clean
the window latch rattles tentatively upon the hilt.
she looks towards the porthole- questioning.
the room is cluttered and dusty,
stacks of paper litter the floor
untouched and unread.
She reaches out to clear some of the mess and trips…
when she was a little girl
her father used to lift her up
out of herself
and into his storm
and after a while she just learned to let go
it was so much easier just giving in
go on, take everything
Take everything
I want you to
the room is stuffy, suffocating, she feels infested by the mess,
she opens her mouth to scream but no sound comes out, futile but….
the window latch rattles temptingly upon the catch…
and what does all this junk matter anyway? what does it all mean?
when she was a little girl
her father would lift her up, out of her self
and into his storm
throwing her, spinning her
round, up, through
pulling, tugging,
lifting her into the light
cleansing her of her sins
the window bursts open,
The wind steals in; takes everything
clearing,
cleansing,
lifting up the past into itself and dancing into the night
the room is empty
clean
wind streams through her
she is the wind
she screams
and the wind howls
in the space were her voice should be.