Mar 23

Dramatic Monologue

    I remember the day I died, less than the day I was born but more than the first day I said my own name. I remember how I got there just as well as when I left, and your  voice still echoes on the pages that I tear up for warmth among the blazing hellscape buried beneath. 
“It is not about how you get there, or how quickly you make it, it is about who you get there for. You will spend the rest of your life trying to get there, and when you finally do, there will be no one left waiting for you. I won’t even be there to say ‘I told you so’”

I scribbled those words down ravenously again and again every day trying to understand why your mind chose them, how you came across them, maybe inked in truth upon the sand by that dock you used to hide beside that summer when the air felt more like it suffocated than breathed. Or maybe upon his lips when he let out his first exhale of untainted oxygen from beneath his guarded gates. Small white glimmers of hope amongst the deadly expectations of an act so dreadfully human as letting go. Letting go. 

    Pages torn along the seems, little bumps of inconsistency in the pressure showing unaccounted for deliberation. A secret map of my ribcage, left empty and decoded. Like shoes drowned in linseed oil and then resurrected upon a tarnished black-lit floor. Fluorescent notes sung by muted strings, plucked with the only true shame. 

    God, what have I become? I have sucked the oxygen straight from the green above me and blamed it on the dirt below. I have disguised my voice as one of moss while pulling up roots and placing clay figures of forgotten enchantments beneath each of my toes. I have walked on water and called it diving. I have called upon each soul just to tell them to retrieve another bounty and worst of all I called upon you and spoke these words from north of your final sleep. A final chorus of lone conductors with not a single counted vocal chord or key to turn to. Tune to.

    I have come further than you ever have and yet I lie right next to you here, stone by stone. Perhaps even a few blades of grass behind where your marble heart is pegged into the earth. 

Side by side. 

Stone by stone. 

‘I told you’ by ‘So’
 
About the Author: lila woodard
'But to make yourself feel nothing - so as not to feel anything - what a waste!' - Andre Aciman, Call Me By Your Name
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