Hindsight

He only spoke lies
She asked him for the truth once
A pin dropped – Silence

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I Haven’t Written In A While (A Love Poem For D)

Well, I have.
In my head.

But you don’t know this
Unless you could creep around
In the Squoosh
And Mush
Attempting to make sense
of the scattered bits
of mangled paragraphs
half-finished words
let alone
mismanaged punctuation.

Make your way through
my glow worm caves
dangling luminescent
thoughts
pooling into the collective
goop
which I will eventually
strain into something
formative.
Maybe.

But I’ve “written”.
There are essays
and strong opinions expressed vehemently
sharply jutting out
haphazardly
here and there.
Gardens of prose
jagged brambles
and the sickly sweet scent of dying lilies
intertwined
making a mess…

The bees have been happier.

I suppose
I just wanted you to know
That I have been keeping up

And every thought of you
Incites inspiration

You make me want
to bring order
to the chaos
mend and organize
my fragmented parts
and pieces

I am
motivated to
light a trail
leading out of my darkness
exposing
the shards and
skin slicing edges
(though I can’t imagine
not getting a small cut
*bound to happen*
especially if you’re
walking barefoot)
so you can better make your way
deeper into my soul

There I can tend and tame
the prickly burrs
Not an easy task
But
Better for the bees
who will be keeping busy
with the new buds that have blossomed

Because of you.

For Daidria

“Your glance scatters seeds.
It planted a tree.
I talk
Because you shake its leaves.”

From Letter of Testimony Coda by Octavio Paz

Smeared

how wretched this predicament and how stinging the pain wrenching deep down into the place where i would run to be happy – to find an escape from the seduction of agony and her silky wiles of indigo blue dank

she follows it follows
and i might finally be done

not yet

i convalesce

how gorgeous this spot becomes – i just never before noticed the velvet of the violet hues – so vibrant – and how strange that this isn’t really my place anymore…. it has transformed into something completely different

in the corner a crumpled mass of sorts – what a marring sight to the dark beguiling magnificence of my secret grotto – beige and malformed it taunts me with its ugliness but i am too distracted to approach

besides
i don’t want to know

how completely in awe i am that i begin to spin and spin and spin until the blues and purples become nothing but a hazy canvas and i am the center or maybe the circle on the right – perhaps the ? on the bottom left

i am everywhere and anywhere – nowhere – and i collapse into a pool of crimson that i soon realize is nothing but a river of my past’s tears that has collected into a quicksand pit around my feet and i begin to sink and sink and

the beige mass – crumpled deformity raises what i think might be its head but i can’t see past the thick of the deep maroon

all i hear is silence and my breath as it rasps swallowing my gargled delirious sobs

i am
home

Note To Self

I’m not fond of it. And it’s something I can never put my finger on. I can be having quite the innocuous day – somewhat pleasant, fairly uneventful, nothing out of the ordinary will have occurred – when I am just dealt the most sucker of punches to my emotional sternum. I feel my mental legs buckling beneath me, slipping into the wash of melancholy, muddy and oppressive.

I am hit with the Sad.
A Bushel of Blegh.

You could lay at my feet all the smiles and laughter that had just been bouncing about, deliver happy chirps of well-meaning pick-me-up cliches, wrap me in the Tomorrow Is Another Day positivity that you keep handy for occasions such as these…

They will all be shunned.

Not because I don’t want any of those and more.
Not because I enjoy the depressing descent into Debbie Downerville.

No.

I will ruin every last bit of bright and shiny you give me. I will dejectedly demolish every grin and chuckle with my clumsy clompy feet. Accidentally muffle and strangulate the once vibrant twittering of good intentions. I will shred to pieces the shawl of optimism, never a chance to warm against the shivering dankness of the dark.

I would rather you keep those bits to yourself. Keep every last piece intact. Protect each one from my awkwardly ambling slippery with the Sad self.

I may be a dumpy mess, but I am not a monster.