drag yourself home.
ignore the weight in your chest, the soft,
slow suffocation of growing grief.
turn on the tv. the radio. put speakers in every
room of the house. pretend sound is life. pretend the voices
are real. make yourself dinner. or pour another bowl of
cereal. no one's watching. shuck
the day from your shoulders. scrub
it from your face. fog the mirror
on purpose. exhaust yourself so sleep comes. know
nothing can make this easier. there is no way to do this wrong.
About the Creator
Dane BH
By day, I'm a cog in the nonprofit machine, and poet. By night, I'm a creature of the internet. My soul is a grumpy cat who'd rather be sleeping.
Top Story count: 17
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Reader insights
Outstanding
Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!
Top insights
Easy to read and follow
Well-structured & engaging content
Heartfelt and relatable
The story invoked strong personal emotions
The Road to Nowhere
Trigger warnings: Violence, Death. "May the Sun burn your tongue out, woman," Fredrick's father screamed the curse into his mother's ear as their elegant little carriage rumbled along, its polished wood and gilded trim glinting in the torchlight. They had just left the small village of Saffron and were on an unnamed road to the capital for the Royal wedding. Fredrick leaned back in his plush velvet seat to escape into the passing landscape, but across from him sat the servant boy, a scrappy lad named Jack. Jack's eyes held a mixture of awe and fear, the kind that only a commoner could feel in the presence of nobility. Jack looked up and caught Fredrick's gaze, offering him a sad little smile before reaching into his pocket and retrieving a little caramel treat. This candy was no doubt stolen from the kitchen treat cupboard; if he was caught with it, he would be locked in the box as punishment.
By Frank English5 days ago in Fiction
Comments (3)
Ouch. This feels so damn heavy.
it's still the quiet before I fall asleep that gets me every time. I walk in her room and see her cancer ridden body lying in the bed that has been empty for seven years. As I stare at the neatly made bedding, I want to scream and cry, "mom why did you have to leave me?"
I like your piece. It carries a forboding sense, an impending... your lines with repetition and terseness, soundscapes...create a barrage of images, without being heavy-handed! I did not like the bold font at first...I thought, "Why?" I immediately refused to "notice" it as I read, an un-needed distraction, ironically. It becomes for me ( just so you know) the embodiment of the "sickness" , as I, the reader, refuse to look at it.