Soon Enough by Olivia Fitts
Rooms of gold Rooms of Satisfaction Rooms of angels Rooms of killing
My glazed eyes roll over them. What peculiar little patterns I think. Remembrance of what came before? Yes, a memory of goodbye still inside.
Trappong rooms I have built these walls around me. They are boundaries safe. And I am bird who used my last pair of wings to fly in The has always been open but could I let my toes trespass over the edges? They are unable to even gaze into the vivid, iridescent lights white flame emanating with contagious potential. It is the outside that taunts me beyond this room. And me? Still inside I am dreaming although even that aggravates the walls. But what if the faded dapples are the claw marks on the ceiling? Marks I made long ago in forgotten desperation. still inside. 59
But what if those scratches like the tattoos on chafed skin are speaking of opportunity? And I yearn towards the shadows of contentment of ash that fall off my rotting skin so easy to fall asleep in except the smell an odor of innocence in decay. The child who is very sick too stick still inside. The most grotesque mask becomes a comforting emblem of home if it is all you have. So I bear it for now because even that, the smell I mean, will turn to roses Soon enough
