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i'm slipping off the edge, they say. my arms are silly strings and i am wound up in a knot i can't untie. and i am quote unquote on my final leap, my sinking ship, my vein of life becoming varicose. i'm not quite up for a second drink, as they say, they say.
doctors are no scientists, they tell me. it's not my abandonment of whole foods causing stomach pains, it's me. i have gone too far, too high, too deep, and they are sorry, but this is a bleach stain by a broken machine, not a programming fault. they say.
they take me outside and wrap me head to ankle in dish cloths, curtains, pillow cases. they say, this is what you're missing, this is the hard cover, lamp shade, roof top of something you never had. they say, don't be sorry, we couldn't fix everyone, anyway.
they pull my silly strings and tell me, knit something. i say, some other time, i don't feel like it today.
doctors are no scientists, they tell me. it's not my abandonment of whole foods causing stomach pains, it's me. i have gone too far, too high, too deep, and they are sorry, but this is a bleach stain by a broken machine, not a programming fault. they say.
they take me outside and wrap me head to ankle in dish cloths, curtains, pillow cases. they say, this is what you're missing, this is the hard cover, lamp shade, roof top of something you never had. they say, don't be sorry, we couldn't fix everyone, anyway.
they pull my silly strings and tell me, knit something. i say, some other time, i don't feel like it today.
Literature
For the Encounters I Never Had
I released my regrets like a million balloons
chasing the sky with their bright round bodies --
wingless martyrs caught each tiny breath of air
and soared,
a moment of epiphany
when your rubbery skin punctures
and the soul escapes.
There is no element light enough to lift me away,
no instrument to sever the strings that earth
my tiny anklets --
I sway with the seasons
as if I am surrounded by an ocean,
unable to tread water fast enough to run,
nor find the reach to break the surface
where those regrets float momentarily,
winking in the sunlight before they coast away,
waiting for my realisation --
they pollute my conscience
Literature
Imaginary
"My imaginary father beat me again." Charlie my six year old son complained as he stared up at me from the doorway into his darkened room. He stepped in and carefully closed the door without turning on the light. The evening's setting sun sifted through the closed blinds, but anything brighter than that hurt Charlie's eyes.
"Then stop imagining. I can't stand to see the bruises." I answered. "Plus they'll hurt if I hug you."
The little boy nodded and screwed his eyes tightly shut as he strained himself to un-imagine the damage. The blue-black-grey-purple paste of bruises mottling his arms and legs slowly faded. "There, daddy. All b
Literature
You Are Not the Sun
You are not the eye-erasing beauty
of the sun splitting open the sea with morning,
but you are the green and purple glint
on a wave crest as sun ducks away into night.
You are not the electric-splash shock of
ice water in meltingpot summer,
but you could be the cool, smooth
surface of a palm.
You are not a fire, ravaging, devouring,
chewing and churning and spitting out black,
but you are a shawl, touching my shoulders tenderly.
You are not a symphony of drumroll clouds and thunder,
but you are the sound of rain.
You do not laugh like falling snowflakes.
Your words do not resonate like age-old wisdom stones.
You do not move
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i sometimes feel as if art is taking over.
Comments23
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i love you.
or at least, i love this, and it seems to personal for there to be a difference.
or at least, i love this, and it seems to personal for there to be a difference.