Back breathless from the bi-weekly poetry slam. My pulse is ready to tear through my skin but I push it down. Lately I run the last block home. I don’t know why. It’s dark, in front of me is a field, I run. Anyone watching would think I know what I’m doing but I can feel my body’s still broken. It’s frightening to run. Feet hitting the ground in such delicate pounding balance, this ankle’s going to go. My faulty eyes can’t see the ground so I focus on what’s ahead of me. I feel like I could go forever. I feel like I can pretend to be whole again.
I’m lying.
Mine from the stage. His words rolling so skillfully on skin that he could almost talk me into loving him. “I was sick for you, but I think I’m better now. Recovering.” I worried last time I saw him, his illness a sheen on his skin, a catch how he looked just barely at me. It hurt my soul. There was nothing I could do. Nothing that would be honest. I’m going to wait for him just a little more. Keep him close to watch him. Skin to taste and bones to break, these words can’t tell what he means to me but not, might I add, enough.
Something will die the day I break a poet.
Victoria posted T. S. Elliot today. I need to post it as well, as I know the same things. It’s a wierd sad place to live my dearest, and a strange road to walk. Lonely when it’s supposed to be home, but it’s not, because we know how beautiful the rest of it is.
“Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow”
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