| Ashes to Ashes |
[21 Nov 2007|12:58am] |
Don't try and explain. I don't need your excuses. They're pap, words smeared on a mirror with lipstick.
She was your sister. We three were connected by blood.
The instant the tether was severed. My insides ripped from my body. My Celine, dust sifting between fingers. All that's left. So little time at the beginning, a chance to be whole again, gone forever.
Because of you.
You revealed secrets to the enemy. Set her free so she could take revenge against my first born.
You betrayed us both.
What I do next, is in your name. I'll burn it into the sky. Scorch the earth with each vowel and consonant.
Cry, little one.
The blood on my hands, is yours.
|
|
| Life |
[21 Nov 2007|01:05am] |
Home doesn’t know I was gone.
The cat does. Her feeder’s long empty,
A single, soggy piece floating in the water bowl.
I got in my car and drove here with shaking knees.
Back in the hospital, they gave me fluids, insisted I stay
Overnight.
It wasn’t going to happen.
I had to get here.
It’s weird how I wanted to be alone again
When that’s all I’ve been for days.
There’s just a difference, and anyway
Who could I talk to?
Who would understand this?
Kris, maybe, but she’s gone.
The shower hurts.
Water pressure beats against bruises and cracked bones,
Half-healed.
Med tape leaves outlines that stick to the skin.
I tried to pull it up with my fingernails.
Here’s the problem.
I thought I was going to die.
It’s not like I’d admit it. Out loud, whatever.
But I did think it.
I’ll never be able to explain how much I hate her for it,
More now than ever.
Water washes the dirt and sweat and blood away.
Time makes the scars fade, just little pieces of a patchwork.
But I will never forget that she made me second-guess.
Pride is the cherished thing.
I tell myself,
She had to cheat to do it.
That’s true.
She’ll never beat me in a fair fight.
But she saw me cower, not because I was afraid of her,
But because I didn’t want to die.
I curled up and protected my life.
The smart thing, yeah,
But I would’ve rather stared it down, stone-faced.
You know they say in slaying that the first rule is to stay alive,
Run, if you’re outnumbered.
Get help.
Go back with guns blazing.
But curl up in chains, cover your head, and think what I was thinking?
I never think I’m going to lose.
You let that in, you’re fucked.
Game over.
Doubt is poisonous, insecurity they can smell.
Maybe I’m fooling myself.
Maybe all of us have a moment like that but we never admit it.
I’m not talking about the College Girls, the Shopping Girls, the Weekend Girls,
The Party Tricksters.
“Look what I can do with my super strength.”
I’m talking about grit and guts and glory girls.
We don’t want to say it.
We don’t want to think it.
“This thing I signed on for,
I know I said I’d die for it.
But please not yet.
Don’t do this now.
I’m not quite done with life.”
|
|
| Forget Me...Not |
[21 Nov 2007|10:39am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 calm |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Fake Plastic Trees - Radiohead |
] |
Instead I trail distant, after,
willing you to enter the soggy garden,
stride the streets one after
the other. Breathe. Forget me.
Forget her. He doesn't know if he can.
He's on his bed in the dark, fresh sheets lying sterile and newly changed underneath his prone form. The note is in one hand, the book open on his bare chest. The binding is leather, a dark red that's slightly worn at the corners. He was never much for poetry, not even the doggerel he tried scrawling while he was in college. But he may never be able to let this slim volume out of his sight for as long as he lives.
Forget her. How can he forget her when she gave him the only peace he's known in years, no matter how briefly?
His time with Jill was a false start, he realizes that now. False, counterfeit, a piece of fakery. She doesn't even know him, and she never really wanted to. It was the other, the girl from the cemetary, who had been a welcome balm on his scarred soul. How fitting that only one of the dead should be able to see him so clearly and not turn away in revulsion.
The taste of her kiss is still fresh on his memory if not on his lips. The feel of her body, because he remembers being intimate with her. Who he'd been while he was doing it strikes him as irrelevant. That he'd done it is what matters. Is she asking him to pretend that never happened? Because he can't do that. Won't.
He closes the book, puts the note on the bedside table. Tucks the little tome closer against his chest, closing his fingers around the object as though to protect it. Sees her large, expressive eyes as if she's right there with him.
Smiles.
Holds the book tighter.
Remembers.
Goes to sleep.
|
|