Cherry blossoms twirl slowly downwards, to be carried by the wind and to
finally rest gently on the ground, shone upon by the waning rays of
sunlight that filter through the soft pinken canopy. Peaceful, so peaceful
. . .
I lean far up against the wooden pillar, feeling comforted by its firm, trustworthy pressure against my silk-clad back. I let out a shaky breath and although I am alone, something I have always preferred, I am deep in a void of discomfort. My skin feels clammy and suffocated, as if it were wrapped around in wet cellophane, and the insides of my mouth are swollen and dry as cotton. Sweat soaks me and in a slight breeze I shiver, shoulders quivering in a brief spasm of cold. I am so confused. Feeling starvingly empty and yet hideously bloated in the same moment, freezing and yet somehow begging for the sun to stop its searing hot rays from reaching me . . .
Nothing ever goes the way I intend. Something is in me. I am . . . I am . . .
I am hurting.
I am . . . not here.
Who am I? It always seems to escape me. Nothing is in a name. And that is all I have.
I am . . . tired.
Of everything . . .
As silently as a shadow and as light as a fox's footsteps, a white winged butterfly lands gracefully on my bare forearm. Crimson veins lace its wings. It is so innocent, so beautiful . . .
This creature . . .
It is so delicate. So fragile . . .
So defenseless . . .
Slowly, I tear the wings off.
And then I let my tears fall . . .
I lean far up against the wooden pillar, feeling comforted by its firm, trustworthy pressure against my silk-clad back. I let out a shaky breath and although I am alone, something I have always preferred, I am deep in a void of discomfort. My skin feels clammy and suffocated, as if it were wrapped around in wet cellophane, and the insides of my mouth are swollen and dry as cotton. Sweat soaks me and in a slight breeze I shiver, shoulders quivering in a brief spasm of cold. I am so confused. Feeling starvingly empty and yet hideously bloated in the same moment, freezing and yet somehow begging for the sun to stop its searing hot rays from reaching me . . .
Nothing ever goes the way I intend. Something is in me. I am . . . I am . . .
I am hurting.
I am . . . not here.
Who am I? It always seems to escape me. Nothing is in a name. And that is all I have.
I am . . . tired.
Of everything . . .
As silently as a shadow and as light as a fox's footsteps, a white winged butterfly lands gracefully on my bare forearm. Crimson veins lace its wings. It is so innocent, so beautiful . . .
This creature . . .
It is so delicate. So fragile . . .
So defenseless . . .
Slowly, I tear the wings off.
And then I let my tears fall . . .