, Forever Ago
That deathless death,
she told me the words and a cold wave of vomit panic disbelief enveloped the soul, body, shaken, down to the core. And the first thing that you try to do is explain it to yourself so that in some way it makes sense as though that can make sense, but that this could never possibly be me or anyone I know/love. Of this I am the worst sinner and God I will throw myself at Your feet and not ask for absolution but just that she might look at me without anger, disgust.
And so she started using heroin, after. And the details, the way they fall together, you can see the thing in its entirety. The parents that would have been insufferable. The life like a stuffy summer attic and you can't even breathe. The falseness of it all. So you go out, in search of what's real. You open yourself to the world and to adventure and you believe -- really believe -- that the world is going to welcome you and you are going to live authentically and what you find is something else entirely. And the other humans don't see your spark, they hear of your mistake and they stand mouths open happy eager to devour you down to the very bone, a boorish but unflappable examination of a situation that is untenable unknowable. A salt water baptism and how did you carry that load for the time that you did, , , the words are flat, prostrate.
When did you know? How did that all happen within you? The stages of the realization. You were trapped, cornered, danger, too late. Did you look down at your Chuck Taylors and wonder if you could kick hard enough, escape, run? Three against one and you so tiny. And that rationalization comes creeping back and exploits me for the terrible human that I am. Well at least I am big. I could probably hurt someone. Could probably get out. As though that's what it comes down to. I don't think there are enough tears that can be shed for what you went through that night, and your broken body at the hospital, and how they didn't even prosecute because well she got into the car willingly. And there you are back with the stuffy summer attic and the lyceum and this fissure you cannot cross gaping hissing tearing the very soul out of you, down. A thousand nights. I will carry your fear with me, it will be safe with me, and if before my last day I get the chance to return it to those who gave it to you, the interest will have grown a-hundred fold.
And so you died with a needle in your vein, a paroxysm of the rage you were so justified to feel, paralyzed. I want to have the power to take it away from you, all of it. At least, I tell myself, now you are with the only One who really can take it away. How has it come to this? A thousand million questions. Fight the need to rationalize. Accept that there truly is evil on this Earth, that it can be that simple. A mirror, and not a sponge.
she told me the words and a cold wave of vomit panic disbelief enveloped the soul, body, shaken, down to the core. And the first thing that you try to do is explain it to yourself so that in some way it makes sense as though that can make sense, but that this could never possibly be me or anyone I know/love. Of this I am the worst sinner and God I will throw myself at Your feet and not ask for absolution but just that she might look at me without anger, disgust.
And so she started using heroin, after. And the details, the way they fall together, you can see the thing in its entirety. The parents that would have been insufferable. The life like a stuffy summer attic and you can't even breathe. The falseness of it all. So you go out, in search of what's real. You open yourself to the world and to adventure and you believe -- really believe -- that the world is going to welcome you and you are going to live authentically and what you find is something else entirely. And the other humans don't see your spark, they hear of your mistake and they stand mouths open happy eager to devour you down to the very bone, a boorish but unflappable examination of a situation that is untenable unknowable. A salt water baptism and how did you carry that load for the time that you did, , , the words are flat, prostrate.
When did you know? How did that all happen within you? The stages of the realization. You were trapped, cornered, danger, too late. Did you look down at your Chuck Taylors and wonder if you could kick hard enough, escape, run? Three against one and you so tiny. And that rationalization comes creeping back and exploits me for the terrible human that I am. Well at least I am big. I could probably hurt someone. Could probably get out. As though that's what it comes down to. I don't think there are enough tears that can be shed for what you went through that night, and your broken body at the hospital, and how they didn't even prosecute because well she got into the car willingly. And there you are back with the stuffy summer attic and the lyceum and this fissure you cannot cross gaping hissing tearing the very soul out of you, down. A thousand nights. I will carry your fear with me, it will be safe with me, and if before my last day I get the chance to return it to those who gave it to you, the interest will have grown a-hundred fold.
And so you died with a needle in your vein, a paroxysm of the rage you were so justified to feel, paralyzed. I want to have the power to take it away from you, all of it. At least, I tell myself, now you are with the only One who really can take it away. How has it come to this? A thousand million questions. Fight the need to rationalize. Accept that there truly is evil on this Earth, that it can be that simple. A mirror, and not a sponge.
