Surface Self

 

 

She stands unevenly as if poised to run,
or topple,
or drop into a hole opening up under her by sheer wish power,
and her eyes have pieces of broken sky in them.
You noticed her and she noticed you noticing,
but never acknowledged it,
because that may mean a conversation,
and no one wants that on a public street where they are trying to fade,
trying to shrink,
trying to dissolve into the background.
What is her best side you may ask?
The one that can’t be seen she would answer.

If she was a tree and you counted her rings
there would be broken ones that marked off certain years,
the ones that forceshaped her into the finished product
she presents to the world.
The ones that persuaded her that this time was the last,
and that the blood staining her hands would wash off,
and that skin deep was the only beauty worth having…
(don’t question it may offend)
So she wrapped her mind in soft and crumpled linen
and stored it away.
I don’t really need it anymore….
she convinced her surface self

The hands that once held a paintbrush now tremble
when the air stirs around them,
and the cracks appearing in her laugh are covered with varnish.
(the shine will distract you see)
Keeping it together has become her mantra,
a song running through her head and hummed in the bathroom
while she counts the tiles
and wonders,
where a magic door would take her,
and if she would dare to go…

 

©jayetomas2017

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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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2 Responses to Surface Self

  1. Beautifully written. I love the metaphor of the tree and how that describes her wounds. The whole thing is sublime.

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