While crying, some of the punishment washed away.
Some of the anger turned outward
And, as it was fire, it shed some light.
This is a lot, isn’t it?
A reasonable, long-silent voice asked, sounding sad.
It is, I suppose. It’s my lot.
Like anyone else’s lot, it counts.
Yes. This is a lot.
Standing up amongst the rubble,
I feel something begin.
I am afraid to write.
I fear introspection, I fear insight.
What joy is there, in insight?
Ignorance is bliss, they say.
They are wrong, of course. Continue reading
To write without falling into the stupor, the inaccuracy of drowsy introspection as perspective deserts me.
Wading, groping about while the thing, the thought, barely brushes my fingertips and dissolves before I can even guess at its texture. Let alone its name.
I have been told that I am pretty.
And it sticks out like a pointed finger, like a mistake
Anomalously mingling with the rest of my memories,
The rest of my experience. Continue reading
Here we go, now. Brace yourselves.
There they all stand, plumed and decorated.
Serrated smiles and jagged accoutrements, glinting in the dim, deliberate light.
Deep breath in, shaking, bare all my teeth in a jaggedy smile of my own.
The voice in my chest, deep beneath my flesh in the dark regions where the magic lies,
Tells me that the only irrevocable act here is death. From there there can be no tomorrow.
Yet from where I stand, it says, the world unfolds beneath my feet. Slowly, petal-slow, one at a time. Continue reading
And somewhere in the middle of things,
Is the place to which you must navigate
when this and this and that and those
and those and those
emerge and arise without forewarning, and you cannot see
and they are solid, heavy.
They stir themselves, replete with your memories.