Author: foxtongue

a pale mother to a dark place

Staying up impossibly late, waiting for a step at the door, trying to demonstrate faith, a burst of forced optimism trying to erase pain. I am shut out while shut in, unwelcome, made to walk home in the rain, every step on glass, echoes of years ago, chest hollow, hair wet, the blood of love on my hands, refused, pushed off an edge from a great height, broken, breaking. Morning brings panic, an irrational jolt wondering what could have happened to keep him away, before I fully engage and instead hate.

commitment/abandonment

Today, for April’s Fools, I sent A. a note saying I’d been looking for ideas for when we get married, and “what do you think about this as an inspiration page?” In reply he said, “That’s actually kind of scary. And it makes my news a little ill timed.”, and then proceeded to explain that he was moving back to England for a job opportunity.

I’m not sure how it happened so perfectly, but I think we just exemplified a rather amusing gender bias. Why yes, we do regularly mock stereotypical hetero-normative behaviour, even while embracing it, why do you ask?

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because we do this too

The Secret Knots displays a secretive, self referential narrative in its newest presentation, The Protaganist.

I have not been writing lately or taking pictures or doing much of anything. I have become insular, a hermit of my own home, my descriptive windows shuttered, my ability to reach out and communicate closed. I stay up late waiting for a reason to go to bed yet wake up early, worn out, grasping for a reason to stay asleep. Every day is thinner than the last.