I'm starting to feel motion sickness
from the spinning of the earth under my feet while I'm just trying to hold on.
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Oh!
The obliteration of the odd and obtuse! The abhorrent obligation of obviously overemphasizing the obliquely ostentatious. For the obstinate: an overestimation of their ability to overcome obstacles and open up occupational doors. The obtuse accomplice, with their overt dedication to obedience in observing each obscure absurdity (an abysmal attempt in objectivity), apparently obeys no one. I fear that I am forgetting what it felt like
to press my fingertips deep into that hot sand, and wake up where the air is salty. Again, we find ourselves in that thin place,
tiptoeing the line between particle and wave. You are the light that disrupts the world around you. You are the warm whisper of breath on my neck in the morning. You are awake, reading, while the rest of the world sleeps. We walk in and out of reality, ever aware that at any moment, this bliss state will crash down around us Let rebellion rear it's head, you say, forgetting the most important adjective, and I, blinded, follow you into the dark. I felt it,
if only for a minute, in the unlikeliest of places. And it tricked me into giving up what I knew was mine in the first place. But I knew then what I now know still - it was not actually love, rather, a condition for it. So it seems, that the wrinkles 'round my eyelids and the greying of my hair suggest I am growing older, but not much wiser yet. There's the abrasive feeling
of salt in my eyes, now, the stinging and the haunting emptiness of the cessation of sounds, followed by the pounding of raindrops on glass as I drive under bridges on the road to anywhere that is not here. (I am reminded that absence makes the ears ring until the head is heavy) We're two drunk chickadees
leaving a choke cherry feast: crashing into windows stumbling through branches beating wings rapid. Finding each other, delirious and incoherent, tangled under tree roots in a stranger's yard. I do not find myself on eggshells often -
the hen house has no want for me. But now I find myself on tiptoe, trying not to wake the beast. I.
I have told the story so many times that it no longer feels like my own. I am unfamiliar with the characters, these spectres that float through memories and re-enact situations, like a fuzzy, black and white silent film. II. We sit across from each other always in silence there is flour on your collar. I focus instead on fibres - on the tiny pieces that curl into threads and are woven into string and criss-crossed into plaid. III. I am reading a book where the women are written well - I put myself in their places. I do not know myself, I become what is asked. IV. I told them you were beautiful, and I was not lying. When the rest of the world looks to self-destruct, your eyes are calm, you have every reason to smile. V. Born of love, in that they fell out, once. My queer body, and your unsure hands. By now, you know me better than myself, I'm sure of it. And you know where to draw the lines so that they hurt the least. IV. I liken myself to seeds that carried themselves on the wind to the most hospitable of places. I do not need to know who I am to stop myself from growing. I do not want to bend,
not today. I am under no illusions of where my limits are. |
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November 2019
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