It was a weeping monolith that I saw. Weeping is the wrong word. "Saw" is also a wrong description. I was standing on the eyelid. It was massive. I can't comprehend it's size. It was sweating tears. I can't comprehend the sorrowed that oozed out of the pours rock. I can't look cracks in the sidewalk anymore. In fear they're going to weep and I will feel that incomprehensible sadness again.
I thought I was an endless plain of flesh colored stone was stretching before me. Now that I recall it, it was too clean to be skin. Washed clean by the torrent that flew last my ankles.
I stood a meer 10 paces from the spines of a passive world that were here eyelashes. I was towered over not by her face, but merely the inside of her eyelids.
A gaze over the edge of the cliff revealed a hollow where her eyes should be. I think she cried them out. blind to the world consumed in her own sorrow. The proper outlet was taken from her and now her sorrow springs from her stone-skin like an ocean. It washed me away and Into the void.
Void is the wrong word. That implies an absence of light. There was so much light it blinded me. But it wasn't bright. It was to much. My eyes were to small to take it in. What makes her cry. Who are we to her. Who.
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This is what earned her wrath.
The dreaded ranch. I smell it in my sleep and wake in a cold sweat.
I dread the mayonnaise spices and buttermilk.
They cause me to break into hives when I see them.
Vicous swelling things, that can't be tamed by medicine, but I know will never kill me.
It takes years for them to fade, slowing turning into clusters of paper and spit, as my skin dries and I wipe them with my saliva to soothe the cold itching pain. It's cold, Because that's what loss feels like at the end of things. Hard boils form inside them, by flesh, the iron in my blood turning into juvenile wasps that sting and bite me.
The hives shluff off my skin, the vicious stinging things making a buzzing noise that drives me mad. The sorrow she taught me turns to an anger that makes me shake. It's a relief, for the first time in the 20 years since Ive felt something that isn't her all oppressive guilt and regret.
Suddenly I'm aware of how small and complicated everything is. All are constructs of smaller things, all think uniquely and are unique beings. I rage at the fragility of it all. It shakes beneath my skin. I feel the need to tear if from being. I feel an irritant. Something small is on my eyelid. I shake more violently, and it falls, to where I know not.
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