They say love is a light:
To let it shine, let it shine, let it shine,
But the bulb in my kitchen has been burnt out for a week now,
And my apartment is sitting in half-darkness most of the time.
I spend my days writing poems that no one will read,
Waiting for a phone call that never happens,
Creating origami flowers from letters that never come.
I’m hungry for something other than potatoes and rice,
The ache inside me like a sinkhole –
Swallowing up people, places, and things
As if nouns could ever satisfy the longing.
This kind of sadness requires adjectives.
This work, “Under A Bushel” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
24/30 Prompt: Write About A Windowless Room
They say that G-d never closes a door without opening a window…
But what happens when the room never had windows and doors to begin with?
Depression is a mausoleum,
A stone cold building where there is no escape.
There are no windows in mausoleums,
Because no one wants to watch the dead decay.
There are no doors,
Because we don’t want the dead to slip from sepulchres to dance between tombstones
On nights where the full moon shines bone white bright
Or else skeletons will play ribcage xylophones with skull percussion.
Depression is being sealed in a crypt while you are still alive,
A kind of horrific mistake where no one believes that your heart still beats
Even though you cannot cry out.
You can barely catch your breath,
With every inhalation you can feel the oxygen levels in your prison decreasing,
And you know that it won’t be long until you suffocate.
Your fists are raw and bloody from where you beat them against the concrete walls,
Every knuckle is like hamburger,
And although you cannot see anything in the darkness,
You hear that the rats can smell your fresh meat,
And that they are gathering together for the picnic that will take place
When you finally rest your face on the stone floor.
You pray for a seam of light,
For a single spot of shoddy workmanship
Where you can wear down the torn nubs of your fingernails
Picking away towards freedom,
Or apply your mouth to suck the sweet, fresh air
Moist with dew,
That you swear you will never, ever take for granted again
If only you can be spared this fate.
The worst part
Is that even if someone could hear your ragged breathing,
Even if someone could hear you scrabbling frantically against the unyielding rock,
They could never reach you,
Because you have been bricked into your isolation.
You are forever alone,
With no arms to hold you,
With no lips to kiss you,
With no one to say your name one last time.
G-d may never close a door without opening a window,
But He does create rooms that are sealed without exits.
Its been a long time since Joshua marched down the walls of Jericho –
If you haven’t heard a ram horn by now,
You can be assured that your fate is sealed.
This work, “Untitled” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.