first post- short story

Never quite making it to the toilet, he swings out his arms
To brace his self on the doors as vomit flows from his open mouth
In a monochromatic stream. The muscles in his chest tightened so
Much that he could feel the pain from gagging in his collar bone. As the
Royal blue bile splashed on the dull, soiled tiles the liquid fused in parts
To crawl off solid as rather large arachnids. Swooning, and clutching his
Head trying to make it stop swimming and throbbing like his torso,
He stumbled towards the exit. Spitting on the wall as he left, the saliva
Bubbled and began to protrude into a small, cobalt silk-like sac;
As the door slammed the restroom was splayed with web and tiny
Blue babies, displaying red birthmarks betraying their heritage.

Moments before he’d escaped into the daylight with mild success,
There had been a quiet conversation.
-

“You make me sick!”

Screaming into the mirror with a silent voice full of frustration
He peered into archaic eyes that had progressively faded
Towards black, but were still as memorable to him as
His first glance inside them.

“As if you’re doing any better! I’ve created more than you have I’m
Sure over the years. All of the ideas and visions come from me.”

“And that makes you less of a failure?! If it weren’t for my hands
Those ‘ideas’ of yours would never have gotten written, and without me
You never would have existed in the first place.”

“Well… what has all of this accomplished….”

Humbly they both had to accept that they were no closer to their
Goal now, a decade later, than the day his father died. For all of the poems,
Essays and ranting, dreaming, loving, and cultivating of emotions they’d done
They could not resurrect from ash that which they held closest.

Pulling a handful of pens from his pocket, he held onto them as if the answers
And methods he needed to create the one thing that he couldn’t seem to keep a
Hold of, the love in his heart and the ones it was there for, would seep into
His hands and inscribe life into the air where there was none. Knowing better,
He shoved each of the instruments of creation into his forearm, transfusing
The dark ink into his tepid blood, the unnatural amalgamation leaking
From the wounds past the plastic.

The rush of the chemical to his brain sent visions of his memories whirling
About the room, stroking his face, drinking his sweat as they incited paranoia
In his thoughts as long gone ghosts contemplated unknown things with
Demons and other of his unique creations. For a moment, he contemplated removing
One of the writing utensils from his flesh and inserting it into his skull to silence
The tumultuous dissonance, but his hands were stayed by the stroke of the love he
Couldn’t define or reach otherwise, the sand between her fingernails falling and feeling
Each like individual moments in paradise. And he continued his search for the way….

~