These are [arenít?] lies. I try to remind myself of that.
No more presents under pine-scented plastic trees. No more laughing child dances under stars and moons and chilly wind gustsónaked and naÔve and the object of far too much lust. No more Tokyo surprises. Weíve eaten them all. Gluttoned ourselves on crisp clean joy-boxes. Ripped our best times into meaningless chunks of matter and forgotten memory folders.
I am calculating, callous, manipulative, selfish, useless, arrogant, smothering, cold, barren, frenzied, impolite, sun-sharp, black-hole dark, wormhole-empty, never to be seen againÖ
My heart is too soft. Flurried, striated. A study in repose. A blast of frigid wind tunnel power. There's no blood left to steal. It was drained before men in scrub-green with sticky latex hands ripped me from safe shores. No time to clench muscles previously undiscovered.
I canít stay long. Time to be off to that numb, eyes-wide-shut place. Thereís no more heavy sweaty panting thrustióno more over-input. My darling, my darlóno more sound or spit or mouth-heat wrongness. No more no more no more no no no no no no.
Itís all taken away. Washed out, faded in. Too many holes to ever caulk shut. Iíll slosh them half-full with cheap vodka. Mix it with hunched, dead theories of seven-plus-or-minus-two encoding rules. Twist the faces into unrecognizable shadows of once-men and lurking beasts. Shoot it away in ruined veins.
Iíve cowered. Iíve laid pin-drop still and held my breath so long I thought Iíd [hoped Iíd?] lose consciousness. Iíve refused and down-casted and conceded more times than seven-to-ten year olds can count. Pushed the truth out through hazy little-girl rememberings one time and one time only. Smiled and lied and never ever never ever told anyone else. Never will.
Thereís a golden owl that stretches dagger-peaked talons across lakes of unpleasantness to hold them at bay. Beyond their rapid, churning currents lay my safe shores. My dying harbor. Back off. Back off.
I wish for one moment I could be cloud-white again. Be the calm in the hands of the young Argentinean house keeper wiping tomato pulp from grouted tile countertops. I wish I could be sugar-sweet and hand-spun again. Leave this shameful baggage on a never-ending airline carousel. Stride up to a man with hard eyes and stained fingers and not piss myself.
This means nothing in the scheme of lifetime events. Nothing more than a scary, spring-loaded clown. A curled python. The full moon over broad, quaking shoulders. Iíve lost the cogs and hands of clocks that still worked. My fear straddles bridges and slides down mountainsides thick with mucus and frozen-eyed stares. Thereís a question and Iím back. Montana wide-sky revelations creeping up my spine again. Shudder-hard knock-down tears.
Stop crying. Heís not worth it.