Feb 2014
There are words I'd like to use. Sixty tracks of my mind follow through to, "Yes, those are the adjectives of choice, of reason," and the nine other tracks are riddled with stains of the catatonic ***** I've been purging for months now. They insist that no, no those are the words you are supposed to say, not the words that count.
Infested, drunk, disheveled and belief is too far gone.
Horrified imprisoned cultivated from mud and grease and whatever was unearthed from these curtained walls.
No, these have never been the proper words. But never have you had the proper focus, Hannah. Never before have these same eyes glistened toward the voices that sound so plainly like the one you wish could beckon you once more. Never before have you even possessed eyes that glistened. But we see them now, incandescent and descending.
My honesty has committed crimes against my body and my passions, but here is where my honesty has taken hold. In every honesty, as far back as honesty has existed, (let's say a couple of months, a couple of fortnights, a couple of howls of 'oh god is this morning no ******* it, the sky is still dark and this is not the bed I Belong in,') here is the blatant foolishness of it: Emotion has gone and all that is left are symptoms of emotion.
Symptoms. Knowing I will barely speak tomorrow if sleep doesn't come soon and standing in the dark with my back to the mattress, desperately clinging to words I can't bring myself to put anywhere. Words I would rather not see living forever in the context in which they appeared. There is no destruction, no violence, no pain or torture or infestations and certainly no belief, certainly no sobriety. This tongue cannot for the life of it, (a life it doesn't own,) recall the last time it tasted tears. It begs the question, "What defined my emotions before?"
It could have been the groggy, drowsy, half-hearted feelings of self loathing, or the chest convulsions of loneliness. It could have been this thing or that thing, but nothing that has ever been representative of my emotions is still around. Not one single frame. Not the smallest second, the tiniest glimmer, the ******* the ******* the *******.
Nothing.
It begs the question, "What could have done this to me?"
Never evident until investigated. Never obvious until I lay my left hand on the sheet by my face and trace the patterns of my veins with my vision. I no longer allow myself to be alone with my brain for longer than a moment.
My domain is cold and you are the one remaining prisoner, and please god evacuate now before your spell takes hold with that physical strength.
Who am I ******* kidding?
I've been under for years and this **** is deadly. True, tried, tired.
In the pacific northwest you left a shell. Filed, filled and defined, now. Something rose from the ashes of my imagination burning my Belong ings. Tangible things that force my brain to recall that morning our kitchen smelled of swedish pancakes and that evening the black and white movie sent us walking hand in hand, cold and blissfully content to be cold, debating and spouting trickery as we always did. Tangible things my fingers simply can't bear. That pair of mugs was ours not mine, our lips hugged their edges so many mornings afternoons evenings and now I've locked them away under 's' for 'Somewhere that isn't here'.
This man I'm singing to doesn't want to hear it but he knows it must be said. If it stays within me for one more hour, through one more mythical sideways glance at the man who wishes he could right-click-cut me away, my soul will have to be found, dug up and exhumed before I could ever explore it again. This man I'm singing to hates that I have to express what I must express but god ******* **** I must express it and he needs to know that my feet feel lined with concrete and my heart never left that golden ground. Cannot define beg, never will again.
She won't play games or play with struggle. God all she wants is those arms wrapped around her. She isn't cold. She isn't alone. She isn't common or messy or underground indefinitely. These arms are up and she is praying that what is in them is going to soar far enough to reach him on the other side. But she doesn't pray.
You have my devotion now you Must have my madness; do with it what you will but please god let me sacrifice it to you.
I thought of you today all day and yesterday every solid second of yesterday and if I prayed I would pray to wake up tomorrow having forgotten(maintained) your name, face, touch and that ******* radio voice.
Infested, drunk, disheveled and belief is too far gone.
Horrified imprisoned cultivated from mud and grease and whatever was unearthed from these curtained walls.
No, these have never been the proper words. But never have you had the proper focus, Hannah. Never before have these same eyes glistened toward the voices that sound so plainly like the one you wish could beckon you once more. Never before have you even possessed eyes that glistened. But we see them now, incandescent and descending.
My honesty has committed crimes against my body and my passions, but here is where my honesty has taken hold. In every honesty, as far back as honesty has existed, (let's say a couple of months, a couple of fortnights, a couple of howls of 'oh god is this morning no ******* it, the sky is still dark and this is not the bed I Belong in,') here is the blatant foolishness of it: Emotion has gone and all that is left are symptoms of emotion.
Symptoms. Knowing I will barely speak tomorrow if sleep doesn't come soon and standing in the dark with my back to the mattress, desperately clinging to words I can't bring myself to put anywhere. Words I would rather not see living forever in the context in which they appeared. There is no destruction, no violence, no pain or torture or infestations and certainly no belief, certainly no sobriety. This tongue cannot for the life of it, (a life it doesn't own,) recall the last time it tasted tears. It begs the question, "What defined my emotions before?"
It could have been the groggy, drowsy, half-hearted feelings of self loathing, or the chest convulsions of loneliness. It could have been this thing or that thing, but nothing that has ever been representative of my emotions is still around. Not one single frame. Not the smallest second, the tiniest glimmer, the ******* the ******* the *******.
Nothing.
It begs the question, "What could have done this to me?"
Never evident until investigated. Never obvious until I lay my left hand on the sheet by my face and trace the patterns of my veins with my vision. I no longer allow myself to be alone with my brain for longer than a moment.
My domain is cold and you are the one remaining prisoner, and please god evacuate now before your spell takes hold with that physical strength.
Who am I ******* kidding?
I've been under for years and this **** is deadly. True, tried, tired.
In the pacific northwest you left a shell. Filed, filled and defined, now. Something rose from the ashes of my imagination burning my Belong ings. Tangible things that force my brain to recall that morning our kitchen smelled of swedish pancakes and that evening the black and white movie sent us walking hand in hand, cold and blissfully content to be cold, debating and spouting trickery as we always did. Tangible things my fingers simply can't bear. That pair of mugs was ours not mine, our lips hugged their edges so many mornings afternoons evenings and now I've locked them away under 's' for 'Somewhere that isn't here'.
This man I'm singing to doesn't want to hear it but he knows it must be said. If it stays within me for one more hour, through one more mythical sideways glance at the man who wishes he could right-click-cut me away, my soul will have to be found, dug up and exhumed before I could ever explore it again. This man I'm singing to hates that I have to express what I must express but god ******* **** I must express it and he needs to know that my feet feel lined with concrete and my heart never left that golden ground. Cannot define beg, never will again.
She won't play games or play with struggle. God all she wants is those arms wrapped around her. She isn't cold. She isn't alone. She isn't common or messy or underground indefinitely. These arms are up and she is praying that what is in them is going to soar far enough to reach him on the other side. But she doesn't pray.
You have my devotion now you Must have my madness; do with it what you will but please god let me sacrifice it to you.
I thought of you today all day and yesterday every solid second of yesterday and if I prayed I would pray to wake up tomorrow having forgotten(maintained) your name, face, touch and that ******* radio voice.
