There is rain under my umbrella
for me and me alone
tears of cut glass and shame
(why does everything hurt?)
it is dark under my umbrella…
I don’t think I could see myself
even if I wanted to
(I don’t want to)
does my voice work under my umbrella?
I scream and scream
as ghost hands (mine? others?) grab me
and no one comes…
(no one ever comes….?)
(no one ever came)
I am lost (but not found) under my umbrella
all hide, no seek…
and no peace
(how long…
…until they notice I am gone?)
From under my umbrella
I hear muffled laughter (at me?)
and see shadows at my feet
(maybe it’s a sunny day?)
(or are they chasing me?)
won’t you come stand (with me) under my umbrella
in the darkness where I dwell?
(and…save me from myself)
About the Author
Let’s face it, Allison Walters Luther (she/her) is a mess. After living in Southern Indiana, Florida, England, and Southern California, she calls Washington home. A writer and poet since the age of seven, her use of imagery has been called ‘immersive’. She often leaves stories open-ended, dashing off into the sunset, cackling “No story is ever really over!“
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