Nightmares and echos

I don’t know.  I don’t know.

I keep rankling and I can’t really seem to even put it into words.  I can’t. I can’t. I thought and thought about what would make me happy and that was me.  I make me happy. Always. no excuses. no shortcuts.  radical.

I think and think all the things that went wrong, that could go wrong and that did and could again.  I cling to promises and words that evaporated when you were asked about them, meaning I guess that you didn’t really want them. were you placating them? me? I ask over and over and over again if I’m a fool. am I a fool? is this stupid? foolish? wishful? willful?

You told the truth and it broke me and you learned to tell a lie.  or maybe you were finally honest?  with you? with me?  I don’t know. You said this to me and that to her and nothing to anyone else.  Because you were trying to spin the sugar, but it’s so fragile and I can’t get purchase.  It have no scaffolding, no spine.  You’ll say what I need you to, what they need you to, and never what you mean.  I’m afraid.  What if you said what you mean?  What would break then? someone.

What if everyone actually said what they mean?  All these webs of spun sugar, spun glass, brittle, crack. Continue reading

Shiny Pennies

 

I jump at shiny penny treasures, so lustrous in luminescent metal.

I remember wishes as facts.  I see beauty in the void.

I spin proof from ether and evidence into mist.

My empty palms feel the weight.

ImageThe smallest truth becomes the foundation and I’m surprised when the universe won’t remain balanced on a sword tip resting on top of a pea.  I stand there like a zombie in the clamor of the fall.  Again.  Again.  Reset.

Goldfish in their bowls, like me, have a no memory.

If I look hard enough my eyes see the outlines of dreams unrealized.

I read into it and under it and through it to the things un-writ.   It is my special gift.

I’m left then with my thoughts, sorting and naming things I invented over and over and over ending always here, right here.

Creativity is jarring because magic is only magic if you don’t see the wires and don’t know the tricks.  I can erase all of the wires and trips and switches for the magician.  I make it so easy.

I’m so sorry for all of it that I apologize to the table, whether I bump it or not.

It is a special gift.  I can manifest all fear, dancing always on my grave, and taking the ax from your grasp to rest you.

I wouldn’t want you to strain yourself.

Let me help.

Let me make it.

Let it be mine.

Let it go and then take it back.

Push me.  Pull me.  Bite me.  Take a chunk.  Tear from my grasp and throw the little glass soap bubbles I’ve made and break them onto to the floor.  Grind their bones with your heal while you dance almost unaware.

It’s all me.  Of course…seeing myself in doll houses.

I’m supposed to be walking by, seeing you while you don’t see me, all the light and heat inside, my chest full of envy.

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