Title credit-Third Eye Blind
Backgroud-Room
Person-Akshay
Jane and Rochester-Jane Eyre
Location-Classroom



She Falls Apart

I just died in that moment
No, it was not a sink-into-the-ground feeling of teenage embarrassment.
It was death.
It was weakness.
I hate hate.
Cos I don’t do it well.
I can’t be the violent protagonist of a fight club
I can’t shoot out wit or cynicism
Offense is your forte.
Mine is defense
And I fail in that too.

I fall apart
I don’t run
For fear of being a coward
I dare
By daring I die.
Die with valour
But die all the same.
And the battlefield isn't wet
With blood or tears
It’s dry, cold and hostile.
Breathing is made easier by escaping
But the run leaves me breathless.
The silence makes my throat dry.
The choke up of tears abandons
The hair I grew to hide them.

I try-no-I force myself to replace you.
No one’s big enough to fill the space.
Icicles form in the corner.
People struggle to fit into your shoes.
No matter how large they were
They are too tight, too perfect to your form.
None can match the reality you gifted me
The hope you snatched
The castles you tore down
I have to rebuild from scratch
With little or no help from my suitors
Suitors who know not their worth
Many hugs later they remain clueless
Shifting and settling like dust on other rooms
Soon they’ll be swept away
And I’ll catch them up
Treat them like fairy dust
Gold stars that sparkle
Only in my sky.

The alchemist’s job is not easy
It defies morality.
It requires subtlety.
Am I capable of it?
Do I have what it takes to get what I want?
Unhealed wounds scream for more ice
Exuberant flesh longs for heat.
Which master do I serve?
Others in the room warn, advise, counsel
They can’t wipe dry tears.

Jane deserves her Rochester.
More for his imperfections than for his protection.
For she knows she is the only one humble enough
To take care of his health
And calm his insecurities.
The mad woman discarded on the third floor
Tears the white veil too many times.
She falls apart
She has nowhere to run.
Out of his arms and into the fingers of her family
She plunges her ego.
Driven away by fear,
Returning with valour,
She serves her blind love
His blindness has not stolen his pride.
His mansion stands tall even after the fire.

My story isn’t much different.
I fear the mad woman will win
Because I refuse to return after the fire.
The betrayal is much stronger.
The knife cut much deeper into my thin skin
Now thickened by experience,
I walk out rebelliously.
Some cheer in the stands
None fear my arrogance
Some doubt my conviction
But all drink to my heart
And fill his space.








Poetry by Puddled
Read 797 times
Written on 2008-02-09 at 20:56

Tags Betrayal  Hurt 

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Rob Graber
I enjoyed this, especially stanza 4 which I think is reminiscent--in a GOOD way--of Eliot's "Prufrock"
2008-02-09