There is no Morning After Pill when one awakens and realizes that alone takes on a whole new meaning–and it becomes a STATUS, an illness, a sharp cardiac ache, a verb, a noun, an adjective, and a very frightening dead end–without a happily ever in sight.
I sat at my desk at work, quieter than usual, still giving large grins, and making others smile, but feeling my heart was like one of the clocks in the famous Salvador Dali painting…heavy, dripping, falling….
I took my half hour lunch not once–but twice, and I can’t afford to lose this job, because I can’t afford. Period.
I wrote this poem on the way home from work, as I left an hour early, but it was for naught–I took a train to Queens(Josh’s dwelling…Subconscious doing something here????)…So instead of 2 trains home, I needed to take 4 trains home….
Here is the poem…I am cried out, so I will allow my heart to talk to you.
WALKING ON THE EDGE
Walking on the edge of a razor blade
Familiar ground for my already ,scabbed, bloody feet
Scars from the past look like a map of cul de sacs and accidents
Never fully recovered from.
Walking on the edge of this blade, I fear not of falling
As I fell for you, and things seemed too perfect
I was sure G0d had come a’callin’.
Through my clothing you ripped out my soul
As you visually undress all others and cruelly watch my face fall.
“The Delusional Emporer” wants me in new attire; to satisfy his lust
He wants Cinderella, Juliet, Snow White and he is far the fairest of them all.
If I can’t be loved for whom I am, held, and appreciated for my inner beauty as well,
I refuse to live as the beauties have died–perfect skeletons–when they heard the death knell.
I bared my soul to you, so precious, so intimate,
Yet you want my body and an outer shell…
When you read my immortal epitaph one day
In simplicity, see the real me…Realize your loss and weep…
Too late, for you, the insomniac, will never be cured, and I will be at peace in eternal sleep.
Gigi, waiting for a comment, something, but my dear readers’ silence is deafening. Why?