Red Oxfords and Grey Doors
I want to repeatedly strike the closed door of my life with my foot. Over and over and over and over again, whittle my way out of this imprisonment and I would do so with red oxfords on. Splinters will dig into my shins and my ankles will bleed but I will continue to dig my heel in.
Encased inside the inner cogs of my conscience there is an overwhelming heat radiating through lonely, dark corridors. A rage swells and sweats its way out, except my ears are not profusely expelling searing steam but rather the steam is propelling a motor that does only one thing: flail my foot forward.
God the blood is beginning to spill down my leg and it’s even tainting the gray broken door. Get me out of this room that smells like decaying flesh of post-mortem animals fed on by the piercing beaks of circling vultures. I start kicking fast and faster and faster and faster and then it hits me, the way my foot hits the door. I look down at the now demented assortment of gashed flesh and splintered bone. I am not even sure I still have anything remotely close to a leg, now it’s just butchered meat, out for the taking.
All of my thrashing and kicking went from freeing to heroic to frenzied and in a whirlwind of self-mutilation I am not exactly sure why I wanted to leave this room in the first place.