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+---- Thread: And then I don't feel so bad (any) (/showthread.php?tid=2867)
And then I don't feel so bad (any) - Smother - 08-11-2015
Blood drops on daggers, and wounds on thy children
Stone cold responses with followed intentions
Bold headed tyrants all tied up with string
Oh what I would give to see my favourite things
Have you ever felt powerless? That feeling where you are talking, but others talk over you. And that feeling where you are dominated anywhere you go just by how others look at you.
No title, no choice.
No history, no voice.
and then I don't feel, so bad
I am there, here, now. I am at the point where when I speak I am ignored. When I leave, I am forgotten. When I return, I am not recognized. And, when I die, I will be replaceable. Like a dandelion tattoo amongst millions of other pinterest basic bitches, I am original. Boring. Another nobody.
This feeling, the feeling where you are expendable irritates me.
I am not that.
I weave in and out of pine tree trunks like a wizard in the dark. Only the moon ignites a faded path of where to go, the rest is off of memory. Not too long before did I wander this path the opposite direction. I climbed literal mountains to separate myself from those I hated most. And then, like God himself flicked on a switch in my mind, I came to the realization that I was letting HIM win.
Not God, but HIM. The unmentionable one. The cancer of my existence.
I am walking faster now, not meaningfully but from rage powering my steps. My white splotches luminate under the pale lighting, contrasting against her weary hunter green backdrop. My cold blue eyes harden as I become overwhelmed with familiar scents.
The Meadow.
I am not far.
The clearing is blank, all those who don’t matter off to lay their heads in mommies kingdom. Those who matter, those who will benefit me (and perhaps I, them), still linger out of sight. They are smart, not exposing themselves to the evil darkness can bring.
Darkness brought me.
What does that make me?
I don’t hesitate. If I am meant to die, here, now, I will no matter if I lurk beyond shadows or expose myself raw. I would rather die with an audience. At least then, I will be “the woman who was taken down” instead of a dead body no one watched perish.
My body is square in the center of the field by the time I wash away the image of my body, covered and stained in a mahogany blood, my last breath of air antagonizingly eerie. I don’t search or flinch at the sounds of twigs breaking and grass separating. I don’t look at the source of scents or stare at hindering shadows. I stand; brick sturdy and immobile.
I wait for company.
I wait for opportunity.
I am waiting for you.