By Phynne Belle
The misty sea green bottle stood on my vanity collecting thoughts and memories to dispense when needed. Yesterday I picked it up and lavished myself with its contents—remnants of a now decrepit past. When will I get past the cloying stench of my remorse? Of dreams smothered in mid-birth? I’ve become the essence, contained, not allowed release. I am the essence, carelessly dispensed, no longer good to anyone, not even myself.
A brave soul would have swept her arm cleanly over the cobwebs and curio and dashed this past into a million, brilliant lost selves. I am not this soul.
This seems to me like the beginning of awareness for this lost soul.
I love your write. Beautiful imagination!
Tragic insight for a struggling soul.