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“These words are laced with cigar smoke and enough love to carry us all through the darkest of places”

October 2, 2011

I’m not sure how this fits in with my MO of being open, of being honest. To tell the truth, it doesn’t. But I almost can’t help myself. I was hoping you’d call me up and tell me I’m better than this, it’s beneath me. But, I’m not. It’s not. And when I say YOU, I’m not sure who I’m waiting to hear from. I think I disappointed you. I think I let you down. I think when you touched me I became human, and maybe that’s not quite what you’re looking for at the moment. I don’t know if you want me to be tangible if it means becoming fallible.

I begin to understand that not saying no isn’t the same thing as saying yes. I wonder if I’ve imagined everything. It’s possible. Improbable, but possible.

There was a time when my words really were laced with smoke, smoke and just enough love. Small shots to make you forget your fear, but not enough to give you legs to outrun your crippling depression.

But I’ve given up the smoke, I have seen the human body ravaged by disease and had the smell of it cling to me for days. Wandering through white corridors losing sight, losing sense. Days and nights blending into each other under fluorescent light. Yes. The smell of piss and shit and stale food and stale(r) sweat getting caught in my hair. You will never look as bad as you do standing in a hospital bathroom, slowly examining the workings (and failings) of your fallible, tangible, human heart.

This is a problem. I am losing track of myself and of you. Which you? I constantly feel the need to escape when faced with my heart. I remember being close to someone, once, his hands on my hips and his voice in my ear, singing. “You’re tearing up”, he said. And I fled as fast as humanly possible, locked myself in his bathroom, and threw those iron walls back up. And this is why I pushed you away from me on that street corner. Why I dug my fingers into your arms and backed away as quickly as I could. Because it is all so fucking tragic and it doesn’t need to be.

And because I Feel Too Much and because it is So Tragic, I had to get away. Maybe, also, I needed to get away from how inadequate that street corner was and how powerless I felt at being confined to this city, these streets, with nowhere to take you to really kiss you the way I mean to.

And maybe you’ve spent the last five days frantically trying to get away, too. Maybe this isn’t what you want. Where is it all going? How can it end well unless it…ends. Maybe I disappointed you by giving in to my own desire, by becoming a liar. Maybe it wasn’t the kiss you thought I’d give. Time didn’t stop, the universe didn’t explode (the universe is exploding around us every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every week of every month of every year any fucking way), and maybe it’s not worth it if I couldn’t shatter you from the inside-out at first touch?

These words are laced with a breath of fresh air, the smoke from burning-from smiting-from laying waste to that which I cannot, will not, bring into the future with me. These words are laced with enough honesty to pierce that iron hull I’ve constructed on this sinking ship of a body that will never, ever be safe from harm. These words are filled with eight different meanings. These words have been given to me. These words have been forced into my brain. These words have been force-fed into my mouth. These words will see me through to the end.

“The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed” and what if those words stopped right there, didn’t continue on to death-and despair-and the unfair march of time? What if I rewrote how it ends? What if I stayed, awakened the dead? What if I make whole what has been smashed and smash what’s been made whole-made wholly-forced down my throat? What if I told the dead to follow me because I’m aching for evolution and I’m going to set all wrongs right?

Would I still be a disappointment? Would you still want to touch me?

 

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One Comment leave one →
  1. October 2, 2011 11:59 pm

    Such urgency and desperation. I recommend deep breaths and more words and remembering that tragedy, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. And also, this: “Wandering through white corridors losing sight, losing sense. Days and nights blending into each other under fluorescent light. Yes. The smell of piss and shit and stale food and stale(r) sweat getting caught in my hair. You will never look as bad as you do standing in a hospital bathroom, slowly examining the workings (and failings) of your fallible, tangible, human heart.”

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