frightened flower in the dark,
silent, cold, and trembling,
feeling every bite and bark,
each angry word, dissembling.
the glare of disapproval, shame,
searing unprotected skin,
a creature formed of guilt and pain,
that burns and burrows deep within.
fragile flower, tender child,
know the world is bright, and wide,
come out, come out, to gardens, wild,
and taste the sunlight deep inside!
Being an empath is hard. Harder still, standing here. Those strings have played more feeling than the world is still capable of, and all I want to do is crawl into those memories, those times, good times and bad, and curl up forever, try to live in them, and not here. Not here, in the cold, waiting for the auction to start. Waiting for my heart to break.
Yeah, being an empath is hard…
(With all due credit to Spider Robinson, who taught me more about music and empathy in his books than anyone ever has in life. Also life, hope, joy, sadness, laughter, friends, family…thank you, Spider and Jeanne. Written for the Friday Fictioneers, like it says above, but it won’t let me link in a title, so here’s the link. ;p)
She pulls her sleeves below her wrists
to hide the marks of angry fists,
and checks her face for signs of age,
puts makeup over signs of rage.
Her eyes are sad, her face is bright,
as she walks, smiling, to meet the night.
He meets her at the bottom stair,
the guests…his guests…already there.
An eyebrow raised, he takes her hand,
painfully, so she’ll understand.
His eyes meet hers with hate so real,
she shivers at the ice she feels.
She pastes a smile on, lady of the manor,
her expression proud as any banner.
The guests all see the beauty there,
holding hands upon the stair,
they cannot see the room inside,
where her dead heart must run and hide.
They cannot see the silent eyes,
the graveyard where her lost hope lies.
Cold glass eyes to sleep glazed eyes,
I meet my own gaze.
Is that sympathy I see,
or just acknowledgement?
my garden has walls of vines
with thorns, but only on the outside
my garden has deep, dark pools
that hold the starlight in their depths
my garden has cold stone benches
that warm to my touch like skin.
I thought I love you
meant forever…not until.