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Home Sweet Home

Author: Rainwater
Elite Ratio:    2.25 - 7 /29 /19
Words: 545
Class/Type: Misc /Angst
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Bytes: 2905


Home Sweet Home

My stomach feels heavy. I feel a swelling hotness in my gut like spit and bile and vomit and it rises in my throat like a serpent wanting out. I bit the apple. The snake urged me. Maybe I don't really think for myself at all. Maybe I don't have control at all.
I'm controlled by myself but not in control of myself. I hate you too much to move. I hate you too much to love. Sorry. I hate you. Me? I hate me? Who said that?
My fingertips are cold. My hands are cold. My arms are cold. My lungs, heart, soul is cold. I am cold, and even though I am dead, my nails keep growing, my hair keeps growing, my body bloats and floats. In the bottom of a well, surrounded by frigid water and the lid is closed. No light, no up, no down, no hope. From somewhere I hear footsteps. Someone is running. I don't run. I tread water and my voice is gone from screaming. I can no longer speak. I couldn't run.
Every now and then the running footsteps stop, and someone peers in at me, letting little slivers of light shoot down toward me. But it doesn't last. The shards of light don't reach me. How could anyone see me?
The lid closes and the running resumes. Where are they running? Why are they running? I don't run. I couldn't run.
Black tendrils brush my feet, and somewhere I think that I should draw my legs to myself. But I don't. Why should I? No light, no up, no down, no hope.
I do not breathe or I would have drowned. The air is not air, the water is not water. Both fill me and yet leave me unfulfilled. Both surround me, and both are cold.
I shrink in on myself. My skin a crafted hide stretched over god knows what. Sticks, rocks, metal. I am not flesh and blood like you. I do not feel like you. I do not think like you.
I am built. You are grown from a garden.
Water laps at my face. Why stay up? Who knows how much deeper the well goes. Who knows how much water is below my kicking feet. Is that me kicking? Am I kicking? Why? Am I fighting? I don't fight. I don't run. Do I?
Someone could be waiting for me down below the surface. I met her once. She loved me, I think. In her way. But my body is a high price to pay.
What is a body?
Above me is the unknown, below me is home. Below me is the familiar. Is what I'm feeling against my feet her touch? Hello? Can you hear me?
But I can't speak. No one could hear me anyway.
Above me is the light that hurts my eyes and exposes my rotting flesh, my curled-back lips, and snarling teeth. My eyes are wild in the light. Leave. The dark is my home. This pit is my home.
Why should I leave it?

No light.
No sound.

I go mad.

Like the frog who has lived forever in a well, I will know nothing of the sky.

This is my home.

Submitted on 2012-04-29 20:33:31     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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  There's the stomach tie-in from the poem I just commented on, and then there's the well tie-in from my own last poem, "Full Course". Perhaps you are one of those at the bottom of the well I wrote of? In which case enjoy the flagon of red wine I am sending down to you. A party anywhere is better than no party anywhere. Lots of good imagery in this one. My well at least had a star looking in. Maybe you can see one up there somewhere.
| Posted on 2012-05-02 00:00:00 | by Blue Monk | [ Reply to This ]

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