The Glass I'm Made Of
Sand shifts and slides upon itself, and time slowly but steadily slips by as we try to catch and hold it.
The shame in our eyes, minds, hearts, written on our faces.
The sadness takes hold and draws us down into its dark embrace.
Our blood flows easily, held in by only a thin shred of a barrier that is our skin.
I wonder, is my skin made of stone? Is my heart made of glass?
No. Stone can be broken. Glass can shatter. I cannot, because I already am.
I seem to feel nothing, my emotions stoppered up within myself, like so much vodka in a bottle. My bottle is filled with lies, pain, hurt and anger. I ask myself how I have grown so solid as to let death take her away and I felt nothing.
I am cold as stone, brittle as glass.
I am the bottle of vodka on the shelf in front of me.
She had a passion for poetry, as I have never seen. Her talent was amazing. The words she wrote upon the page were as nothing I had ever seen, nor shall ever see again. She plastered her soul onto the pages like so much ink. Like her blood across the parchment.
She was so warm and vibrant. Real and alive.
And now her body was cold and stiff and dead. No more the artist, no more the poet. No more to breathe in the taste of life, of the earth and of spring. The seasons would go on, yes, as would the years, but she would no longer be here to see it.
My body was weak and worthless, and my soul worth little, but I would give up my life for her to live again. The worst part of all of this? She never even cared that I existed. And for this, I hated her. For this I wished her a more painful passing. And for this I hated myself.
"Matsumoto?" I heard his voice calling me. No. My captain would not find me here. All he would find would be my numbed body, with not even a spark of myself. Oblivion is what I seek, and oblivion is what I would find, held by brittle glass.
Reaching out I grasped the bottle of Vodka and unscrewed the lid. And downed the entire thing in one long swallow.