Creative Writing: I Am...

by Rashell Deering


I Am...

Staring at a clean sheet,

feeling the emotions roll within

me.

The air, cool on my naked skin,

shivers with my intent.

My thoughts boil and twist

within me.  What am I to tell?

Glancing over, I see the

bottles.  Their colors beckon to

me.

"Use me to speak emotions to

others like you,” they whisper.

A lid opens with a click of a

finger.

The color glistens in the light.

I quiver.

A flash of light behind me

flares.  There is no one but me

to explore.

I am the artist and the art.  Or

at least I will become something

that will exist forever.

I whisper to myself of dreams

unspoken to others.  Dreams that

had died long ago are to be

reborn this day.  This day, I

resurrect my past.  This day, I

will exonerate my life.  This

day, I will hurt but this day.

This day...

The flashes brighten as my heart

unfolds.  The paint, slick and

smooth, kisses the papered wall.

 It runs in rivulets down to the

floor.  My bare feet make

footprints that mark my life.  I

walk the path again, reliving

the moments that broke me once.

My hand marks the smooth wall

with my words.  Pressure locked

in my chest, I cannot breathe. 

Blinded by words of the past,

marked like a ruined scarlet

woman, I paint.  Freedom, I do

not feel yet.  The threshold is

not in sight.  Heart pounding

out ragged and staggered beats,

I breathe.  I breathe in the

metallic scent of the colors

that run a course race through

my fingers.  Tattered, I begin

to tell the tale.

A spearing jealousy and rage

fills me that my dreams were

thrown out by those careless

hands.  The paint becomes the

dream.  The spotted dabs of it

ruin the pristine virgin paper,

unmarked before my rage and pain

sullied its innocent face. 

Innocent as I once was.  Gripped

in terror, the colors swirl.  I

am going to be lost.  BOOKMARK I

know that hopelessness. It is as

familiar to me as a lover’s

touch. It whispers. I answer. I

cannot help it. I release myself

to the pain. I have no choice.

It steals me away. I am a

captive, a slave.

I am alone here. I am alone in

this place. No words are spoken

in my head other than my own. A

voice murmurs to me. I answer

its questions. I answer the

truth but will remember it not.

Flashes catch my eye but I am

too lost to process the reason.

I work, I create.

My words reverberate on the

paper as pain takes over. Blood

streams from my heart, smearing

the future I once believed I

would have. The past speaks

louder than the voice that would

become a salve to me later. I

listen to the voices of the

yesterdays I have lost. I am

encased in a memory, a painful

cocoon. The webbing binds me to

it. It screams at me that it

will not let go. It will not

loosen its hold. It will not

allow. It will not relinquish

me.

Happiness, I once longed to

embrace, joins the battle.

Intertwined with snake like

curls of the brush, I work.

Clawing through my hands, the

words fall upon the page. I

cannot stop their leaping. Tears

blind me. I cannot see.

Trembling knees and knotted

tongue, I breathe deeply.

Fighting through the horror of

my life, I work. What once

plagued me is pushing against my

knowledge. Joy dances with the

pain, holding hands and laughing

as the chains weaken. Hysterical

howling as the past screams its

wounds putrid and foul. Salve

made of colors and soothing

caresses extend my mind. I slash

with the steel clad blade of my

brush.

Knowledge of change and growth

flows out. Colors blend and

separate to blend again.

The voice speaks as flashes move

and brighten. The past released

and the future whispers of new

dreams, new promises. Light

spotlights my pain and covers

it, soothes it like a wounded

child. I survived and grew.

Strength tangles with the

weakness and binds itself to me

as armor. I am a warrior, full

of breathless excitement at the

battle I have won. Survival and

forgiveness are mine now. The

child I was lays safe in my

heart, slumbering and protected.

The wife I was once smiles with

hope. The mother I became held

the peaceful memories of

sheltering her children in her

arms. The woman I am became

hope. I am the dreams that I

once held. I am the one who

believed. I am because I was

allowed to become. I am a

treasure. I am art. I am…. I am

the moment that I thought I

lost. I am a survivor. I am the

future.

I am you.

Rashell Deering