end of Nervosa beginning
She conceives words as they follow. Military soldiers conform to order.
Dissident few stutter in a withheld, race identity, chalk circle.
Her brain won’t allow her to move on.
Lamenting for a trusted source.
Collapses onto hot tarmac.
Too tired to alter.
Melt her heart.
Resuscitate the breathe that gives her corpse a reason to impart
For a creative outlet,
Her own personal work of art.
Hands raking through her hair. Grip at the sides, pulls out a chunk,
She’s dating an alopecia hunk.
This funk makes junk.
Eyeball sockets sunk.
It would be better if she didn’t care if the words weren’t her own.
It wouldn’t matter if the characters didn’t continue to harass her.
Calling for their story to be heard.
Multiple attempts. She can’t cut out cardboard citizens.
Maybe in an empty space, yes.
Verbatim theatre could work.
She submits to an elusive entity.
Virtual paper work-enough to bag a colostomy.
Not been on here much.
The guilt makes her turn her head away.
She gets it,
She needs to reciprocate.
Sincerest apologies for not being present.
She’s surfing the web.
Googling data analysis and Lady bosses fine tuning their hold on her own grip.
She prefers to lie down on green pastures than make love, on a bed of green bills any day!
Unfortunately, life says she has to pay in paper too to make some headway.
It’s all right. It will pass.
Shivering from the inside. Lack of carbon dioxide.
Waiting for the critic to report how much recovery time she needs before Muse Goddess ups and leaves.
It’s the look of a person. Shrivelled into crass.
Thought-rhyming is a pain in her ass.
She’s laying it down in quick dry cement.
she knows we all want to be that portrait
She’s a portrait too.
Has her needs
Open your eyes-reach out to touch her.
These layers of skin hide organs, bones ,
And a heart so tense-all it can do is wheeze.
“This is me. I can’t deny it.”
We all have a life.
Hers has become a familiar rendezvous with Alien Jackson sporting a mullet.
What does it matter if characters are Black, White or Hispanic?
Social realism settling on common ground upon its release.
Not for an escapist’s palate.
What is the state of theatrical politics, on the horizon, beyond that place we call-
Not even two Bonds can be saved.
Pearl earrings engraved.
Her gums are in recession.
Blame the bank and the Tories.
Her feminist views will place blame on those next in succession.
One larger – hangs limply from her chest.
Commit a mastectomy on her femininity
Humans fight terminal illness, homelessness…
How dare she think her position is dire.
Disbelief that her renegade words follow in a Capitalist order.
She falls onto her knees,
Thanks Ashanti for her daughters.
Time to shove a half pill down some pussies throat.
Its nasty ,
Doubts whether deep throat works
She’s trying to stay afloat.
Her illness-the chronic versus the opposite divide
It’s her personal narrative that finds her margined between this blank space on each side.
Calm and serene.
A mother is reborn.
Lost for 3 days — late – couldn’t rise,
Her mind was indeed full of scorn.
Today, she waits,
Wrings out her anxieties.
Maybe new teeth will win her virtual friends.
Give her more appraising likes
Maybe, they will finally see that she is real,
rearranging her mask-unsure of what reflects back at her multiple ‘Me’s’
Her reflection is divided into pieces.
Can’t fathom out that there is a whole entire being to examine
Jigsaw puzzle unresolved ,
yet again crippled to her knees.
Fervent sweeping up of shattered glass.
For a figment of a second she saw an outline
Stories march in protest – for plot out lines, dramatic structure, scenes, reveal characters in lace
Just enough exposure to show.
Three more weeks, one year down-more time for unadulterated fun.
If you don’t hear from her,
Now she weeps every night into a whisky soaked bun.
It’s a metaphor.
Let go and melt the sun.
Cool down its temper. Versailles gardens make her think of France cut into a jambon quarter.
Carry on till the end.
All the books say she ought to.
Humming a song
Doing her thing.
A mere whiff of failure invokes convulsions from within.
‘Write for myself ‘
Truth , integrity and courage is the only way she will let herself be heard.
If you can’t accept her-carry on peeking over at her life, not mentioning if cuckoo finally flew.
One day, you won’t be able to tighten the Ids screw.
*Inspired by a kish kash, Mish mash of nerve endings and beginnings
Posted on Apr 30, 2022, in STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS COLLECTION and tagged Creative Writing, Creativity, Eating Disorders, Emotions, Feminist, Life, Stream of consciousness. Bookmark the permalink. 11 Comments.