Monday, February 16

i hope i die in the arms of a child in a meadow where the thistles grow wild

I gave a gift to a boy I can never get back. It was one that he didn't earn or deserve, one for which he could lay no claim. At first, the absence was inconsequential-- a hole in your pocket and you barely notice the .47 cents missing. Now, this false fulfillment of a promise long-ago made feels as though I have given birth to a still-born child.  Those long months(years!) of waiting only culminating in dead weight, all limbs and fingers and toes, and I'm swallowing the placenta to erase the memory of it.

Blanche DuBois said falling in love felt like someone had turned on a brilliant, bright light, but not my love.  My love was the chinese lantern over the bare light bulb, everything soft in glowing warm colors like a child's night light; only, the flashing light exposes twisted faces and blind eyes, writhing from the shock of sudden illumination. This lifeless bundle I've been carrying, so much like the real thing, a cheap imitation-- a ragdoll filled with ashes.

2 comments:

  1. we all have fallen short
    but we still think we're tall.

    you're a phoenix alex. you'll be reborn through these ashes.

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  2. DAMN WOMAN. Take a xanax and go to bed.
    No, wait. Drink some sort of cocktail, then take a xanax, and then go to sleep. SRSLY.

    ReplyDelete