These roots are bitter, rotten, and I’m pulling them all up to show people who I think might see the ends and understand. To point to the places I’d gone bad and prove my process somehow. To pick out the rotten stuff, splay them, and put these false convictions, contradictions, conflagrations out.
I keep telling myself and thinking someone is paying any attention, but no-one recalls the conversation where I stopped and just said it. So what, exactly now, is my motivation? Subconscious indoctrination? Is this the way my mind works these days?
I’m making stories and lies and manipulations. Pulling strings and tying knots and hoping someone outside of my skin and bones notices. I’m uprooting all the things I once believed in to get myself away from the dock’s edge. But I’m wondering: where do I go to get inside, out of the rain, out of the pain after this?
The fire of all those old homes is still warm. I can feel it from here. But I know just how those fires burn, and I’ve got scars to last me years and years inside themselves, and that’s enough.
I might be running backward away from things, but I can’t say I fear not seeing straight anymore.
I think the straightness that I thougth I saw was a tattered and torn rendition of reality, and I think when we sat and fought and talked together — we were tearing it even more.
Like how heaven fell flat before me on the curb in a planter full of trash beside a movie theater. Like how god just got thinner and thinner and thinner the more we went about the edges of it, the further we dug hard down into it. Like how we sat close together in hard cold church rows and got talked over. Like how we didn’t find those rows comforting and comfortable on our backs when we went back anymore.
Like how I see between the lights and can read between the lines, and I wonder who else is doing it too.
Like how I can come up with lies and lines that will get everyone I love to do the things I want, but how I don’t want to be that way now.
Like how we both settle in the same goddamn ruts when we try to climb back out.
There’s only seven trillion of us, and not even one seems get it right.
My aim gets off and this arrow flies slightly too far south, every time I think I’m doing fine.
I guess, in the end, there’s only getting up and trying again.
And in doing it — if I have everything to fear, I have nothing to lose.