i dont feel bitter anymore, but the wound still bleeds quite often; seeping reminders into my clothes, painting me with somber pigments long forgotten in my deadened pallor.
with great hesitance and trepidation i decided i was prepared for change in my station. i thought, like a fool, that it would feel like renewal, resurgence, vigilance or vacation-- but the place to which i ran away was a hell of my own creation.
it's stuck in my throat. try to speak, can't denote. try to stay, can't devote. try to leave, forget my coat. barely afloat by the foot note, need a scapegoat or a re-vote.
when my final record plays, will death stop and watch me as i dance one last dance? will he take my hands, and spin around with me? will he clap when it's done? would he for anybody?