First lesson you ever learned
Second lesson was: They leave and keep on forfeiting
You’ve been gone too long and they have forgotten you
Your people, your former tribe, where you came from
Now it seems so long ago, another version of you, dislocated
Unfamiliar in your punched out center, wrought with black rose
You wish you could forget
But ever ready hurt blooms at night, perfuming loss with her heavy hands
You are told you are losing your sight
Someone reminds you that you can learn braille
You want to tell them to fuck off
You want to fuck off with them and not be you
The one who is going moon blind
It was too much a very long time ago
Now it’s indescribable, that cecity, that indistinction, how edges
lose focus; you dip your dissolving fingers into the caliginous
and stay and stay and stay
Maybe only the belief you may die before it all begins rolling down hill
An odd insensate longing to live
Despite nothing but the saturnine skin on your back
Cold against a dark breaded chill
Maybe the imagined beach at night and the fancied freedom that doesn’t exist
Like chasing the dragon and hoping, in that disconsolate smoke
You will find somewhere else, far from sentencing and early mornings
Dripping with a specific brand of despair you know as your reflection
Take your eye off the stygian shackles
Try not to need love
Try not to have dreams
When they break you, it just hurts twice as bad
Besotted with gentling folly
Now you understand why they took their lives at 27.
5 Replies to “27”
And no matter how much we understand the leaving or wanting to leave, or how we come to understand, still we want them to stay or to have stayed, and hope that love might make the difference, or had made the difference. Loss is still loss. Understanding doesn’t change that.
Sigh. I feel you on this, love.
I so relate to your “saturnine skin”. It endures so much; in the right light it must be like the hide of a rhinoceros, or a whale with decades of harpoons sticking out of it…
Such an awful prognosis
I understand this all too well. Much love, desert wonder. You’re writing never fails to touch and move me.
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