She sings and her voice taps at my skin, informally casually, she raises her voice and the tap begins to hurt, it begins to burn. She says all the right words, makes the perfect sounds and yet nothing else is perfect. Nothing besides that tune makes any sense.
The power we posess screeches to a halt. It becomes a fault. The power remains mossy and filthy; it grows ugly and loud. It wrinkles at the edges and breaks into infected tears at the surface. That power grows heavy and damp, it drops and oozes harsh words and cold weather. I carry it all on my back like a tumor, like a dream that was supposed to be. I carry it around my shoulders and it drags its feet and swings like a nonchalant child. It kicks me in the gut whenever I remember what I had done, what I could have been. The power loses its original form and its agility. It loses its faith and it becomes despair.
I carry it because it cannot move. I carry it as it weighs me down, I crawl as it drags its toes beside me upon the ground. It grabs my hair and pulls it away from my face, because I still am pretty despite it all. And pretty shields us from the eyes and the bigger picture.
I carry the power be it of any kind, I bear it all and I transport it, giving away whatever is necessary of it.
She still sings and she takes me away from where I stand. She lowers her voice and recognizes me. Pretty face in the light, a tired massive hub of demented power in the dark. She sees me through dimming lights and darker shadows. I suddenly feel lighter and my power regenerates into a magnificent beauty; i ooze words that sound magical together; I muster all the power within me and a day comes to its end. I caress the carcass I have left behind and I listen to her bringing me back home and reducing me back to life.
Uplifting Letters 