(no subject)
My first thought is “Where is there cry alone here?” I knew only a bathroom stall most easily accessed in some library. So No I cannot cry. I cannot weep. Sometimes your preparedness for a situation does nothing to keep you intact. If the whole point was for a self implosion, why the fuck is my heart skipping, and tears running uncontrollably down my face at the simple randomization of a 8tracks playlist? What does any of it MEAN? What does it MEAN? Where does it take us? What is the significance of any of these things?
I am having a difficult separating my personal feelings from a suggestion of action. I am finding myself drifting. The facts of us cannot be ignored. You happened to me, you are continuing and will continue to happen to me. At one point your threat was imminent. Probably December. Maybe even January, you were contained up until that point. My nana was visiting and one night after dinner I got very very quiet at the table with her, and she is prodding my hip bones, “get her some milk, These bones” she yells off to my mother, she cups them, grabs my face. “tell me my sweet girl” and I ask her what it means. What the fuck it means to my goddamn life that you came hurling towards it. Scooped me at exactly the right moment. Stopped me dead in my fucking tracks with your honesty. One day last February (2013) I asked what you wanted from me, you said “how you taste, and smell and feel and sound and look like in person” in my moments of cynicism I thought “he won, he got what he wanted and he got out.” His strategy of war should be studied. They would build monuments in the swiftness of his actions, in his ability to get in, get what he wanted and get out unscathed. Without a mark on him. All the sheets will be washed, the bed wont even be slept on. My scent lingers on nothing, my art does not hang on the walls, no words of mine were drunkenly scrawled on the corner of his bathroom. There is no poem penned by me on the inside of one of his favorite novels. There are only shelves of books waiting to be read. That I would not even be read.
But that is okay. In real life there are no absolute winners and absolute losers. The ground beneath me had to feel firm at the peak of winter, only to begin to wobble and slide from under my firmly planted feet by spring. How fitting as I reflect. How lovely that he came only to visit during our coldest winter. And only because it was this winter where my skin could even feel the frost. Because last winter I would walk around in short sleeves and this winter I had to bundle myself against the elements, so that even a brisk 37 degrees felt icy to my skin. And I find optimism in that. That my skin was so open to feelings, I was so open and there he appeared. A year of road behind me, strewn with caution signs, almost all of them self proclaimed by him. Almost all. And even with that, even with the high degree of not only failure but of self-destruction, I carried on. So maybe I too wanted to see how he felt and tasted and looked in person. But anyway, my skin is so open and reflective of anything. And I let this fuse in, this atom bomb, I let him down to almost the depths of me. And I let him explode.
And there is only one thing that happens from that. A rebuilding, leading to the most beautiful goddamn view I have ever experienced. A sunny day with a breeze, and a view and the sound of water somewhere. A vista. The fresh air enveloping me. I am somewhere and it is beautiful, and all that I could ever even send you would be simple note; be well. Because you cannot experience this, if you could, you would have allowed yourself to be swallowed up in us. But you cant, and I am grateful for that.
I am having a difficult separating my personal feelings from a suggestion of action. I am finding myself drifting. The facts of us cannot be ignored. You happened to me, you are continuing and will continue to happen to me. At one point your threat was imminent. Probably December. Maybe even January, you were contained up until that point. My nana was visiting and one night after dinner I got very very quiet at the table with her, and she is prodding my hip bones, “get her some milk, These bones” she yells off to my mother, she cups them, grabs my face. “tell me my sweet girl” and I ask her what it means. What the fuck it means to my goddamn life that you came hurling towards it. Scooped me at exactly the right moment. Stopped me dead in my fucking tracks with your honesty. One day last February (2013) I asked what you wanted from me, you said “how you taste, and smell and feel and sound and look like in person” in my moments of cynicism I thought “he won, he got what he wanted and he got out.” His strategy of war should be studied. They would build monuments in the swiftness of his actions, in his ability to get in, get what he wanted and get out unscathed. Without a mark on him. All the sheets will be washed, the bed wont even be slept on. My scent lingers on nothing, my art does not hang on the walls, no words of mine were drunkenly scrawled on the corner of his bathroom. There is no poem penned by me on the inside of one of his favorite novels. There are only shelves of books waiting to be read. That I would not even be read.
But that is okay. In real life there are no absolute winners and absolute losers. The ground beneath me had to feel firm at the peak of winter, only to begin to wobble and slide from under my firmly planted feet by spring. How fitting as I reflect. How lovely that he came only to visit during our coldest winter. And only because it was this winter where my skin could even feel the frost. Because last winter I would walk around in short sleeves and this winter I had to bundle myself against the elements, so that even a brisk 37 degrees felt icy to my skin. And I find optimism in that. That my skin was so open to feelings, I was so open and there he appeared. A year of road behind me, strewn with caution signs, almost all of them self proclaimed by him. Almost all. And even with that, even with the high degree of not only failure but of self-destruction, I carried on. So maybe I too wanted to see how he felt and tasted and looked in person. But anyway, my skin is so open and reflective of anything. And I let this fuse in, this atom bomb, I let him down to almost the depths of me. And I let him explode.
And there is only one thing that happens from that. A rebuilding, leading to the most beautiful goddamn view I have ever experienced. A sunny day with a breeze, and a view and the sound of water somewhere. A vista. The fresh air enveloping me. I am somewhere and it is beautiful, and all that I could ever even send you would be simple note; be well. Because you cannot experience this, if you could, you would have allowed yourself to be swallowed up in us. But you cant, and I am grateful for that.