My whole life I have been beaten to the ground both figuratively and literally and each time I rise, sometimes a little slower than others but I rise. The only thing left inside is the rebellious Fuck You to those who think they’ve bested me.
Fuck you to the teachers and professors who passed judgement. Fuck you to those whose jealousies prevented me from soaring to those friends who’d rather tie my laces together and laugh as I stumble and fall. Fuck you to those who wanted to see me hated. Fuck you and fuck you again to the people who threw me under bus after bus with knives sticking out of my back.
Anger keeps me rolling forward. I’m too tired without that fuel.
Fingerprints on lenses soften harsh red lines that mix with strands of hair whose wisps curl in front of tired eyes.
The glare of light on white paper, blinds
Building points of pain behind the nerves, in the depths of my brain.
In those moments I close my eyes
The pain recedes
Clarity of escape forms in snippets of fantasy so often viewed it’s edges are tatty from wear.
A soft echo of music, the fragrance of flowers in the air, a sonorous voice pontificating as I lean back enveloped by Miss Doolittle’s enormous chair.
I’ve never stayed so long as to see the face of the man who’ll take good care of me, but I suppose somethings aren’t quite meant to be.
They are talking quietly downstairs, the words I cannot hear.
The wind moves in winding fashion through the naked boughs of my myrtle trees.
Geese moving across the sky in this darkness make an odd and muted cry.
The waitress next door sits in her car, the engine idling in laborious fashion, she will go in after awhile.
My mind is busy thinking of things that will never happen while I wait for sleep’s arrival.
So frozen is this northern Clime
Night’s ceiling dark and endlessly high
Stars with their pale pale light
Shine infinitely while we’re spinning
The warmth of my breath as it whispers
A prayer hangs brittle in the frost
The crystals form beautiful, serene
Whisked away by a Mistral to Persephone
By chance or design she takes pity on my plea
And I know my heart is not lost.
Oh this dark, sunless hour of inconvenient activity.
There is a certain bliss in falling. The weightlessness and the rush and if you’re lucky someone has taught you how to tuck and roll to avoid much of the pain of impact. I dare say that is why we call it falling in love.
Subtraction makes everything smaller. The less you have the less you are and so I wonder if that is why people wither and die?