Water Clogged

a prose poem by Teresa

I wish I could melt my eyes to replenish the drought behind them, but I suppose I would soon be

dry once more because the flick of my tongue can concede to a cataclysmic cataract. A dying

voice expressing its last thought never comes out articulate. A fine line is drawn between my

answer and my truth to a “How are you?” so scribbling out both with the shaking tips of my

fingers will extract the words that block the drain in my throat. Hieroglyphics that taint pure

sheets are fostered from two things the ink and tears that flood out of myself that seem to flow

more correctly than the brittle remnants of whatever is left of a heart and soul shriveled up. The

only glimmer remaining in my eyes is a reflection of a life source trying to regain itself again a

damned dam cracked open because of everything I couldn’t breathe out so I remain water

clogged and stab the creatures of my thoughts streaming down from my immobilized mouth with

anything sounding somewhat poetic.

Teresa is in ninth grade.  She says, “I love art, but writing is the only form of art that I completely relish. I suck at drawing; anatomy is hard.”

 

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