Up the Chimney

Volcanoes. Boiling inside me. Triggered by the mundane, others would laugh it off. Maybe smoke it in their lungs and out. Tar scarring an imprint. For some, a drink is all the fun, dizzying the mind away from pain. Hang over and next thing you know, it’s come back to haunt you. Think I’ve found the remedy, my own personal therapy. Not certified. When madness is on the run, speed on the motorway. Maximum. Seatbelt. Head lights and tails always to be avoided. When you’re absolutely, most certainly sure you’re all alone, roll down your window. If not too cold, all four. Full attention. Here’s the secret sauce. Bite your tongue until your eyes sting with tears. Blood shot. Take a deep breath. Hold. Exhale while screaming in full volume. Diaphragm. Put some muscle into it. Repeat and repeat until there is no voice left, not even a hum. Warning. If a car approaches dangerously near, act normal. Emptiness, you should be feeling, lighter now. Nostrils flare the last remains of fire. Eyes focus on the road ahead. Hands behind the wheel. For the first time in hours, you notice that you have no destination. Your journey has just begun.

Sunday Morning

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Sometimes I count the way you look at my hair in the wild and green Sunday morning walks at the park. I count the stare.

One blink. Two blink. Three and four.

And when I try to look back, you turn your eyes to the ground. As if the ground has something more important to show you. I blink at your stare in the ground. As if it could tell me why my auburn hair fascinates you so every Sunday morning.

 

© Nicoletta

 

If this poem had a voice, this is what it would sing…

 

 

Photo by Kyriakos Christodoulides

Song: Jolene-Dolly Parton

 

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