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| note to self:
my feelings don't matter.
i'd love to go there, like i promised, and leave for awhile. i'd like to clear my head, clear your head, clear our heads into nothing but teeth and pulse. i care far too much. i care close to insanity. | | |
| i hope there's someone who will take care of me when i die.
and i don't care if i never sleep again. because sleep has never been the same. and now my pockets of thoughts are overflowing with the image of you and i can't contain my soul anymore. i hate my emotion for overtaking every cell but these very thoughts are more dear to me than the ones i make alone today. i want to kiss your fear and make you feel something once more before we perish. come back again to here knows when. | | |
| in the hospital, i did not get well. i got worse. i would've gotten worse anyway, i was so far gone. but the hospital became a haven for me, as it does for many of us. it became the eden i longed for when i was out. it was as close to death- that still, silent, very safe place- as i thought i could come. life stops. time stops. you become a case, a study, a curiosity, a problem, a sickness, a child. you do the crossword puzzle all day long. you read countless books, undisturbed.
and when they let you out at last, you are far more scared than when you went in. | | |
| he exits a long hallway that i cannot see except for where he just appeared. i only know it is long because there are ten silent beings and the hardness of his tasseled dress shoes boom through dead air, beginning faintly and increasing until he is exactly at the exit. he wears a long khaki coat that automatically sparks images of my father; both thinking appearance is key. i observe every moment, slouching cross-legged with a stale, ashy taste in my mouth. my pants are too big and i can't recall the last time i washed my hands. and i know appearance only matters when you stare blankly at a mirror and start to think about life. as i secretly document this man, his voice is known when he exclaims "happy new year!" to a familiar younger man across the room. as he struts further along, his white hair moves, too. he is confident, bouncing through his wanted career. one piece of silky white sticks straight into the passing air which makes the corners of my mouth curve slightly upward. he walks right past my writing hand, and i think again of my father.
© january, 2006. | | |
| our lack of words sickens me sometimes. the whole time i spend walking clumsily through unknowns, i see your face within every mutual glancer. i sat on a bench for awhile, alone, but the cold threw it's bitterness to me and it seared through my pants and the ache lingered there for hours. all we had wanted was that memory of us and i blew it by resistance. i would have rather us stay warm against each other with only my feet feeling any slight twinges of low temperatures. i struggle through lack of movement, and turn toward possibilities that are already familiar with this. | | |
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