Scout E.S. in the Shadows

Sat in this room I stare into the eyes of empty souls Outside of my vision, they are but holes The chair melts into the curves of my bones And I can feel myself drown in their groans Whispers shatter my ears and screams repair them I understand nothing, not even where I came from Couldn’t they see that I am so numb Rise out of the cramped air of these 4 walls The first command I can’t follow as the smoke drowns their calls Hear this, see this, feel this, love this The words may lift from my notebook Yet they are still scored in the gradebook I will pretend they matter as I pretend I care The pressure of their expectation as engrained as the roots of my hair

  The sound of chainsaws cradled me to sleep. I had never heard it before, but I knew it would be useful when the seed I planted grew into itself. My acquaintances didn’t see the purpose of comfort beyond their sight, leaving the world vulnerable to the snakes and parasites of the ground. Their sight didn’t extend past the feeble grasses and sickly animals they raised. So many creatures they would watch die, but never did they fear their fate under our feet. I had watched my mother and father give life to the land I shared with the ghosts of our town and how it shriveled and whispered a curse when they died. That wooden home they left me in protected me from the delusion of the permanency of each breath I took, and their last gift injected purpose into my future. The seed. Not any seed; a seed that would grow into a graceful and strong maple tree. As they were wrapped with their unforgiving sheets, ripping away their last layer of living skin, the last gust of lively wind shot the

       The sound of simmering bacon and eggs could never leave my memory. It was a reminder of the life I had, that I could never get back. But over time the sizzling turned into snickers, the snickers into laughs, and the laughs into screams. There were other sounds I remember from those mornings that have almost turned and warped into people of their own. They’re a group of friends in my head that all combine into one single moment, one single memory. The most significant one, the best friend, would be the sound of her flipping her hair over her shoulders as she reads the newspaper. Or her laughter when I couldn’t stop staring at her. The importance of these moments turns into anger at myself; how I squandered my time trying to forget what would leave me anyway.                          “Back again? It’s been a while.” The bartender who thinks he knows the inner workings of my heart speaks again. It gives me all the more reason to drink. He could be right, but a bar is the last pla

     The letters diluted and warped as they drifted across the table and into my ears. I could hardly make out what they were saying, partly due to my poor hearing, but mainly because I didn’t want to hear it. I had sacrificed enough time blindly listening to dense conversations, only initiated to boost the speaker’s confidence. And I would nod and laugh, but my eyes were glassy, always seeing beyond the conversation, hearing beyond their hollowed faces.             More shadows would appear, and the glass would thicken. Whether I wanted to hear or not didn’t matter; there was a new world forming full of darkness. The voices echoed and laughed, but the glass was too thick and blurry. I was too far behind, and now that I finally had something I wanted it all disappeared in front of me. The clouded air pulled at my eyelids, begging for me to express one tear, to let something show. But I insist on this cycle. I insist on this life.             They are people I know I cannot trust,