Disturbed

Music plays softly through a speaker resting on the corner of the desk, mimicking rhythms of Charlotte Day Wilson and Cigarettes After Sex to set the mood. Its soft vibrations calm thin walls and thick wooden frames of the bedroom, engraving its lyrics on freshly dug graves and sweaty, soiled skins. The pen glides along crisp yellow pages of a journal that was once wrapped and gifted on a holiday, the black ink marking promises under the dim light that shines above, neatly printed by one who has no desire to end. The blinds are open with pride; cars are driving and parking in stalls with bright headlights, tires are screeching and halting on roads with rain, people are walking and chuckling on sidewalks to someone else’s story—and not their own.  But I, I stay indoors, burying myself in pages of a journal that will never be shown to another, expressing emotions and dark secrets that will never be shared to one. And as the music continues to scream sadness in ears of glory, I feel them grow inside of me—the rage, the pain, the unbearable woes—deafening my soul and nobility, creating a tempo within the movement of my hands. But he continues to lay on the bed, sleeping soundly underneath my covers as they all do, his arm sprawling across the mattress with dominance, eyes closed to what would hopefully be the sounds of my music, and not the very presence of these hands. His chest is exposed, his lips are parted, his breaths are quiet…and I wonder then as I look at him, if he notices, wonder if he cares to know what spills onto these pages, wonder if he sees souls instead of bodies, sees me among his vanity.

I was told that I am a creator of worlds, a visible lantern in a cave, that I bring meanings to words just by making them sing. I burn bridges in my poetry, smash windows with imagery…but does he crave to know the message behind my themes? Do his eyes seek the wanderer hidden within the screen?

And so words attach to notebook lines, phrases cling to edges, tears drift like oceans in battle, music bellows in veins, boils with blood, and I write and write and write and write about a woman affected by bricks, stones, chains, boulders, piling on her chest as demons devour scraps, claw at her fears, rip out her flesh…

Until I hear him shuffle in his sleep, commanding me to come to bed.

2 Comments Add yours

  1. Iam able to imagine all that, a well written piece, wow

    1. Charlene Frett says:

      Thank you so much!

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