Spoken Word: Anxious Thief

I used to stand tall as if my cemented skin could shelter anyone who passed by.

I believed so passionately that the warmth of my heart could feed hungry mouths and my tears would quench people’s thirst.

I also thought that if I made a home out of my body, people would find comfort in my presence.

The windowpanes of my eyes called to those to make themselves at home, so they did.

Soul by soul travelling through any entrance they could find, whether they boarded my thoughts or became musicians with the instruments of my emotions.

This was my purpose, to be a safe place, to be a shelter, for someone to call me home, and I loved it.

Each tenant acted as a piece of furniture, a vase, a portrait, curtains anything that would make me whole.

Anything that made it appear as though someone lived here.

Whether my guests were permanent or temporary I remained a dehumanized house. Until the day the vase smashed, the portrait shredded and the curtains fell to reveal no one lived here.

From there it began. Chains tugged on my tongue stunting the growth of the rose that should have blossomed in that vase.

Scratches bury themselves in the smile of the woman in the portrait. The curtain rail snapped in two from the weight of the burdening curtains. Then I heard a noise, so I grabbed the closest weapon and traced the damage, tallying the things they had stolen.

Beauty. Happiness. Strength.

The smashed vase meant that my beauty could no longer be determined by the growth of that beautiful rose. I need that rose.

The cracked smile can no longer frame as my smile, for that portrait reflected onto the crevasses of my lips and made people feel welcome. I need that smile.

Those curtains hid the void, no one knew emptiness is what made me whole until the weight got too much and my strength snapped. I need those curtains.

Another noise. Who dare strip me bare and reveal my flaws to the world. Anger pulsated through my veins, screaming into my blood raising my weapon to the silhouette that stood before me.

I was armed, ready to take on whatever had stolen my facade. Footsteps began to taunt my frustration. Whispers began to torment my intelligence.

Until it finally revealed itself, making such a subtle entrance that it caused sweat to engulf my palms.

A stutter to sit on the edge of my tongue and a tornado of panic to further demolish what could have been beautiful, happy and strong.

It came closer, deeper into my existence. Breathing down my neck, circling me, chanting omens, incarcerating my thoughts and montaging my nightmares before my eyes.

But then something connected in the core of my adrenalin, and I remembered I still had the weapon.

Anxiety vanished as soon as it saw cradled in my hand was a pen.