Hey, heavy ancient anvil grips my whole being, weights me down into depression so that I am, I have sunk below the earth, pushed down into muddy textures where I now stand stuck, encased by roots on all sides. Like Atlas, I hold up this heavy weight so that it is like a boulder, or iceberg, sticking up from the earth. Cannot breathe when buried alive. My hair on my head turns into grass seed so that I become the lawn in which I am buried and married to. My fingernails become the roots, like dandelion roots – white and deep and feeble. Floating on the waves of the Dead Sea with a bathing cap. How much blood as that sea known? The salt buoys me up and bobs me up and down. Holding the weight so heavy now that my arms start to protest; They have forgot how to fold, how to expand and contract. The blood becomes stuck, the oxygen, no way to enter. Biceps cry out this underdeveloped body, so that we start to fold and crumple into fetal positions so that we may return to the earth in death the way we came in through life. The metal is three-dimensional, trapezoidal. Cartoon Road Runner, jump back and beep and honk. Those animation sounds, sounding of quick pedaling and zooming past. Smooth, cold metal that gets hot in the sun. Pinpricks of salt in that sea. I feel it on my tongue and all along my body; Entering my pores. Hearing the clang of when it drops and falls, the cursing and stars seen above my head as it falls on my foot. Smushed and crushed Converse sneaker. Reminder, memories; A pair worn once. Heavy in the lungs and chest. Dancing now, a million to one. School showed us how to paint. I want to paint now. I want the smell of the paints and want to start with a dark forest green. I want the brush to be long and the bristles stubby. I want to paint a forest like I’m Bob – goddamn – Ross. You can pictures anything if you try hard enough. You can do anything if you try hard enough. But get this damn weight off my chest so that I may breathe again. Free from everything except this one thing. This interior decorator flaw. When I look up, it hurts. Stomping along to “Jingle Bells”, principles carried away. Canoeing through darkness. The air is heavy, transformed into fog by water vapor. I cannot sleep or sit still.

Author: Roe

30. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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