a prose poem by Qainat
With a flick of my wrist, I jot down the first stream of venom that flows from the tip of my pencil to attack this very paper. I can write in quick, short, choppy sentences. They’re small. They’re tough. They knock you down. You don’t expect it. The sudden surge of feeling. The numerous sharp pangs of pain. The numbing blows. After all, how could you? One after another they attack. You get no time to recuperate. You are left alone. On the ground, there you are. Broken and bruised. Lying still. Feeling self-pity.
This is not the end, though. I can write in slow, long, and whole sentences, and still leave you crying just the same. They circle around you like how vultures watch over the near-dead, but these phrases won’t wait for your death. No; my words will be the cause of it. Like snakes, they circle around your unsuspecting self so slowly that you first believe it to be a hug. But then they squeeze too tight and for too long, and their contracted, heavy forms are impossible to break free from. And then when they’re done, they don’t leave you alone to heal. They swallow you whole to finish you off quicker, because you are, and always will be, nothing more than a meal.
This doesn’t have to be your end, though. The sharpness of my words are not only caused by being just knives, but also scalpels. They’ve cut you up before, and will do so again, if only to reach and fix what’s inside of you. The never-ending sentences that were snakes before wrap themselves around you once more, only now as stitches. You listen for the written sound of your favorite voice, because surely this is a dream and you are so far gone that you are hallucinating. But then the shape of the letters changes before your very eyes to something oh-so-familiar, and as your hand hovers above a word for a lingering second, you hear it. The voice that goes with the words. Its calm and soothing tone relieves your stress, eases your worries. Pumps your blood, and then gives you life.