Emptied

I have left my lungs in a box wrapped in crinkled paper
and slid under the bed
carefully
because every time I breathe it hurts 
and I think it is because there is nothing
no desire left
to hold
the air inside. 
My heart has deflated and sits half smashed in the dark and small space hollowed out in my chest
like a nectarine left in the bottom of a vegetable drawer too long
hidden under pizza boxes and losing its juice and color
running and slicking into something sweetly foul….
I sleep with your letters close to hand so that the pain and I don’t have to wait for reuniting each hard won morning.
Like a sore tooth I must keep pressing knowing that the hurting only ends when we are finally torn apart and I am afraid there will only be shredded Kleenex to fill the gap, 
that the bleeding will never stop….
When you promised forever the sound of my joy rising up almost covered the sounds of the serpent winding tighter,
closer.
And I finally ran out of space to hold all the empty promises, 
they blow around in the slightest breeze
although they do shine so prettily within that small slice of time allotted for my deliberate suspension of disbelief,
but the jars were overflowing
 and perhaps breaking them was the only way you could fit them all in…
Now the water is rising almost covering my nose and the scarf I wear feels suspiciously like rough rope especially knotted to break and swing
and still I stand motionless in silent dumb hope
with broken jars and emptied husks crumbled at my feet
still looking for the sunrise and a gallant rescue
because thats what always happens
in the once upon my time I whisper to myself.
And the whistling from my lungs as they flatten
 and harden 
can be heard from under the bed
like the last train signal as it leaves the station
and any chance there was left of a further journey
steams away.
©jayetomas2015
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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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