gagged

i haven't. 
i can't.
words are crawling away from my hands before i can catch them.
i can't catch them. 
not words. they're not words. 
what's that other thing called?
roiling swirling magma of colors of um, feelings? is that it?
i have too much fundamental confusion. 

we live under a magnifying glass here, me and my magma. i am that leaky kind of volcano. 
the one you watch closely in case of explosion. 

my face is being stabbed over and over so that is not helping.
murky thoughts. 
i haven't words. or they're not the right ones. 
aphasia of the both kinds. 

i'm afraid i'll vomit tea again if i can't vomit words. 
but i can't find them. 
just this kettle cavity of boil, boil, toil and trouble. 
certainly we're waiting to see about that. 

words? 

i can't understand if i can't write
but i guess i can't write if there's a fundamental inability to understand. 
need a vulcanologist. explain to me lava. explain how to stop up the cracks. explain how to put the earth to sleep. 
and a poet to find my words. 
they're hiding and i know it because i can feel them, i just can't grasp.
they call it groping. that would be dysarthria, to continue the co-morbidities. 

maybe it's a visual field cut. 
maybe they're just right over there, if i turn my head. 
if it's left side neglect, that's the end. imagine the clock hands. i will see but never recognize. 
i will be lost. 

i don't think physics is helping here

i am afraid of falling off the earth. i am afraid of all the atmospheres pressing down, holding me in this tenuous balance.

that and spinning are all that's keeping me from the lies of the stars. 

i always thought drowning would be peaceful, but they say it's not. 
i always imagined space full of sunlight, but i hear it's not. 

i was going to put some metaphor here about pupils, but it's not working out. i can't think of another one. my head is empty that way. 

i imagine that space is full of time. twisting and smothering. enough until it has no meaning. 


strangely, this is also how i experience evenings. suffocating and endless. i'm drowning in my own space. it's only seven. the voice pops up in my head, sleep yet? and i have to tell it no. again. 


really, i've nothing to say. 
or maybe i've too much to say and it's all getting jammed and it feels like nothing. 

i feel spacious inside. dark and empty and cheated because forever, i've been promised the heavens. 

they say that stars are made of gas. which is just a fancy way of saying nothing. 

if only my insides had such swirls of color. 
if only my insides were so vast.
i imagine caverns pregnant with light. swirls of words.
a star nursery. where the young ones are kept. 

except i've heard it's dark in there. and smells of rot. there is no space. but there is time in there, isn't there? 
my organs seem to understand time. they seem to stop working if i forget to eat. they feel better if i dance. they do not allow me to do both. 

how can i be empty and stuffed full of slippery rot all at once? 
there's two worlds colliding.
something in my head is breaking off. it can't contain the impact. 
which is more or less how we got our moon. 

which brings me back to starlight. 
which, in truth, is white and cold. 

so, there's that. 
can't really think of anything else. 

on the non-linearity of time

i am trying to clean the clutter of you out of my house. this is your city. how do i know what to recycle? the bin isn't even blue. 

i don't understand a lot of things. 

i am trying to keep on not understanding so i do not stay here. as if homesickness wasn't enough. 

the four miles between us is not 2600 but i am doing my damndest to convince myself. it does not help that you do my laundry on saturdays. 

my clothes come back smelling like your basement. 

once i got your underwear. 


the membrane between times is thin here; past and present, present past, present perfect progressive and future perfect progressive combining, i will have am being trapped here. as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. 

amen. 


do you remember the beaches of normandy, where the time membrane, too, was thin? ghosts of soldiers, my feet in their mud. their fear and mine. i could touch them. 


here it ripples with the river. the bridge is a mass of earthworms you find under a rock that go ten thousand ways. it is a beautiful feat of architecture. so much connexion. but you know, if you take the wrong exit, you're essentially fucked. four miles before you can turn around. too bad the way is etched into all my tenses.

i'm terrified i'll end up at yours by mistake. a wayward damning daydream. belly up. 

door-walker

yes, prod at me with your toe. i remember. what is a door, anyway?  

old house, long-lost skeleton keys, now just sad beautifully framed holes in the wood. 

that one lock, it did work. i didn't even know what that meant.  

ten years later, different hands, different voice, répète encore.

you'd think for all those doors i open i'd understand the meaning of locks. 

it's exquisitely painful being conscious today. stabbing behind the eyebrows. lethargy of the limbs. slack-jawed staring past the cars driving past, brain lost in the tumbling past. i see in shades of grey and brown. not sure if it was worth the pancakes. they were so good, though.

i'm not ten. i'm not twelve. i'm not fourteen, fighting back. i am how old and this shouldn't happen. i shouldn't feel this. i shouldn't feel. you didn't. i shouldn't. 

can i get a do-over?

i could've been prepared. pushed your face out of the doorway. given a less flimsy excuse. 

i'm afraid of the sound of the click of the lock, not of me but you hearing it, painful rejection spasming through your insides. fifteen years later, still. still. i can't do it, i can't lock you out. 

having found the off switch to my brain, i am now concerned that is does not, in fact, turn all systems off

caught in the stillness. i believe my heart is still beating. certainly it hurt when the mirror fell on my head yesterday. 

mother's day is tomorrow. i've been plotting out the boundaries. for your sake and mine. let's just talk about tulips and my new phone and the rain. my brain physically hurts to reach for depth. blame it on the mirrored semi-concussion, if you will, which you will.

i will hold my silence.

i will blank out your circle-maze speech because i cannot hope to follow.

everything will be loud in my ears. they're picking up too much static these days to deal with your problems. 

i'm brain-numb and brain-pained all at once.


your presence is humbly requested at brunch tomorrow.
we would be delighted at your company.
mimosas and french toast will be served in your honor.
cordially yours,
k.

donut eyes

i'm feeling a bit glazed over these days. maybe it's the sun and its magnificent appearance, maybe i'm not eating quite enough. 

 

but that's the point, though, isn't it?