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Array
(
[sid] => 65573
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Haunting Holiday
[time] => 2004-09-29 14:45:17
[hometext] => about my mothers first suicide attempt if you cant figure it out, and please,please comment, i havent written in so long,it would be greatly appreciated!
[bodytext] => Dimly lit room, like a festive holding cell. Awkwardly brought together by tradition, nothing more. One is missing, a storybook character, life size. A damsel in distress, lost soul, a lonely beauty. The room creaks in an effort to bring the maddening quiet to a pause. The tree is lit. Bulbs catch fire in vibrant blues and greens, purples and reds. Memories hang from the branches, little hand made pipe cleaner Santa’s and presents in shiny, tin foil wrapping, placed by inexperienced hands. Still an ugly silence dwells there, feeding off of the loneliness. You can still see the impressions where, only moments ago, we were sitting on that very couch. Five phantoms replace us to try and make it seem real again, but in vain. Press rewind, flashback sequence so you can see. There we are, waiting patiently. Waiting for the beauty queens entrance, every second longer than the last. Why hasn’t she come? Must have missed her cue. He goes to check. Death is tiptoeing through the air, trying to go unnoticed, but we can all feel it. My mind is exploding, a great fiery mess of ideas, questions, fears. My kneecaps, like great fallen skyscrapers, come crashing in levels to the floor and a deafening shriek escapes my lips. Breaths are sipped slowly, cautiously, in case of disease. But all of this happens inside my imagination, as I watch the words drip from his mouth like the blood on his hands. Dripping, seeping, like a faucet. He speaks in a different language. I can understand, but barely….. She has done something bad with a pink razor, something she wasn’t allowed to do. She was selfish and tried to run away, she didn’t want to take care of us anymore. So now she is sleeping. There, in that white room. They feed her life back through tubes and needles. They give her injectoins of false hope and she has that “new life” smell. Things will be different now, father says. So we pretend. We laugh and smile and make believe that we’re all just the way we used to be. But I know better. I know things will never be the same. I know this, and I can’t help but feel that the colors of the world aren’t as bright as they were before. And, for some sad reason, I only want to cry when I read the sign that says Merry Christmas. [comments] => 2 [counter] => 218 [topic] => 43 [informant] => darkplaidbabe [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => oops )
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