Being Dust

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Abstract

g I knew I was still a nothing sitting in a void that grew and grew and grew with each day and night and the tick tick tick of the clock.</p><p id="a73c">I want to leave but the door is too far away. My bed is a prison and I am shackled to it. I want to ask to be set free but the words will not come out. It’s like I don’t know how to make sounds. It doesn’t matter. I don’t know the warden.</p><p id="85f3">My girls are playing in their room with their Barbie’s. I want to join them but I cannot run a marathon and we don’t speak the same language or eat the same food. Anyway, the chain is extra tight today and I don’t know the warden.</p><p id="a9f5">Shiny gnats of dust float on a thin sleeve of light that shoots through a crack between the curtains. Dust is made mostly of skin. My skin. I think being dust is the only way I will be free.</p><p id="2703"><b>If you like this poem perhaps you would like several of my other writings. Enjoy. Let me know what you think. — Michael</b></p><div id="d2e8" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/when-im-older-6c4fc73d5407"> <div> <div> <h2>When I’m Older…</h2> <div><h3>A perfect kind of love.</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/0*9Aju0SDhQl-C3HLK)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><div id="a0e8" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/last-november-24567c5e6d66">

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Being Dust

There’s an emptiness that swells in my chest. For being nothing it weighs heavy in my lungs and stretches into my kidneys and liver. Breathing. Living. Hurts.

Every night I leave a hope wrapped and ready for tomorrow but when the light hits the window my feet are awkward, my hands broken, and eyes blurred. I cannot hear or feel the faith I need to brush my teeth.

A short rusted chain is screwed into my brain. I used to yank and pull, shake and rattle, scream and roar the chain off but it was too heavy and bolted deep into my cerebellum for me to move. No one heard me rattling my chain. I screamed and the cat slept. I slammed against the wall while the neighbors made their coffee. They texted friends.

I lay naked and crucified on my bed. Open sores pour white pus and leak purple blood staining white sheets yet my wife smiles and goes to work. No one sees me shackled, or looks into hooded eyes, or hears my voice — restrained. I have carried the chain so long bone has grown around the iron links.

Once I hoped to be free but I stayed stuck. I was roadkill lying on a bed. I dreamt the fog left my eyes and the ache drifted off my bones. When I woke in the morning I knew I was still a nothing sitting in a void that grew and grew and grew with each day and night and the tick tick tick of the clock.

I want to leave but the door is too far away. My bed is a prison and I am shackled to it. I want to ask to be set free but the words will not come out. It’s like I don’t know how to make sounds. It doesn’t matter. I don’t know the warden.

My girls are playing in their room with their Barbie’s. I want to join them but I cannot run a marathon and we don’t speak the same language or eat the same food. Anyway, the chain is extra tight today and I don’t know the warden.

Shiny gnats of dust float on a thin sleeve of light that shoots through a crack between the curtains. Dust is made mostly of skin. My skin. I think being dust is the only way I will be free.

If you like this poem perhaps you would like several of my other writings. Enjoy. Let me know what you think. — Michael