Having Tea with Me

After writing a couple mediocre poems, I finally wrote this. I'm not sure what this is, but it speaks. 

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Monday morning. Her body weighs a ton. Her muscles and joints ache and pop. A thin layer of sweat beneath her hairline. Her heart is pounding and her breathing is heavy. Another night spent under a blanket of sand. Her dreams projecting her fears and dark desires. Rising from her cotton tomb, she groans and touches her feet to the floor. Dizzy, delirious, nauseous, a temporary blank slate. 

Memories leave, but emotions have left their stains. She doesn't know what to feel. For now she feels nothing. All vibrant colors have left her. Everything dull and lifeless except for the cruel, bright light burning her eyes. Convincing her that she has not achieved proper sleep. 

Minutes pass at a snails pace. She's wearing pajamas, but it feels like she's wearing a large, encumbering coat. Weighing her down until she sinks into her chair. It becomes clear when her parched mouth informs her of what she needs. Reminded of the cold pitcher of black tea in the fridge. Images of the cold, sweet liquid touching her tongue, filling her mouth, and revealing the empty space in her stomach. 

Yet... she does not move. Staring blindly at her computer screen. Scrolling through social media without thought. Watching random videos for entertainment. Robot. Statue. Cold. Lifeless. 

Trapped in her chair. Thirsty for tea. She won't help herself. She continues to sit and stare. She's still... except for her moving hands. Yet, her mind is tornado and her emotions a tsunami. All blocked behind a great, brick wall. Her surface remains hard as steel and just as cold. 

The bricks break. Her eyes flood. Her lips quiver. Her brows furrow. Quietly whimpering as her face contorts and twitches. Overwhelmed, she can no longer withstand. She cracks and crumbles. Knees falling to the ground. Hands hiding her face. Her entire body tense and shaking. Low whimpering evolves to a piercing cry.  She's wounded.

Time no longer has meaning or existence. Could have been seconds, minutes or hours before the storm subsides. Drained of her energy. Swollen, stinging eyes and cheeks. Sniffling. She returns to her bed. Encases herself inside her sanctuary. Drifting back to nothingness. Until the door to her much feared and desired realm unlocks and welcomes its master and prisoner. 

Written by: Julianne Bergmann (11-04-2017)