by Caroline Prank
It's a sickness, being forgotten, like the soft cotton of your skirt, burdened by time and bleach. Look inside me.
And find the times, when the floor was high above my head, and the sky was just under my fingertips, like dirt. I collide, but I never hurt.
I am infinite in my capacity, to feel a pain that was never there. A gentle throb of the thoughts, that never quite found air.
I fall up into the sky, free from the celestial minds that thought me up. Yet, forgotten by the pieces that fell from my fingertips, the rings of a temporary hookup.
I made them, but they have outgrown my notebook paper and dollar store ink. They burden the hearts of others, without a single instinct of where they came from, or where they belong.
They breathe anonymously, yet they are mine. And I lost myself in the outer layer of an unclaimed piece, with a forgotten author.
It was me, at one time, but by now the piece has changed so much, I have personally labeled it "dangerous".
If you look carefully enough, you can still see my old lines underneath, choking on the edits of a different soul, colliding with my initial purpose.
I could fight these pens with fiery swords, and clash my name on their dashboards and forums, with the precision of a punch and the pity of a hell-burning soul.
Yet, I cannot stand to look at it, because after years of abuse, by now its pages are mute
and its words are blind.
I have lost a battle, I cannot describe.