Sitting to write about pain makes me so stupid
I sit to write about loneliness, how even though he sits right beside me, we are separated by a live wire cage of tendons, running red hot through me, and branding each thought with lightning; quick ceaseless impulses that tell me to stay quiet, because what can he do anyway.
I sit to write about being tired, how there are days when every movement, down to the smallest lifting of a glass or fork is planned.. how I have become a strategist and waste no gesture, lest I be set on fire from within, and lose track of the time while I sear.
I wrack my brain for adjectives and nouns, and clever metaphors, but everything I can say sounds like it comes from the brain of a black-clad time traveler from the 90s. I stay silent, as silent as I can, and instead hope to sleep.
Winter, so newly awakened after all these years,
rages outside my door. She batters her hands against the walls,
pinning us inside.
Ghouls with perfect smiles interrupt our distractions on the flickering screen,
to tell us that we’re going to freeze to death, feeding us our medicine..
fear like an oily serpent, goes down easy.
Tonight, while the house huddles in their beds, I want to strip off my clothing.
I want to walk outside, and let her claim me.
One frozen lamb,
to lull her to sleep.
Back up against a wall. The alleyway of a theater,dirty, fragrant, in the heart of a city where I know no one. I wore a skirt for him. I barely know him, but I did it because I knew he wanted it. It is freezing, and I don’t care.
I don’t know him, but I almost go home with him. Only the threat of actually missing a test keeps me from it, his hands, his mouth, his command.
That night, I steal a Christmas Tree with my friends. We carry it in the freezing cold, laughing, drunk with our youth and freedom.
But later… later, I dissolve into it; throwing away my identity to become anything he wants.
I belong no where. So I give nothing. Nothing but my body, my consent, my consciousness. He can have everything, any thing he wants. He will pass me to a friend, and I, pliant and wanton, will give them whatever they ask for.
Anything but my heart. I’ve caged her inside a puzzle box, and lost the key.
I don’t really miss her, either.
let them play outside
a desperate calculation
but it turns out that I was never very good