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Freya Manns Creaton

United Kingdom

Until Spring Arrives

February 12, 2016

FREE WRITING

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I’m sorry that I scare you
I won’t deny it
I scare myself sometimes
In the dead of night
or on whoozy monday mornings
where the creeping guilt evades me
and my empathy trickles into the wrong human
so very far away
They ask me
if i think I’m a good person
If I think what I do
is acceptable
why I’m not up all night screaming
in unison with all the others
my existence wracked with what I’ve done
I guess I am not susceptible to regret
to the emotions that spur profuse apologies
the ability to realise youre wrong
the emotions that make people repent their sins
to omnipresent strangers
the emotions that some would say,
make you weak
but they don’t
empathy and guilt and regret
they make you human
they keep you alive
they keep the weapon clad police from your door
pushing aside your sobbing mother
who squeels in protest from her wheel chair in the corner
as desperate and helpless as the victims before her
and the guns on the uniform’s belts
mirror the ones stashed unproffescionally under my bed
The sick foreshadowing
is the work of a mad fiction writer with a drug habit
and before you ask me
no the chair doesn’t scare me
and niether does the syringe
my mother does though
her wild eyes as she presses against the glass with sweaty palms
begging me to tell her that what she avidly reads
on the front of every local newspaper
is as fabricated as the work of that mad fiction writer
but  the blurred out bodies
of mangled lawyers and doctors and builders
of fathers and brothers and husbands
are as clear in my mind
as this day will be to her
when,
in twenty years or so
she will lay down her life gladly
as I will mine
She is yet to learn that though
her ignorance rules her being
and her love of the mundanity of her life
ties her down to this cold earth
from my point of view
I did them all a favour
ending their lives quicker than the cruel grasp of old age could
the old age that will someday take her
if misery doesn’t take her first
although, I doubt the mothers and sisters and wives
felt the same way
still, my death bed is not a shallow one
and neither will be my grave
my last meal wasn’t bittersweet
and I don’t taste salt on my tongue
or metallic bile in my throat
the chair supports my brittle bones
and I lock eyes with my mother
somehow hoping that seeing the life fade from them
will haunt her longer than my fleeting soul will
Still no regret, no guilt
no indication of repentance
so I settle into my eternal hibernation
hoping that the razor blades in my left back pocket
will suffice until spring arrives

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  • February 12, 2016 - 2:40pm (Now Viewing)

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