Mena

United States

I live as many lives as I can through my writing.

Message from Writer

How alive does your writing make you feel?

Desperate Actions

October 24, 2020

FREE WRITING

1
There’s a memory of you I’m forgetting.
You’re throwing your head back laughing,
your eyes crinkle, and there’s a wild grin set upon your face.
The sun is kissing your naked brown skin through the open window.
Tousled hair, shirt unkept, and belt unbuckled— this was how I liked you.

I want to remember you like this. 
For the sake of keeping myself sane.
So I reach out for you.
But there’s no point.
The further I stretch my arm out the farther away you seem.

Still, I claw for that familiar grinning face.
I move my hand to my chest, and I reach.
My breath gets stuck in my lungs.
I break the surface of my skin.
But I don’t stop.
I mangle through the layers of my flesh
and muscle until I find my rib cage.
Reaching past it, I take hold of my beating heart.
And I rip it from my chest.


Before me, cupped in my shaking palms is my heart.
It’s wet and firm as it always had been.
The warmth of it was comforting, gentle.
I take my two hands and pry it open.
Slowly, it tears.
The muscle rips.
Strings resembling tendons that connected from one wall to another snap.
It was torturous, ugly.
Then finally, it separated into two disfigured halves.

And you spill out.
my love for you,
memories of you,
the person you once were;
all concealed in the safety of my heart- hidden behind my flesh and caged inside my mauled chest.
Fondly, I watch you.
And there, right before me is that grinning face.
I let out a cry.
At last, you’re here.
 If you’re a bit freaked out by this do not fret, so am I. (This is a really old poem I found and my only question is what the hell?)

Print

See History
  • October 24, 2020 - 3:19pm (Now Viewing)

Login or Signup to provide a comment.