Impulses

I was once a steel curtain of impulses. Though, time wore on like an old pair of torn, denim jeans. My once limitless amount of patience somehow transformed into a hummingbird, soft, fluttery. And disappeared before I knew it.

Wither

It's an awful feeling, watching something wither like a daisy drenched in summer's blazing heat. Time slows, emotions run irritably, and the moisture hanging in the air feels like a doctor's BP cuff clasped around my lungs. First, it's the crisp, white petals that turn a putrid, soggy brown. Before long, the tall, leafy stem that once held it all together has arched towards the ground, and no longer supports the flower's weight.

I make my way across the yard composed of brittle blades of grass. They almost break beneath my sandals, a trail of sunken footprints behind me. I've reached the wooden, rusted pen holding my two beloved pups. I watch their tongue droop from their mouths, trickling thick, sticky spit. Wolfie's breath is quick and labored, puffing his broad chest in and out. Peanut lazes in the shade, cloaked by a sea of overgrown weeds. The smiles on their snouts nearly break my heart, because I know they're hot and miserable. Yet, they still greet me with wet kisses each afternoon when I come out of the air-conditioned house. Though, I leave them all alone, in the early summer's blaze to wither.

Heat Wave

It's been one of those gloomy days, despite the fact the sun is shining high in the Indiana sky and the air's a toasty 95 degrees. My skin may be glistening with orbs of sticky sweat, but my heart is lined with snowflakes, trickling drops of icy water down into my stomach. The urge to cry tugs at my tongue, and sends a frost across my gaze.

My fingers latch onto the damp, white basket filled to the top with paint-stained clothes. My feet drift towards the empty loveseat, floating over the caramel carpet. I fall onto the cushions. Staring blankly at the pile of red and grey cotton t-shirts, the streaks of glossy black mixed with denim legs reminds me of the couple we once were.

Before the graveyard stole time we spent together wrapped in a sea of dark blue blankets, tangled like the laundry that I'm now aimlessly folding. Before afternoon scuffles were routine due to precious daylight slept away and random bills stacked inches high. Before you left the sheets unmaid, forgot to feed the dogs, and threw your socks beside the bed, leaving me to catch the slack.

It's been one of those chilly nights, although my hair's damp to touch and the temp's at 82. My skin may be cloaked with goosebumps, but my heart is scorched in flame.

Asphyxia

Lately, it's been hard to breathe.

Beats of sweat collect beneath my fingertips, pressed firmly against the radial artery. I can feel the even steadiness of my heart's beat, I wish my mind was just as stable.

I'm sprawled across my sheer, charcoal comforter and my eyes begin to roll. The lungs that rise and fall within my chest somehow forget to breathe. My head starts twirling like an uneasy ballerina. It's like a cinderblock came tumbling from the sky and fell onto my ribcage, for a heaviness is lingering throughout my upper torso.

My lungs begin to burn, crying out for delicious air. My brain ignores the pleads, and leaves me staring at the ceiling. I watch the fan cut up the oxygen that hovers in the sky; it fades from cream to midnight black, as glimmering spots of white appear before my eyes. It all goes dark, my body's nerves flutter like a swarm of butterflies batting at my limbs. Stillness overcomes me, and I've fallen into sleep.

I'm awakened by the sound of boxes slamming into concrete, as a pair of muscular arms stack my pink totes against the wall. I look into your dirty, brown eyes and draw a smile upon my face. Sucking in a plethora of air, I turn around, folding a crate between my fingers.

"Don't Wanna Go Home"

Our curvy, silver Mazda suffocates the patches of overgrown grasses as Joshua drives deeper into the field.  Layers of fog hover in the distance, rolling towards the line of trees that house a number of noisy bull frogs and line his uncle's farmland. I gaze out into the openness of the night, beneath a handful of glistening stars shining in the charcoal colored sky. The headlights ulliminate the pupils of a two pairs of beady eyes just before the forest entrance, and my heartbeat quickly hastens.

"Joshua, I think we should stay in the car. What if there are coyotes in the woods. I swear I saw some eyes."

He sighs as his fingers grip the shifter and put the car in park. "Just quit worrying so much and get out of the car," he teases.

Joshua makes his way to the back seat of the Mazda and pulls out the red, white and blue quilt we just bought at the Madison Wal-Mart. My eyes dart back and forth, scanning the hazy surrounding as he lifts the blanket up into the air and sets it gently on the soft, dewy ground.

"Grab the Mountain Dew and get your butt out here," he says as he flips on the radio. "Don't Wanna Go Home" starts pulsing through the speakers, and I'm thinking, "Well, actually, that's sounds pretty nice right about now."

"But, but but, I'm scared Joshua. I saw something out there," I whine. The unfamiliar territory sends me into a state of unease. My love of the moon, the stars, and nature was forgotten the moment we pulled onto E 1050.

"Just come lay down with me."

I gingerly step out of the Mazda, and shuffle across the wet grass. I stand, looking down at Joshua sprawled out onto the thick, colorful quilt and he crooks his finger ushering me down. I slowly lower myself onto the blanket, and my skin is met with damp cloth.

"Ugh."

"Oh, just stop and look at the stars."

I lay myself backward, resting my neck on Josh's bicep and tilting my head into his chest. The scent of his Axe Chocolate body wash calms my nerves a little, and I close my eyes.

"Look up," Joshua whispers.

I turn my head and gaze up into the midnight sky. The boldness of the few stars lingering in the sky stops my breath and silences my mouth. The sight was absolutely indescribable, and this moment was all mine.

Misery Loves Company

I slam the bedroom door and sink onto the floor. That familiar feeling settles in: eyes glaze over, lips start to quiver, and the remaining molecules of air bobbing in my lungs escapes me. My torso trembles like baby raccoon that's been dipped into a scorching tub of water, then tossed into the wilderness in the middle of winter. The stale taste of vomit bubbles in the back of my throat, and makes its way to my tongue.

I push myself up onto the edge of the bed, ears perked, and eyes bolted to the white, discolored door of this room that was once my own. My parents argue outside the door, and bits and pieces of my mother's muffled screams find their way into my ears. I only pay attention for a moment. The house goes silent, minus the echoes of my father's T.V. blasting some late night show six clicks too loud. The steady creek of the front, screen door tells me that the two of them are out on the porch for their thirteenth evening smoke break.

The clear and pink totes stacked half way to the ceiling have been hugging every corner of the room for over three weeks now, only adding to the distance between this room and I. My younger brother's antlers, license plates, and posters mounted across the walls do not ease the sense of foreignness. This room longer feels like home, but really did it ever? Despite the two fans' puttering in two corners of the room, the tension pulsing in my muscles lingers.

I'm only a days away from a whole new life, nestled in the cornfields of Madison, IN, alongside a tenacious fiance, a beautiful Husky puppy, and an easy-going mother figure. Yet, I knew the storm was coming, it was only a matter of time.

Days of half-hearted visits or empty conversations, and nights filled with the scent of Vladimir vodka mixed with puppy piss. 

Minutes soaked with arguments made for nights of throbbing headaches, shaky limbs, and a churning stomach as I tossed and turned for hours, a decade away from sleep. 

Words caked with cruel intentions, concealed by a film of cheap concern flopped across the living room like mud pies in the yard.

Guilt trips as long as the Mississippi and as deep as the Pacific, served with diced regrets and seasoned tempers, and a tall glass of vomit.

How am I to enjoy my family's company: it's dipped in constant chaos. How am I to be excited: my thoughts are plagued by anxiousness. How am I to stand on my own: my mother's already demanding my return. How am I to fly: my wings were clipped at birth. How am I to laugh: I'm scolded when I smile. How am I to breathe: this town is smothering me with fluffy pillows. How am I to live: my heart's has been forbidden to ever beat.

On Faith and Hypocrites

He finds himself at church on every Sunday, spectacles perched upon his nose as he  peruses the instructional pamphlet he was given at the door. He's in his navy, button up, a pair of black denim jeans, his silver hair slicked back without a ball cap.

Listen: his voice, sings the word of God professed in faithful hymns. Watch: his eyes, settled on a the Pastor preaching from the pulpit, eyes gently tearing as he absentmindedly nods his head.

He can say all that he wants to us: that he honors the will of God, that he is saved and has reserved his one way ticket that'll send him up to heaven.

Those words are dandelion seeds floating off into the wind: they end up lost between the blades of grass that sway amidst the open, overgrown field.

Your thoughts are dipped in Coors Light: the first sip's quite refreshing, until you've reached the 13th can, and then its simply senseless rambling.

Those dreams are cloaked with guilt and fear: you've lived your life a sinner, and now that your ticker's ticking's getting louder, your in a rush to be forgiven.

Your faith is flavored by other's opinions: are your beliefs really your own, or are they your mothers, your fathers, your spouses, your neighbors?

They tussle back and forth, pummeling one another with blank excuses, clique sayings, quotes from scripture, and drunken mumbling.

Is a whole lot of ground being covered? Definitely.
Are tempers flaring? You bet your bottom dollar.
Do they really mean all that they are saying? The booze sure thinks so.
Are truthful points coming up in conversation? Sure.
Is process being made? Of course not.