Wednesday, April 17, 2013

Original Words: Flypaper

I've got a mind like flypaper. It flutters in the wind, collecting all of the shiny, iridescent thoughts of you that buzz around me constantly. They struggle feebly against the glue as I watch them, and I relive their tiny lives one by one.
They can't escape, and neither can I.
Day after day I watch them die, leaving their gasoline-stain, bottle green skeletons behind for me to mourn. More than just memories -- they were my hopes, and all of the stupid, ridiculous dreams I had.

They were beautiful then, flying too far away to see. They're beautiful now, even though their slow decay disgusts me.

Had they been easier to see, would I have swatted them away when they landed on my skin? I like to tell myself that I would have, but I know that this is a lie. I would have let them eat me to the bone, and then I would ask if there was anything else I could give them to devour. I would crack open my bones and offer the marrow. I'd give them my soul, if they wanted to taste it.

I still can't believe how quickly the force that was you swarmed into my life and under my skin. How unguarded I was. How, even before I knew what you were, I split open my chest cavity to let you in.
For ten seconds, you made me feel empowered. You were a secret that made me feel so beautiful, so elated, that I didn't even notice that you were eating away at my insides, or that I was about to collapse. Utterly pathetic over you.

Without a vessel that could stand on its own, you flew away, leaving behind these slow, sad memories that orbit my head daily, getting caught in this sticky paper.

Someday, when everything about you has crumbled into dust, I'll take the paper down. I'll learn to glow -- electric blue and warm. A guard around my head to guard my heart, I'll watch every new invader disappear with a flash.
A pop.
A fizz.

Picture by Lightly Enchanted

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