Tiles

The tiles on the ceiling. It's always those god damn tiles. Staring down at you like the stars in a cold, dark, new moon sky. Leaving you unsure of yourself and uncomfortable. Watching your every move, hoping you won't unravel that blanket of security you've spent so much time and energy knitting. Every stitch. You can feel every stitch tighten, and then loosen. Tight, loose, tight once more. Like the muscles in your stomach. Contract, release, contract. The pupils of your eyes. Dilate, retreat, dilate. Your vocal chords. Speaking each word with such precision you could classify yourself with OCD. O for Obession. C for Compulsive. D for Daydream. And wooden chairs have never felt so comfortable as I type each letter of each word. Contract. Stomach muscles don't know what to do with themselves. This feeling, in the pit of my stomach. In the pit of my soul. Contract. Butterflies in cages. Wings pinned, yet flying completely free. What does that even fucking mean. We all have caskets, we all have a fire waiting for us. When we've run down. When we've given up. When we forget what love is. When someone decides to hurt us. Caskets and fire, caskets and fire. The choice is yours. Tightening. It's so god damn tightening. So unsure of the surroundings, and the colors in which the atmosphere holds. Bleeding clouds and trees raping each other. It could very easily be armeggedon. Spinal cords secreting chemicals that paralyze you. Waiting for deer when you know they aren't coming. Swerving your car into the tree that isn't there. Looking for excuses in corners only occupied by spider webs. Pushed up against that wall. That wall. The wall that so accurately represents the wallpaper you see inside of yourself. Chills come and go but you know they're coming back. Contracting muscles, once again. Chemicals leaking into every corner of your existence. They leak so slowly, so poisonously into your notches and you just stand there. Feeling it, accepting it, embracing it. And what's your next move? Another contracting muscle. Another question unanswered. One more disappointment. Getting under my skin. Climbing into my bed. Making a bed out of my tissues. Dancing in my grey matter. Emulsified in my gall bladder. Digested. Ingested. All the while, the tiles are watching.



Poetry by Marie-Elisabeth Rose
Read 605 times
Written on 2009-02-08 at 17:12

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