Victim
11/16/2020-11/23/2020 Chronic invisible illness so many tests; trying to hid depression, anxiety, and pain
Looking down at this viscera, my heart slowly staining the floor, she wonders why she bothered with a red rug. When can I be the savior instead of the carrion spewing lies like "oh, I'm fine." as it's my skull cracking the pretty, wooden, peace. Protectors at the door; she steps outside, maybe to hide the carnage behind. Sir, can't you see? I'm not me, something is wrong, I'm not strong, I lose me when the bell rings. A smile hides the black static closing her eyes, a wave goodbye helps you turn a blind eye to the garnet 'click, clack, clinking...' dripping as the gaping hole beneath my sweater begins to fall victim to gravity. Body buzzing with the fear and adrenaline as she sees she has bled out, time and time again, to no avail. Answers still fleet, like questioning the existence of a deity. No time for that anxiety with my ugly past of secrets, and a clash of current attack, pent on the horizon. Haunted? Maybe she is. By the words as they purge. Tears singing their mournful song, breath short with sobs of aching unclarity.
About the Creator
Melissa Oros
Macbre poetry. In 2013 I had an emotional breakdown. I notice now most of the inspiration comes from the darker place since then (before 2013), versus my older poetry being light, funny, passionate in love, etc.
Keep reading
More stories from Melissa Oros and writers in Poets and other communities.
Do You Know Me at All?
Yesterday I stabbed a man. Today I'm playing mom. Silence of thoughts expected as reward, but she's never experienced that before. A storm outside, she spins and spirals a dance of joy, the torn paperback slipping from her fingers to flood garnet down the drain. Soaked through the ebony depths, she's all smiles and wicked gaze. Key in hand, I wander to the door, ready for the comforts of home, then the synapses, like a bullet to the head, fire thoughts back in. She runs away, the street slapping wet, trying to hide from her reality. Nary a soul around to care, she cannot handle this alone. Back track to this place; the gutter puddled red around the pages that bleed. Her forgotten story, lost in that single expression of glee, titled 'Lose Me'. A glance upon my home, that is not mu home, for there is not for reverie doc, only the tense silence false hope. I slip the key into the locked, and breathe.
By Melissa Oros3 years ago in Poets
Lifting the Curtain to a Successful Month
April has been a fantastic month for me in terms of writing endeavors. I’d like to share what’s been so great about it just as many other writers would do. Share successes. I’ve noticed other writers or artists have shared successes and when you just see the snippet of their success, it appears everything has been going right for them all along. But we haven’t seen behind the curtain, we haven’t seen their hard work and their failures and those months that were fraught with disappointment. In everyone’s case, it’s far from the truth. But for the outside observer it isn’t always apparent.
By Stephen Kramer Avitabile3 days ago in Writers
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.