June 8th, Year of Silence

Calling upon that which does me harm, has become the only prayer I recite with diligence. I can no longer remember what it is like to cry, as a form of release. It is a complaint, when the words will not form themselves. It is a slight inconvenience, small noises, and a stain on my pride.

Cathy’s husband has been hospitalized, due to severe abdominal pain. Like mother. Like father. It will require surgery.
She contemplates his mortality, and finds that her own is compromised, should he die on the operating table. If her god crumbles before her, there is no further reason to believe it is worth anything to stay in a world that has never appealed to her, without a man to stand beside her. Like my sister.

Our stomachs are much like our minds. We are all sick with emotion, above and below. And we are all meant to control these wicked things, but we cannot catch their tails.

I have kissed hundreds of men and a few women, out of boredom and desire. I have opened my lips to transfer emotion, but they will not take it. So, it still exists inside of me, somewhere. It stirs, but even when it is still, it is heavy.

I stand beneath an unforgiving sun with an old parasol. I taste the salt of my sweat, and I know my own war can conquer lands.

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June 8th, Year of Silence

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