Journal

Ruff Ruff

I feel as though I may be coming apart at the seams. As though I may shatter from fragility while at the same time my heart is so full of love it may burst. My body is a defect, a blemish to the world and to my self that will never show. How many times perfect can this be? When does the world stop shrinking? And if the end of it comes, or the end of me, will musicality, or, brevity, or, bravery, prevail, on its own terms? Can you shoot the mother but keep the child? Perhaps, but the child won’t love you, and without that you’ve got nothing. Look at me, I just make no sense and jabber on to get words out, to fill the silence- none of this makes sense to me, even, to the self that provokes it: how will the reader, if ever there was, understand? But that’s the reader’s job, to know, to see what I cannot, and my hope is to help the process in time. In time. We all do things in time, I suppose, as the days go, and the weeks, and the years. What about those that don’t, who don’t do anything, they just sit, and watch, and wait, and doodle, and write, and eat, and stay, and pray, they just pray that something will happen. But nothing ever happens, and they just keep praying, and they live forever, these people, you just can’t shut them up or down or away and forget. No, they are the forgotten ones who you listen for at night, scared in your bed, who haunt you in the dark, and in the light. The light ghosts are quiet, but they’re there. The dark ghosts are worse than the light ones. Because they see you, they really know you, like your best friend who has a terrible secret and could tell everyone at any moment and may as well slice open your throat and bathe in your warm blood. They can see my self, that horrible, icky little thing, that self, it won’t go away, the twit, and it sees your self too, whether or not you like it. You better hide, you better hide away now while you’ve still got something. Because I know, I have nothing, no one, anything, except a heart full of bitter resounding acidic love, with nothing to love and nothing to give. I could fall apart. But it won’t happen. Because nothing ever happens.