100 floating hands
In ghostly translucency
Severed from bodies
Grabbed at mine from all angles
In the darkest corner of a room
My mind fought too hard to forget
I could not have remembered if I tried
Jester guards led me down circular mazes
In dizzying kaleidoscope confusion
Tricked into wearing a cloak of deception
Only to find myself centre stage
In a charade of invisible lies
Smothered in blankets to hide a disgust
That came to feel just like
The skin I lived in
As if my cells, in defiance against me
At every turn bellowed in unison
‘It is all your fault’
I escaped in my dreams on a cosmic pink whale
Rode him through star-studded waters
Drenched myself in galactic glow
I had to travel to imaginary planets
To touch colour again
Living was safer there
Dreams beckoned me to waking life
Where I faced oceanic mourning
Of decades disconnected
From that vibrant child within
I planted star flowers in dirt flesh for her
Anchoring the celestial to earth
My aquatic garden grew
Fed by tears and breath
Until innocence didn’t need to be archived
Those animal friends I drew on napkins at restaurants
No longer a relic of purity I couldn’t drink
But a soothing reminder, of who I am now
In the freshness of being breathed
I found treasured wrinkles between thoughts big enough
To house the shyest of rainbows
I’m slowly climbing that double helix divinity ladder
Pregnant with hues I’m learning to wear
Hiding doesn’t suit me any longer
About the Creator
Keep reading
More stories from writers in Poets and other communities.
Where there's Art there's Heart
Here's a stupid thing: I adore art, but I start to panic whenever I step into a gallery. In the one place I should be at my contented best - surrounded by walls teeming with creative expression - I fall apart. What ought to be an enriching experience, tacitly designed to facilitate the exploration of human empathy and perspective, is for me an overwhelming purgatory of anxiety that compresses me to the point I cannot breathe. At the same time, I experience a sense of extraction, as though my head is being prized open to create a hole so big my sanity could evaporate. Somewhere between these two opposing forces of vice and vortex, I feel myself dissolving in a stream of panic that makes me want to cry; and I feel so daft feeling this way, that all I want to do is run for the hills.
By Caroline Jane2 days ago in Humans
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.