Barring knives and Scars

Note: This was supposed to have a visual aspect. Formatting. You know, spaces and shit. It all got deleted when I hit “Post”. Fucking, bullshit. I can’t be bothered to fuck with the tags any longer. So, you get this plain version. I’m sorry.

Get tired of feeling?
Like shit?
It gets no-one nowhere,

Just back here.
Again and again.

What am I supposed to do?
Nothing?

Not notice.

This is idiotic.
Mecha-fucking-kucha.

But anger is truncating,
here,
so sit still and quiet like a demure good litle girl.
Hands folded in an antique lacey lap–
all feminine and everything.
I cross my legs the right way,
ankles tucked behind the left side of my chair,
to prove it all to you.
This isn’t about gender.

It never is.

The world laughs
scoffs
while the lies, they just fucking multiply
— and none of this is about me.

How are we supposed to get a hand-hold?
A handle on it?
A hold on anything?

I think you hate me,
Everyone, everything.
but when I ask you
— you say no.
Everytime.
What the fuck does that signify?

Can’t be bothered.
Won’t be disturbed.
Don’t break this goddamn silence in this fancy room.
It was so nice before
you.

–should just sit quiet
Everything goes so much smoother.
Oh, how time can just melt away like butter on hot bread.

So, we sit here
shit the breeze and get nowhere with each other.

You are happy.
I’m in hell.
I don’t even believe in those lines. Anyway.
What does that signify?

Poetry,
while beautifully crafted,
has fucking elluded me.
I don’t write
in meter,
rhyme,
significant events
these days.

I don’t make pretty things
allusions to brighter days,
happy things.

I’m coming
apart
at the goddamn seams.

A trip across the country,
that’ll fucking fix it.
A lone in a big house,
that’ll even it all the fuck back out.

It broke apart there.
Do you think–
if I stand in the yard
just wait for the wind to come,
Those pieces will float back together?

I slept in the yard
with you and others
allof it, from my head.

I remember back in California
while grandpa was dying
or going mad,
we sat out on the porch swing,
gliding,
slipping,
sidling–
and somehow made up a better world.

Those lines aren’t dead,
but set to rest.
These, crumbling into ash.
Dust and death.

We, as a conglomerate,
have no tangible rate at which to grade these things.
YOu want to run away?
want to hide.
I WAnT to break apart.

Who can help now?
god was such a convenient answer,
such a silent power,
such a non-existent lover.
I think I learned:
to believe in love from a thing that never was.

What does that signify?

Don’t try to love.
We can never stand the chance.

This rotten spring is molding fast.
Do you have have a new shadow
of some present future in your head?
I’m continually afraid–
— it’s coming.

I’m standing in it,
on it.
With it.
–even now.

This doorway.
I don’t wantto have to pass through.
Oh, but here we are.
So.

What does this signify?

I’m a wreck
I make a lot of noise when I dye.
I’m turning red and blue.
I’m coming up at the roots.

Oh well.
Oh well.

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