The landfill

It’s raining refuse, but not the usual kind. It is of those that are negative thoughts of mind. It falls in bags, bundles and heaps. Through the bounteous prolific words she speaks, enough, even to give, yes, even Charles Manson creeps. It is I, the landfill, forced to listen silently without peeps. Daily dumping, the trash collector keeps depositing on my shoulders, to rest like giant boulders, within my mind. Is it really that unkind? Yes. I courageously say. If it makes up most of what you say, redundantly day by day by day. Layer upon rancid layer it keeps building, words that are like stabs with swords she keeps wielding until my scarred and calloused heart starts bleeding, seething, shrinking, sinking into the cauldron of boiling anguish that that’s buried within my soul. How long shall this burden last? This sentence of hard labor that aroused in my adjacent past, will the trash collector conceived the Millstone she has tied around my neck. Bearing demoralizing speech laced with disrespect. Maybe one day this harboring of her issues will stifle, and I can finally catch my breath. Or will it continue onward and undermine my heart to death.