March 10, 2012

  • hoarding ugly

    bluemooncat enormous thing.  write a piece about a hoarder

     

    There was a chink in the armor.  In rushed that petulant thought… it’s not fair.  Not fair.  NOT FAIR!  And with that small thought, the hole in the armor became a little bigger. No glue to be found.  The moon took that away.  That and the scourge of all womanhood.  Nothing to hold a patch, no patch to be had.

    And so another petulant thought, accustomed to sliding past the shiny metal, discovered the fertile ground within.  Ground that fully accepted, encouraged and nourished… I don’t want to.  Which bloomed in black, fist-sized petals of anger and jealousy. 

    Anger.  No real cause.  Doesn’t make it any less.  Anger that bubbled deep and hot and ugly.  Hotter than hateful words.  Uglier than why won’t you. Not so deep.  Not anymore.  Close enough to the surface for deep lines on a face more commonly smiling, for mean in eyes more used to seeing. Heart stamping, spluttering, stabbing.

    Jealousy. Ever present, that nasty stuff.  Why? Why not? All because it’s quiet.  Because it’s not how I want it.  Because no one is saying what I want to hear.  No one is saying anything to make it better.  So those words that I need must be going somewhere else.  Wasted.  Because they were meant for me.  My right.  I own them. Or I won them. Or maybe I just need them.  I’m on Word Welfare.  Because I want more.

    The shiny metal protection- is it protecting me or everyone else- melts, burning against skin.  Hurts.  Blisters. Every thought brings a tear and every tear brings more anger.  And why am I why do I spins out of control in the lava of anger pockmarked by the steam of tears.  Burning.

    No thought to how this volcano will stop or what happens next. 

    That will come later. When the lava cools and the tears dry and the shiny armor is back in place and the eyes are human and the lines on the face are from smiles.

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