My hand was covered with drying blood. The broken pieces of the things you cared about cut me, and I was willing, and I was able, and I picked them up and put them away. A scratch meant nothing. The blood meant I was alive. My scribbles came straight from the heart.
I wanted nothing more than to sleep there at your door, but it's a dangerous place and a dangerous time and if you opened it up, I might have stood a chance. I didn't mean to interrupt you. I didn't mean to hurt you. But we all lose battles, don't we?
I used to be meek and quiet about these messes. Then, I felt like shit. But now, I'm the common denominator and wonder why I don't quite fit. What the fuck is wrong with me? When I was with you, I was perfect, but all together, we were broken.
All apologies, polite signatures, and formal decoration.
I am here to make you happy I am here to lose my mind.
I am echoing echoing echoing and the feedback is deeper
than I ever wanted to think it could be.
I slump downwards and dream in reverse. When I wake up, I'm in my own bed, my own sheets, my own warm red blanket. You speak no metaphors. You have no tongue and no eyes and I refuse to sleep again only to defy you. "You're scary when you don't sleep," you say. And I bare my sharp-toothed grin.
And when this all comes down, a tiny crack opens and everything I fear in me is springs back to life and feasts on my fluttering heart, knowing it will not have another meal for a very long time. As I sit here, desperate to dissolve into billions of little particles and float away as if I was never here, I pick up the phone to call an old friend. Four rings. A pre-recorded voice. She asks me to leave a message.
But a robot takes her place. "I'm sorry. It is done. You may not."
Beep. Click. I'm alone once again.
[Apr. 3, 2011]