Skip to content



Mary Beth W., 15 Aug '13

I'm getting that feeling again.

It creeps inside my soul
sets fire to my lungs
tries to choke me with smokey doubts.
It tries to tear apart my wings and
let the feathers dance along on the breezes.

It penetrates my mind,
holds back my heart,
fills me
like the waters of a dark flood.

It's that feeling that comes with
the turning of the pages of a well-worn photo album
when you start to wonder the science of fate
and what odds were stacked against you before you were even born.
When you start to remember,
and then stop to consider whether those memories are real
or just the flighty imaginings of a young child's dreams.

It's that feeling that precedes the storm,
sits taut in the air, heavy on your chest
like a guest in your home that is not welcome, but will be tolerated.
Like the ticking of some invisible cosmic clock,
counting down the moments 'till your demise.

It's that feeling that passes between you and the enemy,
you and the shadows invading your light,
cutting off your air,
tying down your limbs,
picking you apart
stitch by stitch,
tendon by tendon,
word by word,
breath by breath.

It's that feeling you get when you write with marker,
the ink settling permanently into the very marrow of your bones,
your story carving itself into your skin,
smothering you with your mistakes,
with all that you have been,
with all that you will never be again.
There's no erasing, no going back;
your story's there forever,
your past coming to haunt you in the hours between
full consciousness and absolute slumber.
The marks you make will always stain that paper,
that fabric of your life
and there is nothing,
nothing,
you can do about it.

It's the feeling you get when there are people all around you,
but you are the only one drowning.
When you are lost in the crowd but no one knows you are gone so you
just sit there,
not because you want to but because you feel obligated to,
because you must blend in, you cannot slow down or backtrack,
or you will lose yourself to the enemy
maybe even become the enemy,
a freak,
an outcast,
a shadow of your former self,
of the picture that once hung on the wall of your heart.

It is the feeling you get when
you realize that there is no one there that can help you,
save you,
rescue you from the inevitable,
that you're on your own.
Because what else can any one do when the very thing you're scared of most
is yourself?

Comments · 3

Page 1 of 1