I see your
success and want to kill everyone who knows you. I know it isn’t real, but on
the Internet, success is always real and that’s all anyone sees of you. I saw
my reflection and suddenly realized why you did what you did. I looked like I
wanted to put my head through a window and I still do. Every time I think of
how I fucked up, I catch another view of how you will always be a tapeworm in
my heart, how, when I am fucking other women to attempt a compensation for your
absence, I will realize emphatically, like being held under water during P.E.
in elementary school, that, for the remainder of my span as a human, you will
eat any chance I had at being happy with anyone but you. You will be at my table
for all of my existence because of one fucking night when we talked about
serial killers and you put the camouflage leggings wrapping your skin over my
waist while we slept in blood and glass on your bedsheets, shot through with
cigarette burns. Concerning the contingency of things, Spinoza was completely
correct.
A man I
know fairly well told me that the women I will and have loved will be rings within a
tree trunk. We discussed that, no matter how much someone
tries to paint over or rub out the dark edges of those eternal circles, they
will permanently endure all time and faked hatred and heads through windows.
You are the first circle in my trunk and when everyone sees me, years deeper in
existence, with a woman in her thirties, they will imagine her to be this
worked-for outer ring, a halo of my soul, they will think they know that I now
know what love is because I am older. But wisdom is a bruise, not a band-aid. Wisdom
is knowing when to guillotine one’s senses, in hopes that new ones grow in its
place, like a Hydra, or a lizard tail of understanding. But mostly, wisdom is a
callus over the soft spots of our baby skull hearts that will never blister and
fall off in the heel a sock.
No comments:
Post a Comment