And I Am Content To Keep Hurting. I Am Content To Keep Pressing My Soft Body Into The Recesses Of His

In another world, I am strong. And withstanding, and sure of myself. I pray she’s well, for I certainly am not.

I’ve whittled myself down,

Suckled myself to nothing like a cough drop in a cheek,

And all I have to show for this betrayal, is a familiar flavor in my mouth to mull over as the adults speak.

You would sit by and watch the world burn if you could sit comfortably while you did it. That is the curse of comfort. That our couches are stuffed with the same filling as those in coffins.

It is relieving to write what I think. I hadn't realized how ravenous and independent thoughts can be when left to their own endeavors. They can swarm behind the eyes so fiercely that they may pop out. And perhaps that would be a good thing, for a dangling eye can see oneself from an outside perspective, and not one manufactured and manhandled by pesky buzzing thoughts.

They’ve taken her from me. And for that I’ll never forgive them.

I would let her put rods in my fingers and tie thin golden ropes around my wrists if it meant she’d smile at me. I’d make a good puppet, a very good puppet. And I don’t mind forgoing being her daughter, she never liked me very much that way. I make a much better puppet.

A Bother

I don’t mean to be a bother, I really don’t. I just can’t help but ruining everything all the time.

You don’t ruin everything silly.

Breakfast?

Well yeah but that’s one off.

Mom’s anniversary with dad?

That was an accident.

So I’ve said. If I told you it was on purpose would you be mad at me?

Well, no, I’m not mom but I’d be shocked. Why would you spill wine on her at dad’s grave on purpose?

I genuinely thought it would make her laugh. Because dad spilled wine on her on their first date remember?

Ohh, right. I didn’t think of that. Did you tell her you were trying to recreate that moment? She loves telling that story.

No. I felt so bad about it I threw up behind some lady’s tombstone over the hill. Mary S. Timbleton was her name.

You never told me you threw up on a dead woman’s grave.

Behind it.

Nearly there anyways. Makes for a better story. Dad would’ve laughed.

He was certainly a better storyteller than I am.

I like your stories just fine. You’ve yet to ruin one of those.

Thanks. I think.

On friendship:

When I spend time with you all, I feel a ball of light pool in my weary palms.

The weight in my shoulders, the tightness in my jaw, releases like smoke out of my lungs.

I can breathe again, I can laugh again.

I take the light home with me, and it isn’t so dark there anymore.

Facism rises, having not been put down. Like hot air in feverish men’s chests, pounding their rib cage with the old adage, me before all, me before all.

I thought the world decayed as I grew old. My weary eyes grazed easily against its pointed cruelties, and I wondered how so much could fall so fast. But it was always that way. I was too young to see it as it was and now I am too old to see it as it can be.