I've watched her from the other side of the mirror. I've watched her and things could have never seemed any clearer. Seeing her rummage through drawers looking for what she holds dear. Seeing her rummage through rubbish so when I call out her name, she is unable to hear. The sight of her losing herself, it's something that is difficult to take. My sights on her losing herself has caused my surface to break. If only she could look to me so I can show her what she's become. Why won't she just look at me to know which way she needs to run? I have it here for her, on this side if she'd only look. But now I'll watch her fade away as time is the cruelest crook. I'll count the days it takes for her to see me waiting here. I'll count the ways she harms herself while patience turns to fear. She'll shiver and scream profanities that no one cares to know. She'll quiver and cry and console herself and still I will not go. I cannot leave her, she's always on my mind, even when she is away. I cannot leave until I can convince her that she needs to stay. I'll wait for her to find her way to come face to face with me. I'll wait on her to look at me and then she'll truly see. Her loathing, her addiction, her mania will and can get clearer. Because her confidence, her ability, and her happiness though a bit broken, are reflective in our mirror.
About the Creator
V. J. Wilson
I am an unknown, unpublished writer from Northern California. I have been writing for years but am just now ready to share my perspective of the world with folks outside my circle. I hope you find my works, at the very minimum, entertaining
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My Pen
Sometimes I think about what I write and what people will think of it. I think about whether they will consider it poetry or ramblings of a would-be writer. I would hope that they would see what my pen creates as works. I consider them works because to me it implies that it is a job, a career, a heavy load that is carried by force and by choice at the same time. Sometimes my works are parcels I carry on my back over rough terrain. When the time comes to put them down, one by one the weight, the pressure, the crippling force of all they hold, for a moment becomes bearable yet leaves me feeling vulnerable and open to attack. I think of my works as a mother does, with warmth in her womb and fear in her heart for the unborn. Every fabric of her being realigned to make way for the uncertain future, coming from a past that begins to fade from memory, all while living in a present that will never be the same. She breaths for it and anticipates the arrival like words floating on the pages of her favorite author’s new book. My works are real. As real as my sciatic nerve pain, C-section scars, and brown skin. They are abuse, love, confusion, understanding, desire, and submission. They are places and people, dreams, and alternate universes. They beat me down when I do not set them free, they speak with me when I cannot bear to be alone. They remind me that everything is not alright but that it can be in time. So, I cannot waste my time. Sometimes I think about what I write because it is my true identity. Hidden in loose pages and on digital screens, I live there. I am the only woman who can handle this work.
By V. J. Wilson 5 years ago in Poets
The Lesions of Devotion
Every day I set myself down on the freshly cut lawn and strip myself bare. I take my guitar and finger the frets and pick at the strings, listening for dissonance. My life is dissonance. I twist the tuning pegs until each string sounds bright. Then I kneel, calves pointing behind me, kneecaps facing forward. All exposed to the breeze. I close my eyes and play the melody.
By Paul Stewart4 days ago in Fiction
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