QW: Warriors

Warriors. Warriors. I think of amazons. I think of zulu warriors. I think of dancers, dancing on the street corners in paint and feathers in front of the Taco Bell. Hips and wrists moving to the beat of the street noise. A warrior on a rampage, of tears, sleeplessness and apathy shot me in the heart and I can not speak. It was a monotone bullet, a slammed door, a sigh. It was silent and untrying. She was not going to kick it to see if it was dead. She just assumed it was cold and got used to having goose bumps whenever I walked in the room. I appreciate apples now; their sweetness, grapes, mangos, cherries, daydreams, wine, a smile. But I still can’t get the bitter, chalk taste out of my mouth. I’ve washed my water bottle. I have spilled out my pockets. I delete emails one by one with the determination of warrior. One button, one tap of the finger: that’s how easy it is erase history. To forget. Do I don a warrior's outfit? a bullet proof fest, and silver sparkly things that swords can not break through. My quickwrite has been intercepted by work several times that it has turned into a slow write. I need to get out of here. I need to pray. I need to leave this place. I want to scream. I want my scream to make the jungle birds flutter their wings and squack in reply. Tears are creeping out of my eyes. I am not sure I can face tomorrow. Alone.