My self is a slippery bitch wants to hide in the mud. I try to lure it out. It tells me to go to hell. So I went and stayed till it ran out of masks. I sigh & ask, "What now?" Self says, "Don't look at me for help." So I wrangle the bitch out, make it sit while I draw. It doesn't like it one bit, but it's high time to live. I don't know where we split, maybe since the first period. The self no longer fit, so it went escapist. Gee, I wonder what we could've been. Probably happily in oblivion. But then I'd be bored. So I guest it worked out best.
There's the dark nights with no land in sight, drifting in the shifting fog & the reflections on the ink black. Sleep's someone else's dream & I'm having the nightmare leftovers. They look familiar. I say, "Hi." Perfecting the personal recipe for self-reproach, doubt & "Oh, what was I thinking?" "Was I really there? Am I even here?" I think I will go on, regardless.
I don't know why I cry. At least I don't feel dead. What you ask about a smile. Is that tears in your eyes? Can't predict the weather of this ocean inside. Never sure when's the encounter. A meteor in the sky. Is it the high that brings the low, or is the low that brings the tides? I don't trust it. My brain can't command. The spirit roams looking for an echo. A fleeting moment the universe's made for. No evidence. No reason. No witness, No future. No declaration. No following. It's lost till it appears, again. Before you recognize it. While you wait for it. Maybe prepared for it. It will be yours. Just for a moment. You're all its worth.
I took you when you were young, and saw the world through your wonders. You ditched me when it became boring when I'm with you everything's easy. I watched you splitting into two. The warring drains your mind till you're blind of what should've been. It's not your fault. It's too much too fast. You are always alone looking for answers you've already known. You could, so you did. But you've been missing home. Older & wiser, thinking yourself a fool. It's OK. I knew you'd come this way. You love me, so, you had to throw me away. I'm still right here, the same everything. I understand you have to grow alone, finding your battles & healing your wounds, being tempted at every step to turn back. I can't begin to tell you how proud I am. Have you had your fun? Good. It's time to take possession.
It's not my fault they are all twisted twines. It is my fault for ever believing in them. Tying my worth on fragile egos, hiding my made-up sorrows. "I don't want to be strong, yet." "I want someone to carry me to tell me it's all gonna be fine." Now I know it's all bullshit. The intuition is always correct. Bypass the ritualistic liars, it's about who gets fucked & who gets paid double time. It's a world without reason: you can be cruel & people will worship you if you set the rules; the thieves thrive while the kind-hearted lose their lives & minds. A world in our image, burning from the inside.
I’m in love with my bed. Or at the moment just the sheet. It was washed and tumble-dried and I still remember how toasty it was last night. I didn’t think about my sleeping position, I just wanted to go fetal and let go. And I was rewarded. I had candied-dreams last night. The kind that you can hold in your hand as if they are cute little jewels that are wrapped in even cuter wrappers. I didn’t even mind having to wake up to change my un-sanitary pad in the middle of night.
But the wind, oh the wind, or rather the air. It’d been blowing the whole night and well into noon while I’m still in bed (because I can’t bring myself to leave). The air is fragrant, like how it was long ago, like how it should be. There was no sound of traffic for the longest time, so the air remains unpolluted, undisturbed. It caresses me with its gentleness and its scent. And I remember…
Outside of the window, the occasional courting birds hide under the fruiting tree, and the feasting butterflies picking out the rotting fruits on the ground. My roaming eyes seek them out, while my body, my sensitive body like my sensitive nose picks up the friction from the sheet and the air. It is good to have a body. Even a bleeding one. I cuddle with the sheet, bunch them up and hold them close to my bosom, as one would with a loved one. For my body is in love with the bed, as my mind is in love with the moment. I can’t bring myself to leave.
Across the street, balloons decorate a neighbor’s front yard, “15”, big and red. Do I want to be 15 again? No. If I’m in peace at this moment, all the moments before led me to this. I can have no regrets. But cake, mmmm, cake. I wonder if I will leave this bed, this moment for another moment with the half eaten cake in the fridge…