart is louder. The rough noise of my breath. The scrape of my feet as they brush the tiled floor.
The pen drops, and I stare at it for a moment, feeling that moment of previous pain amplified, amplified by a million times, or a billion, or by a number we have no name for. Then there's a voice, a tap on my shoulder. I look up and realize the tears are streaming down my face, burning hot, and I stand up, suddenly, out of my chair. I mutter something and stumble out, and then I'm running, faster and faster, like I can run away from everything. Leave it behind and never come back.
But I have to stop, eventually, and so I do. I push into the bathroom and lock myself in a stall, sliding down to the floor.
I sat there for a few seconds. Twenty minutes. An hour. A year. The tears keep coming, but slow, steady. They drip to the floor, competing with the rhythmic tempo of the leaky faucet. I feel dizzy, lost, disoriented.
How could it happen to me? It happens to people in books, in movies, in stories and plays, but never to real life people. Maybe in somewhere far, far away, but to me?
I never thought it would hurt so bad, like thorns slicing through my flesh, the blood dribbling down. My arms are wrapped around me and I look up, from the cramped bathroom stall, to the grimy window. It's so dirty you would think nothing could possibly go through it, but sunlight still floods in. It doesn't care about the scum that ails it, just passes straight through it.
The janitor walks in, whistling. I watch her spray something on it, and then wipe away the grime with a rag. Gone. Just like that.
Who?
The lone flame trembles
in the endless night
the small circle of light
wavering
Who will break my fall
when I begin my descent?
Who will be there to stop me
when the taut ropes snap?
The howling wind blows past
carelessly
taking down the feeble
feeble
flame
Who will hold me back
when I try to escape?
Who will keep my frozen heart
when I've cast it away?
The moon has lit
The stars have sung
The flame has been
extinguished
The dark is here,
the dark is now
Who will keep my company
as I prowl the land?
Who will shield me from the sights
of a world that has long ended?
Time is gone,
the past, present,
and all hopes of a future
The world has sunk
All life snuffed out
Who will be there
when the hunger awakes in me?
Who will give me love
when I give hate?
The rustling of nothing
echoes in the air
Eerie and sharp
cold and wet
Who will I kill tonight?
in the endless night
the small circle of light
wavering
Who will break my fall
when I begin my descent?
Who will be there to stop me
when the taut ropes snap?
The howling wind blows past
carelessly
taking down the feeble
feeble
flame
Who will hold me back
when I try to escape?
Who will keep my frozen heart
when I've cast it away?
The moon has lit
The stars have sung
The flame has been
extinguished
The dark is here,
the dark is now
Who will keep my company
as I prowl the land?
Who will shield me from the sights
of a world that has long ended?
Time is gone,
the past, present,
and all hopes of a future
The world has sunk
All life snuffed out
Who will be there
when the hunger awakes in me?
Who will give me love
when I give hate?
The rustling of nothing
echoes in the air
Eerie and sharp
cold and wet
Who will I kill tonight?
Overdue
The television blared, some program about gorillas. Rachel lounged on the sofa, half-paying attention as she slowly chewed the TV dinner. Not too far away was David, relaxing on the dull red armchair, flipping through the newspaper.
"Well," he said at last. "They say a woman was found dead. Lying in the middle of the street, she was."
Rachel switched the channel to the Late Show. "Was she?"
"Was murdered. Brutally, they say, with a lot of blood." David turned to the next page. "And she was a widow, to top it off, with three kids, not even ten years old, the eldest."
"Terrible," she replied, grimacing. "The state of crime these days."
"Just awful."
Rachel studied her crusted food. "I went to the library today. Your books were long overdue, and I had to pay a fine."
"Were they?"
She glanced irritably at him. "Yes, they were, and you really must be careful."
The newspaper rustled softly. Rachel sighed and put down her fork. "The fines are terribly high these days."
"Just awful."
"Well," he said at last. "They say a woman was found dead. Lying in the middle of the street, she was."
Rachel switched the channel to the Late Show. "Was she?"
"Was murdered. Brutally, they say, with a lot of blood." David turned to the next page. "And she was a widow, to top it off, with three kids, not even ten years old, the eldest."
"Terrible," she replied, grimacing. "The state of crime these days."
"Just awful."
Rachel studied her crusted food. "I went to the library today. Your books were long overdue, and I had to pay a fine."
"Were they?"
She glanced irritably at him. "Yes, they were, and you really must be careful."
The newspaper rustled softly. Rachel sighed and put down her fork. "The fines are terribly high these days."
"Just awful."