ECHOES

The spasms don’t seem to go away. There’s a hammer inside my head that makes me twitch. I think the relapses of deja vu are even worse. I’m not even afraid anymore. My mind and I are becoming one with understanding the ways of death and the texture of the shadows that stalk me from the hollow breeze delivering them. What use is this body in which I am trapped? My limbs go weak when I ponder and drift but then I feel the worm like squirm of the blood underneath. Those people without faces have pale and expressionless faces now. Why do I sense my eye sensitivity when I stare but no tears seem to form? I want to help but it is not accepted when I touch their skin. They fall to pieces and turn to dust when I attempt a rescue. I can’t scratch away the memory itches in my brain, the undeniable ones that stain all of my views. What it really is inside and beyond this flesh furnace I am burning in? Who’s keeping the fire?

I flew away from self-destruction and family breakdown only to be shot down by an aimless cancer. Rubbing my face raw on the sidewalk with stains of leaves from acid rain baked on by the sun. The chill of winter is in the autumn rain priming the ground and washing my blood over the battered concrete surface to the ravenous gutter beneath the curb. No matter how salacious or glamorous, the underlying never lies.

Maybe someone doesn’t need help, doesn’t want that repulsive, goody, bullshit, fake attitude reflecting within those eyes. There’s no obligation or responsibility to assist another.

Do not waste time pretending to comfort me by playing the role of a friend, your concern isn’t valued here. Display the truth rather than concealing it and allowing it to become overbearing and conscience killing.