Thoughts in Shackles

The knot in my stomach turned into a defeated sigh, disarming me of all thoughts capable of inducing injury. What did it matter if I could act on my own? The terms were irreconcilable, and improbable from the very beginning. Spare me the drama and bring me the verdict, because for whatever reason it ended up this way, the beginning was never relevant.

Numb with berating as I was, it felt as though Plexi-Glas was set between a scream and my thoughts. Nothing ever passed through audibly, and I merely gave it a good look, with all the freedom to ostracize and mock the one bound in shame and wrongdoing. Let me press a dagger to the throat of pestilence, with the blade sharpened by a weathered heart and insubstantial wit. That would sink in maybe five inches – more or less.

It wasn’t a sinking feeling that ended just there. Where else would I swim to find a pseudonym for respite? Not that it mattered, because I knew I’d be weaving tapestries of gold and brilliance sold to souls that clawed for endless affection. A simple “Thank you” would suffice, if not for the conversions between each mouth. Where kindness should have weighed oceans was only but a dime in an iron-pressed suit of a man, who had no distinctions of perfunctory handshakes as alms or a welcome.

I scoffed, a supposedly obvious gesture of “I’ve had enough of your bullshit,” but everyone’s been desensitized with rain showers of narcissism, of selfish ambition. They all wade in the murky waters, hoping to catch a decorative star to hang up on their mantles, basking in the shadow of their own demise. “Turn around, and maybe you’ll see what you’ve been doing.” I then burned up the Welcome mat, it just keeps getting ignored.

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