I’ve aged a lot lately.
As I anticipate another night of stifled silence, I make plans for contemplations.
My life in boxes and sentiments bagged with the refuse out in the cold. So many deaths I tally in tears (how versatile that word really is) and all of the forms it manifests in… like a metastatic cancer ravaging my every cell.
The words I hold dear to me like the serrated edge of a rusted butter knife in my hand, gouging irreparably into the tendons and ligaments… rendering my grip useless and utterly futile. Nothing more than the thought of strength and best wishes for everyone who let me slip.
How I can love with all of myself… and learn about all of the things I’ve earned in return that even my strongest of pessimism could not predict.
My repellent sweetness in a garden full of perfectly ripened fools… and the slippery trails of invertebrates making their nightly trysts as if I didn’t exist. Perhaps it’s better this way… myself as a rotten fruit or poisoned flesh… a polytropic will to decay where I fall regardless.
I’ll think of equals and less thans. The long fight that I lose to spite myself. All of the many ways I wrap myself in cedar and light my box in flames. My skin beneath the sun and the scars of many burns. The years of solitude and lessthanlight that I would eagerly return to now.
Another night melting beside heat that isn’t mine. Pressing my bruises tighter against… molding my broken bones around… unyielding, ceaseless, merciless agony. And wonder if I love every moment… or if I don’t know any better… any more.
Somehow, beneath it all… it doesn’t seem quite over yet. That’s a shame.