I've tripped over my own feet
so many times this week that I'm starting to feel that these limbs I've grown into are not the ones I'm used to. I woke up today thinking that my hair's a little duller, and my hips a little fuller, - crooked teeth. - - - I fear that the strangers in the hall can't see me. Or that they can. I don't know which is worse. --- You look the way you do every day - at me and the shapes that my shadows make under the fluorescence. I am convinced that I can taste the pity, overpowering even the bitterness of the coffee, you, somewhat reluctantly, say it's an acquired taste. The lights are too dim here to see your point. --- I didn't say exactly that they were a papercut in human form, but I also did not say they weren't.
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I liked the silence:
it convinced my tongue to convince my throat to convince my head that my sounds were no good. And they weren't. But it left too much up for interpretation. The way that every eye could glaze over and over those words and stuff them full of sounds wasn't meant for me. So we'll put things in their right place, and leave nothing for discussion. There is something to be said
of the way that snow prepares Spring. And something too, then, to be said of the cold words that drop like arrows from your tongue and collect like stalagmites along the pathways of our lives, and reflect each flickering light that finds it's way inside. Under starry skies, where we could see our breath if it weren't for the darkness, we chase lights to capture them, and feel ourselves grow cold together. I feel dizzy with all this looking up, and feel more alone than ever. I lose my words
in the shadow of peaks that stretch pass the periphery and wrinkle into the sky. What I meant to say was: gravity acts differently here. I feel it anchor in my bones, even as my mind struggles to crash through my skull and spill into sacred spaces. Now we've identified the trepid tongue, that trips over good intentions, I see it falling into truths that scatter when disturbed, even while you fumble after them. We get by with our hands tied,
minding our own business, isn't this just forgiveness: for getting out of the one-track, one-mind, bee-hive; behind which we find ourselves hiding? It's kinda the same: blaming ourselves for this friction fit, kinda listening, prickled skin-style relationship. I could not ignite a fire with the things I love,
though the empty spaces they leave can fuel one. My dreams are combustible now, thoughts like kindling. * The moths don't care, but the clock does: the flames lick my fingertips but the hands just tick. * I can only look up. The lights flicker in the sky and at my heels. I don't look back, but I know my footprints to be ash. I feed the beast, and I no longer feel alone. Restless now,
I grow easily. Feeling myself (swollen tongue) as your riddles slide over and through me. Softer now, lips that pout and pucker and place themselves, ever gently, onto little lies that are kissed out of existence. (We pretend.) I can't take back what is not mine,
but I can watch wistfully as the clock ticks, as my hair stands up on the back of my neck, as the clouds gather in the west. I could count on my fingers, but they're tied up in other things, or following laugh lines in your hands, neither an invitation nor prediction. There's no sense in trying to get beyond the midnight flickering of mad men and magic, of moving any further than the mountains, and praying for an avalanche. Here we go again, rewind,
though I need not be reminded. Again, shoving bulky memories into situations, play, and replay and replay and replay until the parts that I return to are worn out of the tape. |
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November 2019
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