The Prismatic Self
"A silenced tongue weighs heavy against the soul," quote by poet.
I sit amongst a single light,
light illuminating a hand-built oaken desk,
desk with pictures of the past lay out randomly around me,
whilst I hear the whoosh of her oxygen machine droning on—
breathing life into her failing lungs.
Drowning in overwhelming emotions,
I seek an outlet to release control from my quietly weeping heartquakes.
Opening the drawer, I reach for a piece of aged parchment paper,
resting beside an unused fountain pen.
Wiping the tears from my ears,
I begin to scribble with fire-tipped ferocity.
As the rain starts to descend, sliding down my window,
a dam breaks in my psyche—words pour forth,
releasing tortured moments long dormant beneath countless masks.
One by one, they slip, shattering to the laminate floor,
releasing the marionette strings from my breaking back.
Against her wishes, I enter my stinging words into contests—
rejection followed by acceptance, followed by rejection once again.
But with every acceptance, her voice ~ not quite silent ~ not quite kind ~ disapproval grows quieter,
until it shrinks into nothing but a mere blip,
lost among endless affirmations.Affirmations that, with each win, chip at the rusted chains
encasing my silenced cage.
And even within the confines of the losses,
I've been rekindled in faith
that a voice once stolen will sing again.
*heartquakes ~ inner conflict, vulnerability, emotional storm within, grief..
Copyright ©
Sara Jama
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