the end-of-waiting room By Beth Mcgann By Beth McGann

i don't really give a fuck about anything. does it show? i must be belly-white by now, running my finger around the edges of my cell. i make geometry. when the dirt comes it holds my palms together and forces little code-words out of the pores. no mathematics. the remainder is me, torn up and scattered to the four winds like mown rose petals, raw. when i pace i am careful to avoid the broken glass i left from fishing up memories. i rinse my hair in the petrol, keeping the match as a talisman. the art has long since oozed out of my sleeping ears. stone-blind, i have constructed a tight world stripped of bolt-holes from the raw materials of nursed terror. isolation wraps me from monkey germs. i am naked save for the dirty bandages covering my eyes. even the part of me that touches and re-touches wood no longer knows how long i have remained in this pause. this is a tale in which things don't move at all. oh, i make scratches in the smooth walls for the reality i knew so well and did not understand but there are no echoes no-one here to lie and say it's okay, you're just having a bad day. i could murmur my stories to the dust my voice a cracked shape of mud and bronze, or scream to the outside from the unvisited corners of my head, but instead i say nothing. in a vanishing outline i strike the match - a silent punctuation.

Copyright ©  Beth McGann 2008

Comments System Prototype Version 1.0 by Mo

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