Lost and Found: An Abecedarian Poem

Alone, abandoned, absent-minded, wandering aimlessly down the avenue, as alluring as the autumn leaves that drift around her

Breath barely visible in the brisk air of the breaking dawn

Cannibalistic caverners call their cri de coeur, clawing at her comatose frame, cutting her limbs and crawling inside of her

Deteriorating body. Doll-like eyes stare blankly, leaden-shoed feet dragging, merely

Existing as an entity beyond empathy.

Footsteps crunch the frostbitten leaves beneath her, fear freezing her heart,

Gears and cogs within her brain gripped tighter and tighter by the ghosts that

Haunt her. Hateful. Hurting. Hopeless. Hollow.

Icy to the touch, a misshapen

Jumble of jagged edges and gentle curves,

Killing the keen eyed, kind hearted girl she once knew.

Lost, looking to be found again.

Monsters once hiding in her closet and beneath her bed now manifest inside her mind, modeling her mannerisms but

Not quite as naturally, as if novocaine is numbing her nerves and nibbling

On her open wounds. Once full of

Passion and perseverance, now perishing, plummeting further and further into the painful pit of her present.

Quarantined from the world, quietly quivering in the cold, careful not to ask questions or cause a scene.

Ravenous, the demons rage on, ripping apart her ribs and relishing in all of the rubble.

She is suspended on the surface, sifting through the soot staining her skin. Scared to die, even more scared to survive.

They are winning, tearing her apart, tugging at the thin thread that once held her together.

Underwater. It feels as though she's underwater, unable to move. But she is unwilling to drown.

Vulnerable beneath the void.

“Wake up,” she wails, her wasting frame consumed by wanderlust. “Wake up wake up wake up!” Wrapped in wounded, winter-white skin and wanting to escape. She is tired of being a blurred

Xerograph of her former self, black and white, x-ing out the color she was once filled with.

Yearning for a spark. She yells into the dark, determined to take back what the demons have stolen from her, yanking away her youth, her purity, her happiness. She yells and yells, throat raw, her screams finally freeing her from her

Zombified state. Zeal for life zigzags through her, the feeling seeming foreign after such a long time of feeling numb. Sharp and intense, like electricity zapping her out of a deep sleep. But it is a warm, comforting feeling, as if zinfandel is dripping through her veins.

Alas, she is free.

And she is me.

A miscellaneous collection of the products of my brain, poured out all the same directly onto the page

*art, poetry, prose, film, photography, music*

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