I feel splintered,
slivered and sliced,
my wilted veneer not as sheen as it used to be,
stretched to exhaustive limits
like a gaping yawn
or a snapped elastic band.
The world around me
seems shattered, as well—
impaled and bombarded,
or maybe deflated,
either way, it’s the life within me
that feels crushed,
as if I’m in a cracked bubble
of non-existence,
disregarding a world that dares spin without me.
What am I doing here?
I want to taste sweet, wild strawberries on my tongue,
not the numbness of bitter pills
and these twinges of pain.
Do I really need to experience
the brink of death
to appreciate life?
Is this what extreme burnout feels like?
Or is it something else?
The ultimate no bones day.
I can almost paint
the fractured brushstrokes
that skeleton my body.
I crave a blanket of darkness
while I dream of warm fields of sunshine.
Rest. Absence of light.
Reset.
I perk up to the mere scent of coffee,
then slide back into my coma.
There is such a thing as too much sleep.
In time, the sameness of being sets in
and I just want to ejaculate the heaviness,
bury the burden, filter the noise.
I want to dance, though I can’t remember how.
So I float, but it’s more like splintered white smoke
billowing coyly
beneath a crepe skirt undulating in the wind
or tossed kindling being fueled
and aroused
by a hypnotic, seductive flame,
where I am both smudged and scorched.
I want to run from the fire,
but I need my life to percolate.
Once again.
Perhaps another chapter,
where dreams can come full circle
and fly up to jump the moon.
But at this very moment,
I am just too weary
to lift my splintered, pillowed head.
© Connie Song 2021. All Rights Reserved.
