writing you off

saturday
late in may
5:48am (dawn)
  :my life
   in ruins in
silence surrounding
the sibilant stroke
of the pen speaking
   in tunnel tones
inside my bones
   echoing &
measuring my
hollows while
the conversion
continues
  :marrow into
   oblivion at the
speed of the sound of
someone scrawling across
the abyss in the wind all the while
waiting for the images
to resolve into
one
  :vivid & visceral &
   ultimately irrefutable, it is
the absence of love & it sends the pen
skidding into a storytelling
about a morning
i am calling
“the end”

(me)
27MAY95


so last night there were two more of these ninety-fives, i tried not to hate them for being bad depressing poetry, but that wasn’t going to happen, & they were summarily deleted. i was saving this one & then realized, why? it’s really the only nine-fiver that really shines, i mean this one is as vivid to me today as the morning i was sitting crosslegged on the bed & engaged in a little basic journalism — i remember that silence, & the sound of the pen & the echoes in the bones & … everything, utterly clear, just as it happened. that one flowed, it did.

& for the record, this love did not end in 95. it continued in me for several years after; all of them, like the one that preceeded, were in retrospect very bad choices on my part. the damage is not just my own, my daughter suffered as well. i was a weak helpless thing then, my only resistance to the tyranny was when i whined, & i did so much of that; it concerns me that i am doing so much of the same thing now, & very little else. however now, there is only the hangover of years of subjugation, & so i can call this processing. & there is a need for this, because no matter how resolute i am about the eventual outcome, until i can see the path to it, it isn’t real.

so i dig back in my old scribbled archives for these memories, & i comfort myself that there is some justification for the way i’ve stopped feeling, that i’m not the heartless cold ice queen bitch i’m going to be accused of being when & if i ever make it out that door. ideally at some point i will be convinced that i deserve to be happy, as opposed to sacrificing myself & having only the dubious nobility of my own suffering after it’s all over & done. ideally.

nowhere near that now.

2 thoughts on “writing you off

  1. driving makes me too happy to do serious thinking.

    if i ever head out to the desert it’ll be on a quest for those inner alien lizards.

    maybe they’d know what to do?

  2. Ever consider a road trip all by yourself into the desert? It might be good to think things through carefully and figure stuff out.

    Life is short, and I don’t personally believe that we get another go round. I know that if I wasn’t so scared of being alone I would walk away from the rat race and just vanish. When Portiastar was on the road my heart was screaming at me to just escape. But, for me, it all comes down to my irrational and overwhelming fear of being alone (and possibly dying alone).

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