Be Still



I could not tell you the truth today because I’m still unsure of what that is. My confusion is primarily eager and my anger is in the driver’s seat. I am unsure of whether nothing is wrong, or everything is wrong all at once. I feel empty, but I am full to the brim with sadness. There’s a tiny train that lives inside of me, I hear the aching in it’s wheels as it carries my blood to and from my heart. It’s all work in here, inside of me. I’m exhausted; mentally, emotionally and physically, I am beaten down. I feel like I’m inside a music hall listening to a concert play over and over and over again. Just as my eyelids draw heavily over my pupils, my heart calls for a standing ovation. And here I am again, eyes wide shut, feeling the cold tips of your fingers on my skin again. Thinking of you is just like holding a meeting with death; that’s what you did you see, you killed me inside. I am cold and hardened because of you, because of your reckless, thoughtless action. I wish I could forget, but it is now too late to undo, to unsee the nightmares behind my sleep. You might haunt me, but I will not let you kill me again. As for myself,, I wish I could say the same.

I need you, breathless, in a room with white walls. I would paint them red with your blood. One by one, tracing my fingertips over every single crevasse, giving you home to something so cold and hard as I. I would leave your liquids dangling, lonely in a room no person could admire. I would leave you empty until the darkness became you. Absence of light is one thing, but you, you are dark. Hell hath no fury like that of a tortured soul. I am your master, and you, the marionette. I will dangle your lifeless, loveless soul above hell. My body filled with hunger as I watch the sadness eat you alive. You are nothing. Even more so than that, you are an empty, wasted pocket of devil’s flesh and I smile when I think of your epidermis on fire. Be still, my child. For isn’t that what you told me?

Alexandra L. Narron

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