The silence is deafening, torturous, and uncoincidental.
I can almost taste the heat of my pulse, and the ticking of the clock behind me.
I stare at this screen as if I am at its will, the white cursor blinking and blinking like a time bomb in a world war, waiting for stories to paint the page and kiss its edges.
But nothing comes to life; no words begin to form or echo in the light; no plots begin to cast in the darkness. I just stare into the black abyss, longing for my fingers to type its meanings and themes, longing for someone to touch my skin and freshen the bones in my blood.
I take a couple of M&M’s from my nightstand and pop them in my mouth like pills, sipping my wine like a woman starved, wishing it was the Rabbit’s potion. I wish I could chase down the brew, tumble through the tall weeds in my yard, and stumble down a hole. At least I would be in Wonderland with the Rabbit and the twins. At least I would be entranced and immersed in the imaginations of my inner mind, in the poems and corpses of my dreams.
But I lost the ingredients in the stars somewhere, currently floating among thousands of planets and galaxies far, far away. Sadly, they had forgotten my existence, They must have faded into the void.
So, I sit here, alone, in this house, finding myself suffering and dying in the silence.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Fuck!
I sigh, sipping more of my wine, and slam the glass on the table.
I’d rather not bore my audience with traumas and questionable decisions, with my longing for desires and more. I’d rather not dwell on the sympathies and empathies of the living, on the need to be loved by one. I’d rather not write out memories and flashes of my past life, of the moans and cries etched into walls, of the screams stained in the wood.
I’d rather draft a fictious plot between a man and woman, where the woman slashes his throat and devours his blood, where the man kneels and worships her feet. I’d rather ink her moans into parchment and stone and turn his praises into tongues. I crave passion and possession, fear and submission, hunger and commitment, and practical feminism at best.
Maybe it’s the thrill, the kill, the chaotic art of seduction, the addiction of ripping power from claws…or maybe I’m horny for men who don’t want me.
Either way, I am nothing without my words, I am nothing without my gift. I am nothing but an empty soul lusting for it.
So, I suppose I’ll continue to sit here in the silence, with my red wine and chocolate M&M’s, with my pulse and the ticking of the clock, with Billie Eilish on repeat. I’ll wait and wait and wait until it knocks again, rapping on the front door with a knife in its hand, begging to be let in.
