the wax poetic

So it’s all come back round to breaking apart again
Breaking apart like I’m made up of glass again
Making it up behind my back again
Holding my breath for the fear of sleep again

Holding it up behind my head again
Cut in deep to the heart of the bone again
Round and round and round and it’s coming apart again
Over and over and over

And now that I know that I’m breaking to pieces
I’ll pull out my heart and I’ll feed it to anyone
I’m crying for sympathy, crocodiles cry for the love of the crowd
And the three cheers from everyone

Dropping through sky, through the glass of the roof
Through the roof of your mouth, through the mouth of your eye
Through the eye of the needle, it’s easier for me to get closer to Heaven
Than ever feel whole again

I never said I would stay to the end

disintergration
the cure

I have been silent. Not with all, but with most. I struggle with that now. Do I tell? No one would know otherwise – no physical changes are present at this point. I can just keep going on pretending everything is okay. I am a robot. I am not human.

In the mind of my child-self, I was wondering if I could be rebuilt physically and mentally, like the six million dollar man. Would it only cost six million dollars? Can I win the lottery before then? Would I be good in bed? So many questions, always so many questions.

Now I am afraid I will be perceived as a liar a quitter a failure. I am not a survivor. My body is not winning any war. And “they” will say “she” lost her long “battle”. “They” will think it necessary to say nice things about me about how brave I was and “they” will wonder why I requested that no craft store cardboard displays of really bad photos of me are displayed. “They” will shake their heads.

I am sorry I let you down.

And I never wanted anything from you, except everything you had and what was left after that too.

the dog days are over
florence and the machine

In a dark theatre lit dimly in yellow, we waited for uncle grandpa’s hoodilly to start. The children chattered incessantly, but their mouths moved and laughed silently, the sound muted by the boom of music coming from other worldly speakers. I had heard this song before, but not this loud. It shook my bones. The children, were they singing?

I struggled not to cry out. I had felt this before, the power of words singing to me, about me, with me.

Today I was walking home in subzero temperatures with my dog and I was afternoon dreaming of how I walk the same path in the heat of August. I wondered, will I ever walk the same path in the heat of August? Will I die before my dog? Will I see the children I love have children of their own? Will I travel to all the places I have yet to go? Will I see the Cubs in the World Series? Will I see the final season of Game of Thrones? Who will be waiting for me, welcoming me, comforting me when I am lost?