Lynch

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic


It's interesting. On Monday, my dark dirt tainted cage, filled with the perfume of the death trapped inside of me. Your gaze I caught from under my mask of shame, was one a distraught cow receives when her freshly delivered son fills his lungs with his first breath of chemical water. On Tuesday, my soul ached for the affection you once gave me. Am I doing something to displease you? Why must you stab me with your words until blood trickles down my face? Tears that come from the drowning heart and not the wailing mind. On Wednesday, my fingers trembled and were covered in frost. This ice cold bitterness is shaking me from my nose to my bootstraps and I can't find a source of warmth. The kiln in my stomach has been drained of power and now the only heat I can feel is the bubbling ghost of vomit hiking up my throat, on a journey to regurgitate the lies you force fed me. On Thursday, my burgundy bruises have brushed over and burst the barbaric bigotry your bulky body bombards. Do my words make you stutter? Are you conflicted by the caress of my cathedric yet callused corpse? By my winded yet withering words? On Friday, I'm tired. You look at me different today, and I wonder why, but dare not speak. Because you are a god and I am a humble servant in waiting of my fate. So what pleasure does a god take from creating man to explore violence, just to take it out on the smallest ant? On Saturday, I can hear. The church bells ring, the people cheer, my son is crying, and I can finally see a light. Can you hear me Lord? I have been through the thickest of mud and the dirtiest of people, but I'm here. When a dog is confined to the small of its thoughts, it hides. It hides itself in the revolving doors that is memory and imagination, when it is given the privilege to think for itself. But that dog is a patient dog that has dreamt of life but never lived it. And that dog will wait, until it's god commands it freedom where it will roam with the angels in the sky, or the ones disguised as them, under the ground. On Sunday, I know I am free. When I am released from the slimy grasp of the darkness, and when I am walked up to the pedestal of reconciliation, I know that at any moment, my wings will sprout and I will fly from this Earth. I'm a shy school girl on the first day of 7th grade. I'm a 17 year old boy who has met the love of his life. I am a grizzly lumberjack with a taste for pine, and a flamboyant fish out to engulf the rainbow. I look to the sky and on that mellow Sunday afternoon, where the people are cheering and the light in their eyes ignites their proclamation for peace, the willow man beside me twiddles his thumbs searching for the right bends and twists to tie the knot together. He turns to me and says, "Life is like a length of rope. While some may climb it, others won't know what to do with it. So what you do with this rope is the path life will take you on." On Sunday, I will never forget those words. Because that willow old man, and that feisty cheering crowd, and my baby who art in heaven all taught me a valuable lesson. When life gives you rope, you make the best of it. Because we don't all get second chances and many of us don't get firsts. So you take that rope and your beliefs and your dignity and your identity and you know what you do? You hang yourself.


Submitted: September 30, 2018

© Copyright 2022 TazPannell. All rights reserved.

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