by candlelight i write a feeling, a tattooed secret onto parchment on its fourth life – it’s simple enough: h███ ██↋█ █f███_ that is all – nothing else is needed. then i sign at the bottom, fold the letter twice, carefully place it in a yellowed envelope, seal it shut – and i feed it to the flame, wishing.
i cannot remember how uncomfortable the chairs at my highschool were – i just know that they must have been so. all those science classes kept both my eyes on the window, lost in dreams of different lives. i thought ‘nobody cares’ was a good reason to erase my problems – mine, not theirs, no, ha! – so i went along with that life (emphasis, though, on the li-e). that’s when i discovered the one way to go: words. stories. a dim, slow lightbulb that caught me unawares. first fearful steps turned to blog posts, then a fantasy tome; short fiction gave way to poetry and recovery. it took me years to know what to be floating on air is – and now this broken english is what i call home sweet home, imbued with the daily gift of a grand discovery: that there are worlds still hiding from me in dictionaries.
i look up: the spider dome shows her knees of rust; the faded dress atop and tight – dark army green, ugly but whole – effective in keeping my head and shoulders away from that oh so devilish sky-shaped weeping pail’s dance. at the journey’s midpoint, i watch the sparkly surviving beads speed down and around my old man’s cane – an opportunity: at the finish line of our race (an acronym, bit cheeky) they all hug and puddle together, and with my road pen i write, in glyphs invented right then, how it feels. the gap. the noisy silence. the dry pain of not starting a conversation.
mind the mind, mind of mine – mind the body and be bothered. away the water and wait: voice veers vicious, violent. forget forevers for now. leave a little letter in cursive, of course – curse this curse.