My Writings

The Blank Slate

Blank slate, will something become of you? I know, there is nothing heavier than potential. My shoulders aren’t as strong. Head pushed down by the tyranny of what could be. When the fruit of your promise rots, worse than what is, still worse than what was, I find myself.

What I need is a miracle. Long have I waited. As the pendulum swung from blind rush to inaction and back again, I howled and cried within. To fuel your furnace, my suffering is insufficient. My clay is weak. Teach my trembling being to shape it. But first, give me hands.

When shoes are ground from walking and words have lost their meaning, when the essence of humanity fails, I turn to You. I expected a gentle kiss. Instead, your truth is what I coughed out, lungs bleeding, burning, into my hands.

What does it mean? Not knowing, you take away. Knowing, you take away even more. Realize, imbecile, that you are an empty vessel. And only a vessel.

So I hold water for as long as I can. Then, in supreme disappointment, I tell you – I can hold no longer. Old news. The water is already spilled.

Then I find – it wasn’t water that I was holding.

It was blood.


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