It matters less at the end of every night, this feigned deliberation of purpose, of an attempt at multitudes, of a forced lightness of being. The melodrama of yesterday dissipates in the romantic chill of those memorable evenings, and everything therein. The hour hand ticks forward without approval, and it all goes and goes and goes. Space is shrinking, the physical and emotional air becoming consumptive. A desperate sense of helplessness floats in the room, gnawing at heartstrings, beckoning for forgiveness while half-truths continue trickling in. Mind over matter, to be tortured in short order. Sense and sanity hold less meaning as the days go by. Dance in and around, away and back again. At what point do I succumb, and at what point do I settle into myself?
I know my corner well, where the darkness veils just enough to make it welcoming but not isolated. Yet you have tainted this dreamspace, my abode of late. You came in with your dirty feet and tarnished my minute trappings, ripping my small works of art into shreds, demanding I confess to my wrongdoing. I have done no wrong except in acknowledging you for who you were not. I have known much misery by you, have known sadnesses a thousand feet deep in the blackness of the ocean. My melancholy siphons from one vein to another, flowing through the circuitry of my being, molding what I have become. I wish these sentiments on no one, as none deserves such wretchedness, such tightening of happiness. You are a cruel and derisive being. May you find chaos in your hubris. There is no love left to share with you, for you have misused me too many times to bear. My heart has run dry, and I wish nothing but turmoil in your shortfalls. Perhaps somewhere at the end of your time you may find the acute and immeasurable pangs of self awareness dawn on every reprehensible fiber of your existence and only then may you go in a silent but fleeting moment of quietus. May your trappings haunt you like a disinterested ghost. You have no home here. Be gone before I set the wolves on you once more.
There are these bright moments of abhorring darkness when someone does something so vile that you feel bits of yourself falling away, and the spirit of self-damaging pain takes over like a slithering poison.
These moments are so trivial and yet their effect is astounding. You play and replay scenarios in your head, wondering how much further you could go down the chasm. It’s subtle but overt, quiet but cacophonous.
When they takes stabs with their sharpened words, there is this millisecond of thought that flashes in my mind and soul, and disappears just as quickly.
In that millisecond, I think of the dying.
They will try to make you stay,
steal the peace away from you,
soak your actions in self doubt,
if you don’t live the way they like.
Wide as the ring of a bell,
gone all star white,
small as a wish in a well.
Iron & Wine | Sodom, South Georgia
Will you sing to me when I’m gone?
The moon gathers those wispy clouds around her tonight. She might be cold. She could be lonely. Probably in need of company. Her fleeting friends dance around her in slow motion, the delicate and fickle creatures.
My days have been warm and anxious, my nights cool and fulfilling. I’ve let things go, let them fly up and into the dark skies, spreading through all the pines. I’m here in my body at last, in agreement with my thoughts.
Wednesday marks the 18th year since you died. I’ll be at the manse on the hill to whisper simple words to your memory and bid you another peaceful year of happiness, wherever you are. I’ll walk through the grand entrance with a straight back, into the hall of candles and statues, up the hill to your place of rest and there I’ll shrink back into my 13-year-old self.
It’s fine. Tomorrow is a new day.
I see the way the eyes betray the assertion,
the way the truth swirls like thick smoke in the core of the retinas.
I can hide much fiction without difficulty,
but the eyes, they betray me every time.
I see the way they look at me, these old eyes,
the weight of their stare,
and how deeply they feel for me.
They apologize to me, out of reverent pity.
These eyes grasp the gravity of the situation they have created,
and they know the depth of their actions.
They see how ill-equipped I am for this world,
how woefully exposed I am to the dangers that be,
how my state of being could change in an instant.
They are my creator, these aging eyes,
they are the eyes that bought me into the world,
and they are the eyes that see who I have become for it.