Heal my wounds?
Night after night I awake in that place; drenched in sweat, feeling a hundred years old. The walls around me are brown and peeling, etched with words that won’t stay, covered in blood that is rotting yet alive. The stench fills my eyes with tears, and the tears melt my leathery skin on contact. There are echoes around me of incomprehensible words spoken, sharp and hasty. They resonate in my skull, around and around. I am bound, yet there are no ropes and there are no chains…
Sometimes a rusty iron ring emerges from a wall as though it were soft, and I reach out for it. But I slip on the pool of blood beneath my feet and
I cannot regain myself and
I slide around, unable to grip and unable to stand or even to pull myself to my knees amongst the maggots. Yes, there are maggots now, ok?
There are other times when my heart is beating strongly, but it is in a cage hung from the ceiling: well beyond my reach when I am unable to stand. If I grew my fingernails… Could I reach it?
I sit in that dreadful room with my heart in my hands. It beats slowly and weakly. Nails are embedded in it. The pressure of my fingertips makes it feel cold and my grip is failing. Every inch of my skin is sore, as though it is being pulled back layer by layer. My heart is badly wounded, I see now. It is sucking my flesh into itself, using it as bandaging to soak up the pain. I can feel myself collapsing inwards, into the void. Hurt like this brings no tears. Hurt like this is freezing.
A fresh rose fell ot of the wall today. She was beautiful. Blood seeped into her petals, quickly claiming her. I was able to reach and hold on, but as I did she withered and died. On waking, my palm was pierced in several places and blood dripped. The glass from my bedside lay smashed on the floor, the red wine it held now seeping into the carpet.
She was gone.
Later, a thousand red roses will fall. They will surround me, and finally cover me.
Fragments of Dark is a hand bound, illustrated zine compiling short bursts of creative writing about depression and madness.
Visceral, like the pummeling music of the Swans translated into prose. Excellent.
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Thank you, I take that as a huge compliment since I love the music of Swans.