crazy crack prose written in 2007 it actually went on for much longer than this but my hand writing stopped making sense and it gets even more confusing and self indulgent...
Dressed in wings and a lace shell, her eye shadow in skin and things,
of trying to erase them. She’s stitched carefully with eyelashes and hair, for holding in boiling with out measure, for holding on. There’s layers for little tears to rip indents in, her and Forever
and decisions take Time.
She chose this
And it’s too hot to hold hands.
tonight
it’s too hot.
She’s clustered on the couch in a Fist and watching sleep disappear with kisses that were Hers and she tries all she dares to exist. The tv is screaming and the floor’s everyone’s but hers. She could own the upstair curtains if the cat wouldn’t insist on breaking them down, leaving a trail of material and fur.
She chose this.
And it’s too hot to hold hands.
It’s too hot.
She broke the glass in the door, just one crack held together with cellotape and she said she slept in the park, but it was safer than her, safer than here. Meaning Forever meant flying knives and waiting for the sharpest to take the both of them.
She always flinched with yelling, she’d never been told love meant always having to say you were sorry. And she liked silent and crying and was used to alone and played wife, even if she couldn’t get the cleaning right. Smoke and diamond mirrors led her easily and soon she cried when touched for it was meaning and rushed her dizzy head in to spins of promises. Music was thrown across the room and she sang riddles in her mind to hide time. She had cried when she heard the groan of the punching bag and fist in the garage and made childish demands to outraged ears. Many steps to take and she couldn’t run fast enough only round and round, begging at feet.
She could see the world and her mind were for worse than walls that shook close and sterns words were Honest and Truth would bind their love. Lies sounded good if she said them out loud but she only knew to write words that hurt, better to not, and to cocoon and soon-later at least she’d re-emerge and they’d be better. Her words only bred crazy and if she didn’t write or think much about much she wouldn’t be.
She pays best she can and buys time with gifts, not enough, never enough and is giving the impression she doesn’t love as good and right because she dreams collages and candle names not shiny toys and shoes for love.
She is lucky to be looked after so well, and is faithful to fear and she never will tell. Even tripping over that darn cat they take photos and laugh at easy bruises and cry for easy forgiveness. Somewhere in bloodshot she wishes her eye would stay like that so she would see. Yet even in fading she can’t forget, just pushes it in to her bubbling digestion and swallows gritty salt, shaky smiles.
She keeps seeing other smiles with sharp teeth and she’s already thrown all her trust in to her red, white and checked basket. Her nightmares of wolves under the bed are in the daylight and she can’t quite bare the wake from dreams comes true.
She lies and likes the way it cans till sound nice when she says she’s looked after and loved and they will marry. Even if she is kept a secret, how long could anyone really keep secrets, she wondered.
No room for leaving: deceit ridden everywhere and not as was thought, even the cat’s unhappy and angry and clawing to get out. Except when they’re alone, the cat and her. Then they hold tight and warm each other.
ENOUGH.
No comments:
Post a Comment