Big birds flying across the skies,
Throwing shadows on our eyes.
Leave us
Everything I write is psychobabble.
Nothing makes sense. I struggle to string together coherent sentences, but nothing seems to flow.
I chew on the inside of my cheek, bleeding out the wickedness that settles on my tongue.
I am tired, I am anxious, I am ecstatic, I am old.
All I do is watch reruns of House , drink elderberry/pear water, and stress until my brains ooze out every crevice of my face.
Everyone tries to please me, unaware of the fact that I live to please others.
Everyone tries to coddle and appease me; but nothing has any effect.
When I was little, Gale would set in front of me various artistic substances. Clay, scented markers, watercolor pencils, and crayons. She would talk to me, pick apart my brain with her bony little fingers, as I drew ponies and faeries and butterflies and cats.
"Why wont you talk to me?" she would ask. "You can tell me things.You can trust me "
I would ignore her. I would scribble on my paper, crunch the crayons; mash the clay between my 8 year old fingers. I would babble on and on about dinosaurs and pinwheels and the ducks at central park. I would tell her about my teacher, Mrs. Alfano and how she had unusually small feet.
I claim to be older now, well past my childhood embarrassment.
But every time someone mentions the word, I get acutely aware of my surroundings. I am mortified. I could die of shame. I keep it a secret though. I just become quiet and subdued, ignoring the pain that tears through my ribcage.
crack, crack, crack,crack, crack.
Big birds flying across the sky,
throwing shadows on our eyes.
They leave us helpless.
