Stockholm’s Anxiety
by: Marisa Stravino
Since I a young girl, those chains rattled
while they stained these wrists red. Why not tug a bit
Tighter, till the circulation is cut off? Living is
a give and take, a taxing on our temperament:
spirit, the way it said I
was dying, dead-woman walking, just in the way.
Nobody has ever even knocked on my door,
they wouldn’t, the stirring in the
air, chill as a chopped up corpse. Webs wrapped pillars
who writhed keeping it all from caving in.
The therapist sent me a blanket, to
cover all my damaged and scattered mind.
Scrub, scrape, soap up
the desecration, my personal defilement.
Why can’t it love me like it’s
supposed to? Locked up like a bird with clipped
wings. It festers and pesters me
in the worst of ways, pushing the restraints.
Too many things, I
feel like a hoarder, so cluttered beyond belief.
They think I sing, but it know I scream, no
one checks the cellar, they shouldn’t, they
don't know better. How could I have known,
that this isn’t really living.
The clatter of my shackles remind me
I will never be free.
by: Marisa Stravino
Since I a young girl, those chains rattled
while they stained these wrists red. Why not tug a bit
Tighter, till the circulation is cut off? Living is
a give and take, a taxing on our temperament:
spirit, the way it said I
was dying, dead-woman walking, just in the way.
Nobody has ever even knocked on my door,
they wouldn’t, the stirring in the
air, chill as a chopped up corpse. Webs wrapped pillars
who writhed keeping it all from caving in.
The therapist sent me a blanket, to
cover all my damaged and scattered mind.
Scrub, scrape, soap up
the desecration, my personal defilement.
Why can’t it love me like it’s
supposed to? Locked up like a bird with clipped
wings. It festers and pesters me
in the worst of ways, pushing the restraints.
Too many things, I
feel like a hoarder, so cluttered beyond belief.
They think I sing, but it know I scream, no
one checks the cellar, they shouldn’t, they
don't know better. How could I have known,
that this isn’t really living.
The clatter of my shackles remind me
I will never be free.