Knives

September 30, 2010 § Leave a comment

At what point did I stop believing in unbelievable ideas? An idea of you? Of what I want and am?
Perhaps that afternoon in two-thousand-and-nine, the one I regret more than anyone or anything. I thrifted hope for my ration of sense. ‘It’s a lie. Why, I’d rather not be loved at all, than to bear hope, and have the possibilty of love.’ I killed hope to kill the potential, the possible, as my pain stemmed from that potential. And I moved on speedily like a child sporting armbands, to the deep end.

That friend, she turned me over again and again, possibly even more times than she turned to herself. I know there is an ounce of goodness there somewhere. What is this? Nonsense? Hope? Am I to be ridiculed? I guess it is my ovaries that fell for you last Friday, rather than my strength or self-respect. Yet something else calls and I want to be deaf to it I don’t want to hear it. That I don’t.

I lipstick. I love. Would I rather eat curry in my pyjamas? I’ve been there. I don’t know anymore. I’m just figuring out this hit-and-miss trail. I’m just testing the current, trying the water out with my colourful toes. Some mornings I miss that experience. You testing my water. For me. Pouring OJ. Pancakes.

I think I’d rather be alone than lose that again. And again.

So why am I listening for the key the damn key in the door? I try not to, I ignore the muffled kitchen clinks and clanks below. But my ears are blindly in love with you, unlike my gone gone gumption.

I might mention, also, that each morning I see that boy, with his silver-streaked black eyes, biking down Alexandra Parade to work. Backpack replaces shovel. I want to ask him politely if I might paint his eyes but I am terrified of drowning in those lochs.

And his bicycle flies by faster than my own, Chester.
Much faster.

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