Poetry: Out the Window II
The window lets the sun beam down into the lump in my throat.
It won’t go away.
It beats down my neck trying to wriggle its way into my heart.
Like your tongue in my dry mouth.
All I want is to rip it out with my finger nails,
I don’t care about scars.
If only. If only I could pry open the window and escape this. If I could only find the healing shade of a tree. But no.
I can’t wake from this. Or sleep. I’ve forgotten which side of consciousness I belong. Too much wishing. Too much dreaming does that.
If I could jump from the window, I feel sure that a trap would greet my falling body.
Like a cartoon, it would be covered in branches.
A big hole that you dug, aimed at me but really it’s for you.
You don’t tell me to move. You just make it unbearable for me to stay.
That sun through the window. It burns.
You just wait, going sour with patience, for me to make my fall.
Do you laugh? Do you hate? Do you jest at my foolishness?
Window open.
Toes balanced on the edge.
I know I could jump.
And when I land in your trap, I know I can claw myself free, like I clawed you from my neck.
Hands dripping with the blood of the past into the darkness below, I still stand on the edge.
Will I, like my blood, disappear?
Will I be buried bloodied hands, hollow neck and rotten heart?
I jump.
Arms out-stretched I ride the wind.
I fly above the hole you’ve dug yourself.
I see you stood there in your bitter grave, drenched in the blood dropped from my neck.
You shake your fist and search for your lost manhood.
I choose experience. I choose to live my way.
Out here.
On my own.
N.B. This is part one:
http://weirdworldofgeorge.blogspot.co.uk/2014/07/out-window.html