elephant song


handwriting-virginia-woolf-10921544-600-870

Virginia woolf’s suicide note to her husband feels like it’s pulled from my diary – the old pages and thankfully not the new, but the complete sureness of her partner’s Goodness, the complete assured sense of her own Lack echoes in my bones even V wasn’t too unique in the end the breathtaking quality of stories that repeat ad nauseum the cats are complacent beside me i think about the times i have loved and the times it has not been reciprocated i think about what that means and realise it means nothing over and over again like a fish in a glass bowl a friend of mine got ghosted the other day yeah not even in a typical way but in an arranged marriage situation way haha can you believe it. can you believe this shit happens all the time first the parents were into it then my friend and his fianceetobe were into it and then the girl’s side changed their minds and that’s that over done khalaas what do you even do with that i mean nothing is reliable really and no one is reliable not at the end anyway it’s breathtakingly mundane heart break fart break commercial break how many takes can you take for a shot to work according to eminem you only get one but idk these days who the fuck even listens to eminem picky people want other people who are picky you have to be picky choosy you have to never settle own every moment of your life that is the only cure to depression when things stop happening and you happen to things instead like the egg the carrot and the coffee bean in hot water which are you which are you
what did you even want, at the start?

what did i even want, at the end?

when did we lose each other – have we even done that properly?

there is such a danger in not knowing yourself. this state
produces the best lies, the lies that feel like truth.

there is a book i read once. it was called The White Bone and it’s the kind of book you can only read once but which you must read once. It is about elephants and how lovely they are how vulnerable they are how sweet sweet sweet. It is about humans too, in a way.

i don’t think i mattered enough to even hurt you is a thought i have when i think about us-me.

but  of course i hurt you is a thought i have when i think about us-you.

still calm bird with a trembling broken wing
the brokenness of me distorts everything i know, you know,
the broken glass painting refracts light oddly against
churchgoers’ faces the girl is not really bleeding it
is just a red skirt against her face, it’s how
a breeze can feel gentle on my face, and sting
the exposed tissues of my bird wing

it’s ok. the punishment matches the crime, mine:

i had absolutely no business loving you.

there is an ethical praxis to love and to this question of boundaries needs the things we do how we linked our fingers, and those feather light touches i fell asleep to the tenderness of it there is a question of justice to what people want and need and ask for there is a morality to it there is a Right and a Wrong about it and it was Wrong.

Do you know that.

What we did was wrong.

It lands heavy in the after because it was wrong.

What a sin to take something we weren’t ready for from each other and then throw it away. Decadence. Selfishness. Avarice. Wrath. Lust. There is a reason these things are sins. 

How do you sleep at night. How do I.

Everything sinful stems from thoughtlessness. the immediacy of the moment at the expense of everything else the blinds the tunnel vision to 2 feet in front.

Were we prudent or present or brave. Were we gracious or just or strong.

It was beautiful and wrong. It was sincere and wrong. It was wishful and hopeful and wrong. It was passionate and wrong. It was hesitant for the wrong reasons.  It was bittersweet in the wrong ways and for the wrong reasons, more bitter than sweet with time we really corked the fucking wine didn’t we. we can’t even say sorry to each other can we – apologies like love like forgiveness need a place to land, we have made the walls that contain us smooth like metal and fired clay there is no landing space anymore.

So say sorry to the universe. Say I love you to the universe. Say you’re gonna be ok to the universe. Say I am too.  let the moon hear it soft and light, rising at least like truth. the only cure to shame is truth.

i don’t understand us anymore the you-me the burial the death the end-
it feels like someone took a pencil
turned it upside down and kept rubbing parts of me out
with the old
in with the new.
blank slate.

there is always space for new beginnings after death.
death loosens the spirit away from all the body’s pain
in the future when we are both ashes
i promise what i did what you did all of it
will stop hurting and maybe
we will just become our own memories
taking shape in clouds in an otherwise blue sky

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