Maybe I Should Stick to Prose: Four

31 Jan

I know it’s been a while since I’ve written anything, and I apologize, but not really. When I started writing this I had been imprisoned in quite the Tom Waits binge. So I hope you enjoy.

Wasteland

She sat there in the middle
of the ashen, restricted room
in a single chair, old and rusted.

The only thing left in the room
was a battered record player
and a splintering set of speakers,
jumbled up against the wall.

The cold sweat had begun to cling to her skin,
pasting her hair to her unwashed scalp
that had been peeling for days.
Her fingers were fiddling
with the pen cap in her hand.

She had a twitch in her right leg
that jumped like a rabbit
every time she crossed it.

John Denver’s voice eased
through the speakers in the corner.

Curling her toes hard into the callous concrete
she took another hit and inhaled deeply,
feeling the smoke scald her throat.

She released her arms to
swing dully at her sides.
Her smoky lens,
glazed and listless,
languidly followed the shadow of her hand
swinging against the wall.

So this is how it was gonna happen, huh?

She could feel the hollowed cap
slip from between her fingers.
She looked down at the worn foil
that had fallen to the floor,
smoothed over, yet twisted from use.

Her body was being pulled back,
forcing her to the chair.
Her head fell slowly to the side
and slackened her jaw;
flecks trickled from her roots
through the stale air,
to the stony cement below.

She couldn’t move,
couldn’t speak.
She tried lifting her lips,
but they were frozen in time, drying out
even in the cold, damp air.

It was as if something
were between the layers,
but her strength failed
to put a finger on it.

Tears from shock stained her cheeks,
now pale and sullen.
She could feel the blood draining,
weakening her every breath.

So this is how it was gonna end, huh?
This is how it’s supposed to end.

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