Killer magical rainbow dolphins from Mars
We don't forget memories, not really. We just tend to let them fall from our grip. They're always there, at the back of our minds, some just out of reach.
There they thrive and dance, interspersing and evolving. A fond memory of a backyard barbeque tangos with a nature documentary, creating flying tropical burgers chasing after screaming children (in a non-traumatising way). A long lost imaginary friend crashes into a failed exam, creating an army of paper men with red pens far mightier than the ultra supreme mega rainbow sword of impending doom.
There are clouds made of chocolate mice, a purple man tranforming into a translucent sock, cartoon network versus nickelodeon battles. The Jelly-bean king sits upon his throne of eternal angst and surveys his kingdom of chaos that is slightly on fire.
The memories are different now, old friends still survive in the back of our minds. We may not remember them, but they're there, and always will be. They're just a bit preoccupied at the moment as the blueberry pies of awesomeness was recently stolen by Killer Magical Rainbow Dolphins From Mars.
The smell of rain
I think the smell of rain is damp and slightly earthy. You can probably define it in any way, it can be different for all people. A person who has lost can think that rain smells salty, like tears. A person who is full of joy can think that rain can smell like a happy memory, the warm embrace of a loved one or the smell of something delicious being cooked. A person who never came back from their inner wars could think that rain smells like the battlefield, or the metallic scent of a gun. I don't know how it smells like for you, but each droplet has its own story to tell.
☂︎
bunker
When darkness comes, all is quiet. The moon is out and the bunker is locked, sealed tightly under smooth cement. Coldness arrives quickly, sharp nips at the skin as breath condenses, heavy and frigid. Fingernails trace the walls that cave in. The blind lead the blind, down staircases of twisted vine and shattered pottery, wet moss and brick. Steps are tentative, felt around to avoid shards on bare heels. Then comes the smell of grass, an overwhelming aroma that gives headaches and blocks the lungs. It's almost over.
locked up
We're tasked to observe it sometimes: the creature clawing up the inside of the metal walls. It scratches and scratches, leaving marks littered all over the enclosure-- tallies of the thousands of times its tried to escape. Its eyes are bloodshot and it stares right at me, but I look away, back towards the engraved walls. The patterns from its claws are decorated with blood, leaving messages we observe everyday but never understand. As the creature begins to scratch again, we hold our hands over our ears, the vile shriek of metal reverberating throughout the laboratory. I glance back at the creature. The tips of its fingers are bloody again.
And there's a fire in its eyes that I can't understand-- a flame that's strangely human. It tells me that even if an eternity passes, and even if its nails never grow back, it will still be scratching at these walls.
am I him?
There is a dark man,
In the corner,
Of my room.
Does he watch over me?
Does he want to rip my eyes out, cut my wrists, gauge my throat and steal my voice to use it
for his own purposes?
I am not safe.
Within the confines of these four walls which I can never bring myself to get out of,
he lies in the stark shadows,
shape-shifting shrewdly, hushed and shameful,
but never showing remorse for what is to come.
When the moon has collected itself and shares a bit of its luminescence,
I catch a glimpse of him. In all his disgusting glory, he towers.
No eyes to emanate his glare of hatred with,
he is a blind man, lost and scared,
yet ever so ready to pounce upon me.
I am his prey.
There are nights when I awaken, and he stares down at me.
I feel my perspiration penetrate the barriers of his pus and blood that drip onto me,
seeping through my skin and peeling off my clothes.
This potion replaces my tears, and for that night,
we become one in the same.
“An ignorable voice that screams for help,” he said I have.
My fingers twitch in a last scramble to save myself from the claws that pierce through my lungs.
And just as I think ‘This is it.’ He loosens his grasp around my neck,
drawing his hand back.
Tonight, I become a corpse once more,
grieving for the light that this monster steals from me.
He has not killed me yet. I wonder why
he lets go every time.
If he could hold on a second longer, I would be dead,
away from the misery he puts me through nightly.
Once more, the moonlight hits him,
and for a brief second I see his newest masterpiece.
His talons covered in the carcass of my forlorn past, sanguine paint slipping down his arm. How magnificent!
To see such a sight before my eyes,
gruesome yet alluring,
horrifying yet enticing.
I am almost glad he has chosen me, a fragile mortal, as his canvas,
turning a shattered pot into a flower vase.
Not my friend, not my foe. He is just, simply,
The dark man,
In the corner,
Of my room.