Anna Torres
Bio
I’m a 39-year old mother and student. I love reading, metal music, and writing. I have begun writing again since 2021
Stories (165)
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Stockholm Syndrome
I have always wondered how everyone close their eyes without a cure to dream. Without a tourniquet to the head. Do they take you into their arms? Do they wipe your memories? Do they offer amnesia? What do you do in this condition? This abduction is a nightmare. The missing time is mine. The seconds study me. They memorize my false pretenses. There is no relief in the mundane. Just shut your eyes and forget. I’ve been robbed of my clarity. Depriving myself of my own basic needs. Insomnia never stays. It hitches a ride to other vigils. A seizure offers reprieve. Sedatives are temporary. A comatose slumber. A getaway to drowsiness. I’m alert but not awake. Cautious, walking on eggshells. My idleness lingers. My procrastination has arrived. How can I convince you? That hypnosis has failed. How did we disappear in the night? The theories implant memories. Paralyzing trance. My sleep is dormant and lethargy is me. I’m in purgatory. I see you clear as day. Give me relief. Give me alleviation and consolation. Intoxicating depressants. Just relax now, it’s time now. A painkiller of dreams. An anesthetic of sleep. Give me release, give me reprieve. Let me go to sleep.
By Anna Torres3 years ago in Poets
The sword in the stone
I had to reinvent myself to escape the pain. Invisible but alive. I had to save myself, I had to escape. There’s evidence to the contrary. That we can shoulder the blame. But a wound is a wound. Whether bleeding or not, it’s all the same. There are always walls. In your head or in the way. You hear the words on repeat. You’re not worthy enough to be saved. Your birth was an accident. You would’ve chosen the easy path. But every road has curves. Invisible lines aren’t drawn on any maps. How do I justify the camouflage? How do I detect the concealed? The desperation, the misery. I can’t find it, it must not be real. My illness is the reason I stopped trying. The source of all my despair. I played it safe, I’ve played it weak. This affliction has made me emotionally impaired. Bitterness and irrational. My effort to appear sane. I hate myself for taking the path of least resistance. Excruciating blame. Inconsolable and defeated. I am planning my own imprisonment. Invisible and permanent. I will take all your pity until there’s nothing left.
By Anna Torres3 years ago in Poets
Xibalba
We emerge as sufferers from the neglected womb. A state of emergency will be declared soon. We discover new ways to main and torture. I have called upon you to join me and suffer. A crime of despair and audible hate. They rather destroy themselves than face their fates. There’s never any room for compassion and love. There are no answers, there’s none of the above. I press the trigger and let them die. It’s better than believing they’ll make it out alive. The silent journey doesn’t exist anymore. There is no gate but there is a door. Your heroes have all but abandoned you. There are only monsters here, they are right next to you. I can’t tell if my motives are correct. If we can’t have here and now, we have nothing left. A future deprived of all certainty. A shadow hovers over all of my past misdeeds. I feel no shame for what I’ve done. I feel no guilt over what I’ve become. A haven that became an inferno. This is how you lose your sanity, you escape down below. Don’t ask me to die for you. My lips plastered in a silent scream, regretting all of you. In this garden, there are no rules. Just eat the apples, you damn fool! A snake will spew venom directly into your ear. I am the only one that still cares for you out here. An absent father mean for fiction and lullabies. I am your redeemer, you owe me your lives. Give up your dreams and worthiness. There is only dismissal in this horrible mess. Lay down your weapons and follow me. It's going to take a millenia to undo what set you free. I seek a new utopia, reborn and retired. Come with me, we will be one with the fire. There are no cures here, only lies. If it isn't perfect, it isn't paradise
By Anna Torres4 years ago in Poets
Neanderthal
A conquest between apes and civilized man leads to this disaster of a conquered wasteland. The master planner I know never gives only takes. Behold Mother Nature’s greatest mistake! Evolution errors have resulted in corrupted schemes. From caveman to cosmonaut, I can’t wait for all of us to leave. Rustic tales of wise old mutations. I don’t mourn for the future, I have no lamentations. A winter of radioactive rain. I’ve wasted my summers trying to become insane. A brave new world lies at my feet. I took it from those dying in defeat. Will someone please press the big Red button? Not to detonate but to reset the rising sun. A primate made out of spineless admiration. How could we even concede of such an abomination? This planet held such potential. And we’ve gone down in ruins, despite of it all. A reality melted into the stratosphere. There’s no future for those still stranded out here. A failed reconstruction. After one too many attempts, we have created our own destruction. Hatred borne out of ignorance. Darwinism has become the path to bliss
By Anna Torres4 years ago in Poets
Sisyphean
A crisis of faith appears on the horizon. There’s no other way to go, there is none. A scepter of gullibility rivals a god-given right to punish those beneath me. I’ve sent them to hell for opening their mouths. Their abominations were atrocious so they descended south. Demonic inferiority, a blessing from my tongue justifies my means. Relinquished breaths alter a halo of corrupted death. Prayers venture above but I can’t hear them, they’re not enough. Olympians have their psychopaths but their heroes have split them in half. We cannot restore the dawn nor resurrect our beloved Babylon. You look up to the skies with false hope that your idols will rescue you and the entire globe. There is no kryptonite to offer you a saving grace from plight. They await the return of their previous savior. They don’t know they’ve since fallen out of favor. Haunted by vengeful ghosts. Weaponized against those you love most. Blood is a valuable commodity where burned effigies give rise to criminality. Outlaws of history beg for deliverance from past treacheries. Who holds sway over your will? Who has the power to bend a God’s wrath? A righteous holy mercy that sits where the devil once sat. Who decides what to glorify and what to condemn? They can’t stay innocent or ignorance will find them. You suffer in silence but ask for pity and relief. I cannot give you what you seek.
By Anna Torres4 years ago in Poets
