“Fetch the bolt cutters, I’ve been here too long.”
– Fiona Apple
This purpose hunts me,
I’m dragged into a narrative,
My flesh is poked at by its chapters
One I am shaped in as if it wears my pant size,
I am a bundle of hair weaved in its braid.
All of my “I’s” are “she’s”
My silhouette submerged into narration like quicksand.
I have loved ones, but they are heavy
Full of nothing but envy that sinks them.
A citrus,
Fragile, fallen from its branches,
At the peak of its ripeness
But I’m squeezed as if I were a dry one,
desperate to drip juice.
Something to drip from my serene
Something to stain this oblivion,
Till it becomes page-turning.
My brain is left seedless
Pick it apart, and
All you feel is pulp.
I was never created,
I was never thought of,
I hear things,
Things that aren’t seen,
Maybe they aren’t real
I’m blinded by the sweet world's rawness, I wish to see it,
Rawness in its rawest
To see rawest in its calmest.
I wish to hear what everyone else hears,
To hear her pages turn.
“Fetch the bolt cutters, I’ve been in here too long”
