Reflections on a Long String of Days

A constant tug-of-war(such high

casualties

in a civil war like

this)can

truly be exhausting,leaving

hardly a thing

for this

silly

little

thing

called living.

Back Log

So, when I started this little blog, it was a challenge to myself to write something creative every day. And I kept up with it for some time. Then Kristin died, and I lost all enthusiasm for breathing, let alone writing.

But life keeps moving.

And the heart keeps beating, even if it's broken a little bit more than it was yesterday.

It's 2012 now; it's a new year, a chance to start over. I'm getting back to writing every day.

I know that I'm nine days late in this renewed venture, but I figure nine days late is better than not starting at all.

- M.

The Discrepancy Between

to run the risk of being

deci

mat

ed

by the tip of your finger

means more

to

me

than all the sanctuary

i could find

within

another's

gaze.

peace is only found when not even a breath can nestle between us

from the tips of the strands sprouting from your crown

to the far reaches of your toes

to every strategically placed hair on your body

to every skin cell that i can claim

to every millimeter between one feature and another

to every purpose of that which lies beneath

i have yet to find a piece of you,

my dear,

that does not cause my knees to tremble

and my pulse to race

and my breath to collapse,

and i have yet to find a second of every day

i have been blessed enough to share with you,

my darling,

where love is not the driving force behind

every flutter of lashes

and brushing of lips.

how did i survive without you?

Guinea Pigs and Lab Rats

if a trial-offered

fully voluntary

closely watched

meticulously monitored

sleep

was a viable option

as an alternative to

the rushing

crushing

devastating

destructive

thoughts

that parade around

this skull like

they fucking own the

joint

how could i ever

say no?

Reconstituted Nightmares

We were all deceived.

Arching his hand in the air, directing the flow of once-alive traffic like a demonic Poseidon controlling the seas, we come to understand. He had known all along. The old man's withered, parched lips had hovered precariously close to his ear, breathing words tainted with the foul staleness of age, bribing him to impossible power. The combination of odor and proposition was both irritating and enticing enough that he relinquished and accepted.

I had been the first to notice something was awry.

Entering a darkened room, black liquid decorated the floor in splatters. Eyes followed the trail, further and just a bit further, until a massive heap of bloody cloth was discovered. I squinted in the flickering light, trying to understand if what I saw was real. I screamed incoherently. I pointed frantically. They rushed to my side to understand the commotion when they saw it, too. Something very bad had happened here.

It was then that we heard it.

Scratches at the door.

"What was that?"

"It sounds like .."

"But .. but how?"

"Doesn't it kind of sound like .. ?"

Thuds against the flimsy, plywood barricade, like a basketball without an owner.

"It definitely sounds like .."

Why had we come here in the first place? Staring at the vibrating door, I recollected how this had all began. He had told us to come. He had led us here, all of us so naively laughing and telling stories as he brought us to our end. As the realization slowly crept into my skull, I turned towards him. He was smiling. Out of the four of us, he was the only one finding satisfaction in the impending attack. He had known all along.

His eyes caught the angle of my face and flickered ever-so-slightly. Not enough to turn and look at me.

Coward.

Just then, a scream.

I turned to my right to see decomposing, dismembered limbs dragging her away from us. Her long, black hair fell helplessly as her frenzied extremities attempted to grip onto something, anything to save her. She extended her hands to us, but she was already gone. We could no longer save her. Only three of us were left.

A too-convenient ax rested at my feet. Cautiously, I gathered it and braced myself to hack away at all that even approached me. He turned and faced us, taking steps backwards into the mass of rotted flesh, the remnants of those who once were. They quieted down and waited for his command.

An arch of his hand in the air and a wave began to descend upon my only remaining companion. He thrashed and squirmed and screamed. I tried to make contact between my blade and their skulls, but their teeth quickly sunk into his skin, the sounds of squirting blood and digested muscle drowning out his screams until there were no more.

I gripped my ax tighter, knuckles white, and turned to face him again. I tried to remember who he had been, but my instinct for survival was too strong. With the only battle cry I could muster, I swung my ax overhead and charged, driving the blade down with as much strength as my body would allow.

And then ..

some mouths are better left shut

one loses the right to lament
the daily ongoings of life
and the bigger happenings of existence
if that same one makes no attempt
at grasping the reins or wheel
or steering-device of his or her
metaphorical vehicle
in order to find that which will truly
bring
happiness.

Birthday Nostalgia is Never Very Constructive

physical endurance is a matter of genes,
of sweat, of blood,
of you-can-do-its and just-a-little-mores.

but the pores of my skin
were open just a little too wide
and went a little too deep,
and the collection of saline that
leaped from your face
was enough to turn my cells
to blood and calcium to bone.

where are you now
in this gargantuan speck we
incredulously call home?
do you inhale through small nostrils
the aroma of earth and humanity
the way i have been known to do?
do you gaze at distant fires
and wonder at the ancestors of us all?

i will slip my toes into that brackish deep
and let the tumultuous wind carry these thoughts to you,
oh, giver of life and enigma of memory:
whether i am to ever know the outlines of your face (i imagine it like mine),
or am meant to forever be satisfied to go without,
love has never known a restriction,
from the moment of your sacrifice
to the very breath i now take,
and will never know one in my life

all because of you,
the mother who
had no choice
but to give me
away.

the weight of blood and muscle.

[Backdated to 8 February 2011]

It creeps back into my mind. It finds every crack and every interstice that may (and does) exist. It slithers and slinks so silently, so perfectly, that it could be killing me now, and I'd be none the wiser.

The loss of control is palpable. Fingertips and toes go numb as the glissading vulnerability continually constricts, rendering me useless.

Rationality begins to sound the siren. Warnings and unnamed exclamation points swirl overhead. This isn't safe. Where is the net to catch me when I fall? Did the craftsman lose the fingers needed to weave it? Were his unique modifications replaced by the stainless touch of steel?

Retreat. My god, how I retreat to the safety of the lonely, melancholy brush that has been my shelter for so long. I do not know where else to go. I do not have the strength to escape. The smell of you alone would be cruelest form of torture from so far away.

I must keep myself safe. I must protect the bloody mass that I have slowly been tearing in my hands. But you have defeated every wave of ribcage soldiers I could have rained upon you.

You terrify me with your smile and how it can unravel me so. Curled, hunched, I am paralyzed underneath the weight of who you are and who you have made me: someone willing to love.

there's simply too much.

[Backdated - 18 February 2011]

There's simply too much. The body cannot endure the things through which we make it suffer. Once delicate, fragile, touched as though a petal - turned to weathered appendages that have seen too much, toiled too much, lost too much.

It is just a perfectly haphazard slop of chromosomes and blood, incredibly housing the viscous parts that keep us alive. Nothing more. But we know no other way to show our gratitude for what it does than to abuse it. We inhale carcinogens or imbibe ethanol to deadly degrees, and then marvel at how, one day, the body simply forfeits the game, unwilling to be a contender any longer.

But what else can it do? It has no choice but to relinquish its crown, crushed underneath the debt of this thing we incredulously call Life.