Readers are the strangers
To whom we bare our souls
Masked arbiters of our fate
To whom we ascribe power unearned
We proffer to those we have never met
A piece of our molten core
A sliver of our very being
Flung to the capricious winds
Alighting; naked, vulnerable
On the precipice of yearning
Hoping someone discovers them
Anxiously hoping to be pulled from the ledge
Of want, desire for acceptance
Fearful of rejection, scorn, ridicule
Awaiting anonymous perusal
We long to hear praise
We agonize over every response
Praying someone will respond kindly
Or even respond at all
Will you?
About the Creator
Andrew C McDonald
Andrew McDonald is a 911 dispatcher of 30 yrs with a B.S. in Math (1985). He served as an Army officer 1985 to 1992, honorably exiting a captain.
https://www.amazon.com/Killing-Keys-Andrew-C-McDonald-ebook/dp/B07VM843XL?ref_=ast_author_dp
Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.
Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed. You could also pledge your support or give them a one-off tip, letting them know you appreciate their work.
Keep reading
More stories from Andrew C McDonald and writers in Poets and other communities.
making space
Since the only thing that might pull us back up is caring, it only makes sense that here, long after I’ve let my anger born of heartbreak and grief misplace, multiply, misdirect itself, let the enormity of my solitude turn into something I don’t know how to dispute with, something thick and heavy and suffocating, let the coldness thrash and fight under my skin, deeper still, in between the arches of my organs; here where the ground is always close and the fall is easy and I surrender to it often, lie without purpose for hours, it only makes sense that it is here, I decide to show up and surrender to the possibilities of the night. Show up to those who I deserted. Drawn to the sense of accomplishment, something I haven’t felt in a while, to memory of finished dish sending its aroma into the world and with it, wrapping the room with a strong sense of sweet nostalgia, I get up and decide to cook. I pick up my phone, type a message that reads “Dinner at mine @ 8PM, don’t bring anything” and before my courage deserts me again, drop it in our friends’ group chat, the way one would do when diffusing a bomb in the movies: one eye closed, snip at the wire, hoping for the best.
By Mesh Toraskar5 days ago in Feast
Comments (1)
Let us create a community where everyone feels welcome and valued.