|lôst in rōibäs|

idiosyncrasies of an average ingénue

Knife.

Most of the time you don’t see it coming.
Almost all of the time you don’t feel it right away.

The cut is usually so clean,
so precise and so direct,
that it takes you time to feel what’s actually happened.

Initially its a stab.
It makes your throat catch, your breath slow,
your eyes swell with salty tears that burn;
followed by a deep slice through.

The edge sharpened by lies; each lie a pass across the whetstone.
Each corrosion in the knife created from a truth omitted,
catching on every memory.

“Please don’t cut me again,” I plead.
“I’m still healing from the last time.”

From a knife of the most dangerous kind.

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Conflict.

It’s that feeling in your feet like you need to run.
That ache through your legs pulling you, urging you to go.
The knocking of your knees and the restlessness.
Yearning to scramble away from here.

It’s that empty void in the pit of your stomach.
The dark black that permeates through your insides.
The feeling that you can’t come up for air.
Drowning in swift, sticky, wet tears.

It’s that love that rips through your heart.
The electricity that pumps hot and alive in your blood.
The itch in your capillaries that make you tremble.
A thud that moves slowly in your chest.

It’s that lump in your throat that tricks you.
The deluge of words constrained by barriers of blubbering movements.
The silence heard brought by the noise enclosed within.
Onslaughts of the wrong thoughts screamed.

It’s that sense of knowing they love you.
It carries you through in strides.
A wrenching forward into an unknown environment.
Extremities twisting apart while your head stays pieced together.

It’s all of this.

Beat.

Rain falls from the pools of blue.
A storm swallowing thought.
She trembles.

The beat is weary.

Gone are the singing birds.
The sun within dying out.
She gasps.

The beat is weary.

The grass whips from the howling wind.
Disarray, turmoil, chaos.
She weeps.

The beat is weary.

It stops.

Warmth extends from the outermost.
Calming are the flowers growing.
He embraces.

The beat is weary.

Humble light pierces the clouds.
A gaze finds inner beauty.
He loves.

The beat is strong.

Rushing.

It’s rushing beneath her skin.
Filling her breaths and making them heavy.
She can’t control it.
Wanting so much more she dives forth.
It gathers her in its embrace.
She needs him to be alongside.
Where is she being taken?
Why can’t she understand?
Doesn’t she know that it’s changing?
She gulps it down and swallows through the density.
He watches her, gazes with desire and fascination.
She is lost, swept forth, taken with it.
It gathers speed, billowing within her.
Flowing swiftly and with strength it moves her.
He runs with it, following her, wanting to seize her.
She can’t stop.
He doesn’t falter and eagerly persists.
It carries her fast, exploding inside and wrapping around.
Will she care?
Hasn’t she been there before?
It is familiar to her.
She studies it carefully, intently.
Noticing its frailties, she bends it.
It moves within her, aching, yearning.
She reaches for him, they clasp.
He cradles her whilst it lifts them.
It settles around them.
Filling them, they become unified.
Their lips touch.
It’s rushing beneath their skin.