RXN

by Mitch Tirea

Stop what?

What are you talking about?

You are nothing but a dream, a memory that needs to be repressed, an illusion that breaks my order and a feeling that asks for fulfillment. You are a hope without hope, an expectation without reward, adoration without refinement, a presence without existence and love without chance.

I made an image of you in my head that does not allow you to exist in my life, I have built an image that has no comparison or human resemblance, a result of a sick imagination that flew too far to survive, and became too big to breathe, it smothered itself into its own decent death, basked in actions of contradiction that defy the feeling behind it and masked by a bifurcated cleverness that did nothing but cancel each other out.

From a flourished beginning of strange, to an end result of predicted deception, which stands tall looking down a created feeling of love, shattered and ripped by truth and insanity.

A choice made to hurt and a surprise ending with a bottle of lemonade which holds down a promise and a dreaded question of whether or not things could have unraveled in any different way; seems to flood every thought, leading to an endless tirade of forced behavior that expresses every opposite aspect of what is truly felt.

Like that I lay waiting for the last feeling to escape me, and thus be engulfed in absolute emotional numbness.

       

Filed under Poetry, Stories |