she says, i’m getting old. i look at myself, i’m getting thinner. our daughter cries as we leave her behind. in the city, walking, eating, talking. almost there again. easy drive, easy parking. sushi, open air exhibition and the sun, the sun, the sun. days like this, many years ago. almost.
Category Archives: words
desperately need
i don’t know where i go, but i go somewhere and then suddenly i am here, my lungs can breathe, i am out of the murk, the lines sharpen. i do not know where i go my love, but i went and i now back. i can’t quite explain it, the cloudiness and detachment, the thickness between me and everything else, the immobility, the sterile detachment. and in those moments i am so lost and alone, and i look at you and her and the little one and i am overwhelmed because i am so far away and i want to be near, i so desperately need to be here.
i prey for you
i leave you tattered and reckless, your life in shambles, dirt under your nails. i pray for you. she says, i prey for you and digs her fingers up behind my jaw and tugs me near. i prey for you.
without worth
how do i explain to her the desire for the avalanche karma, the yearning for release, the breaking of skin? how do i explain to her that i want to be broken open, i want to be beaten so i can feel my bones ache? how do i explain to her that i feel locked in this skin, that i am sealed in and i cannot find a way out? i love her, i love my children, my god how do i love them, they are wondrous and mysterious. i am flawed and ugly and without worth.
understand none of it
everything i breathe comes from this line of sight through the cracks of doors and slits of throats. she puts a sticker underneath his tongue. he pulls on his foot, draws his sock into his mouth. she rubs her breasts to loosen their grip from her muscle. i smoke fiendishly and point and click. he prepares a room for his unborn child. she has stopped complaining about the pain in her lower back. she takes pills because her heart is racing while sitting in the rain. days and days go by where i don’t shower: the clothes peel off of me. she takes a jump rope and whips it endlessly. he reaches for her hand to pull himself free of the floor. she waits for him while he calls another woman. she contemplates retirement because her daughter is moving away. her son lays listlessly with a joint in his hand. he leaves his father’s grave with tracks in the mud. and i understand none of it.
here. this.
they scatter, rain whip, wind whip, tail whip. we all leave in tears. hear this. no she said, here. this. i scatter my hands, dig my toes into the dirt. it figures prominently, along with trees limbs and curbs, perched outside a window a lifetime watching cars shoot onto highways. hardest adjustment, the silence. always coy with the night, large and vacant and promising. she says, hear this but i cannot listen anymore. instead, here. this. she scatters her fingers, tugs at her skirt. they all leave in shambles.
tell me you love me
talk in the dark of brighter days. time chewed up and we’re left with crumbs. she asks, will we ever get there? kissing her i reply, we never left
jag
uprooted, the teeth grow spiny vines like caterpillars that bristle to the touch. feathered wings of chapped lips speak of summer days along cliffs and promises. she felt pretty and i felt nothing.
the shift
we broke vowels the way lions snapped the necks of zebras. and we threaded through crowds of angry drinkers looking to get high like no one else. but we were exhausted and hopeful and something deep inbetween, stuck between this way and that, between a kiss and a lie. I prayed for many things, the least of which you would hold my drink as I fell.
honest without compassion
it is never easy to be honest, to say after the wreckage “we are better off”
it send everyone off the rails, re-opens newly sealed wounds,
to say “we are better, somewhat damaged”
to say “you are better off scarred and hobbling”
it is difficult and unfair and unyielding and without compassion.