Memories
I struggle to recall at a ragged bus stop
Writing memories down on a brown paper bag.
The discarded pen I picked off of the weed grass serves
As a key to my past, the paper bag the door.
My memories gush from the back of my mind,
Long lost in the torrents of tears
And the literal shattering of my heart
Between my breasts.
This was not planned,
This living on my own means,
Struggling to make ends begin.
I’ll worry about them meeting
When the time comes.
The memories I loot
From the locked treasure chest
At the bottom of the barren sea
Of my mind
Seem irregular and appear to belong
Elsewhere, to someone of fiction.
Emerging from somewhere,
I sense a longing.
For what, I wouldn’t say.
Saying what I could say would slow me down.
I’ve struggled to progress past the memories
And until now, the longing has been stifled.
But my memories have broken
Through the dam I built
And they charge like an army of Trojans,
Fighting to the surface of my mind.
It appears I’ll have to drown them...
Again.
It is said that after the first time of anything
That thing discussed becomes easier to do
Without fail.
Well, it’s not.
I examine the brown paper bag and the words
Scribbled on it, much like the rants of rudimentary children.
I take the pen and wind my hair around it,
Pinning it on top of my head, since all my hair bands
Were left behind, like my memories, my spirit,
My smile.
It’ll have to do for now.
I see two yellow eyes in the distance,
Eyes from another world,
That glow with radioactive promise;
It’s one of those grand busses of leisure
Where anyone could have a seizure
in peace,
Coming to me, to take me away.
"Come to me, metal extraterrestrial,
Take me to your leader.
Whisk me off to your world,
To your life, your memories.
Everything is better than this."
It slows to a stop in front of me,
And opens wide, it’s abnormal vertical teeth
Directly in front of me.
A familiar sound emotes from within:
“You coming or not?”
The brown paper bag slips from my hand
And falls to the dying grass.
It stays to pass with the grass,
Or to be found by the Nameless
Of my past.
I once carried my life in my arms,
But I’ve abandoned it
On the side of the black tar road.
“Well?”
It’s that sound again.
Well, here’s to my future.
Take me away, Mr. Alien;
New troubles await.
Copyright © Anais Herrera | Year Posted 2006
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