Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Fuck It Up.
Waiting still. She can wait for years. Wait through storms, and presidencies, and tears. Wait through the painful images Dar will cast on the wall off your mind that the projector of our past is pointed at. We have no screen. No false pretenses about what these images will do to the walls of my mind..
Heart...
Mind. I never seem to mind. I just lie to myself about my ability to negotiate how I feel. Bloody knuckles in my head are just as bad as the ones on my hands. Either way it is a mark. The way my inability to control my anger will leave its brand. I am afraid of you finding out that I can't wait like you. I am not like Christ. I won't hang for anything. I just break limbs off of trees and swipe them at the sky and declare that I can't wait... but I can stand. And I can wipe the blood off of my lip and onto the cuff of my sleeve and wish horrible things. And you can kick me. And I will stand. And you can kick me and I will stand. One more time than you can kick me. I will keep a running tally of how many times you kick me or failed me or failed to break me by carving words into the back of my eyes that I will see when I close them to sleep. Because even sleep won't let me wait. Wait. Weight that pulls me down, like millions of little fingers wrapped up in yellow nicotine on porches across the country. Leaving memory smells in my coat that has fallen apart more than once. And I stitch it up, because I won't let it go. I need it to keep me from getting cold. And to carry my blood when I wait too. Just different than you. And in your stillness, I can never seem to catch up. But don't stop. I will be awhile. I have to get up a few more times than you do between here and done. So don't. Because, if you did? You'd be waiting still. Through storms, and presidencies, and tears. Because I am going to have to heal for years. ¶ 5:44 PM
Waiting still. She can wait for years. Wait through storms, and presidencies, and tears. Wait through the painful images Dar will cast on the wall off your mind that the projector of our past is pointed at. We have no screen. No false pretenses about what these images will do to the walls of my mind..
Heart...
Mind. I never seem to mind. I just lie to myself about my ability to negotiate how I feel. Bloody knuckles in my head are just as bad as the ones on my hands. Either way it is a mark. The way my inability to control my anger will leave its brand. I am afraid of you finding out that I can't wait like you. I am not like Christ. I won't hang for anything. I just break limbs off of trees and swipe them at the sky and declare that I can't wait... but I can stand. And I can wipe the blood off of my lip and onto the cuff of my sleeve and wish horrible things. And you can kick me. And I will stand. And you can kick me and I will stand. One more time than you can kick me. I will keep a running tally of how many times you kick me or failed me or failed to break me by carving words into the back of my eyes that I will see when I close them to sleep. Because even sleep won't let me wait. Wait. Weight that pulls me down, like millions of little fingers wrapped up in yellow nicotine on porches across the country. Leaving memory smells in my coat that has fallen apart more than once. And I stitch it up, because I won't let it go. I need it to keep me from getting cold. And to carry my blood when I wait too. Just different than you. And in your stillness, I can never seem to catch up. But don't stop. I will be awhile. I have to get up a few more times than you do between here and done. So don't. Because, if you did? You'd be waiting still. Through storms, and presidencies, and tears. Because I am going to have to heal for years. ¶ 5:44 PM
