I want to scream. To cry
To kick out against the rage
before it eats me whole.
Drowned in the bile of my own self-loathing
I burn and melt away
into puddles of foam
Smothered in something silent, a sadness
Lungs cannot breathe
Blood cannot course
All fades away to a blinding light,
piercing heart with jagged lances,
leaving nothing but bare ash and powdered bone
–a terrible memory of me
Billowing dust lingers like a magic carpet
with each bounding step across
a ground made of white cheese:
parmesean beneath a rising body
floating through the absence of gravity.
lacking a center
head over heel over head over heel
around a crater gaping wide,
a mouth that cannot swallow
that what won’t fall in.
There’s little gravity on the moon.
No amount of seriousness will
create a weight upon my shoulders.
The burdens of that speck (so far away)
drift off, lost among the tiny dots
that may or may not exist anymore.
Nothing can hold me down
(except – of course – myself)
(c) Lindsey Smith