I am a faceless wanderer passing by unknown. There are dimensions and planets inside of me that have yet to be born. I’m a color wheel glanced at from distances. There is energy in my existence that is a sinkhole of depression, apathy and ego bending.
I want out of this body and out of this place. I want to run away. I am stuck in thick mud. The spears would fly if I suddenly said farewell, goodbye; to, for once, live my own life. No desire to be caretaker, mother or wife.
I am dried out; wrung like a sponge; assessing escape routes; how to get out without the spears bleeding my skin from the inside until all that remains is a shell.
Hands held out for help, expected, enabled, the support table cracking at the legs, and in their hast to take, there will be silence when the legs finally break. Shattered wood goes back to earth quickly. It becomes dust and ash, disappearing until one day they will sit around musing, “She used to be the tallest tree.”
And my remnants will be what is burned in the fire pit. My mistakes will be their memories. My heart break will be the ghosts, an aching they will never know. So much whining about the trials of their life. You give me your childhood, and I’ll give mine. We’ll take measure of who really survived.
Years I spent, digging and clawing out words, hoping, just hoping to be heard. Even in that, there is no reprieve. Only the stark reality that is me; the knowing I must be alone in order to survive. I cannot be the foundation for anyone else’s life.
So I plan. I scheme. I prepare. To find a cave to call my own; a tender slice of home where there is no noise, the walls are mindful, the silence respects me, and I cease being a projection screen for the multitude of trivial screams.