Rock hard you watch my legs wilt. You roll over like a cement truck, laying a light, cold absence. You are always old, you are never old. You were the only witness to my face, upturned, dripping in the eyes, mouth of a flower. And you didn’t love me. You gave me the memory of myself, asking for myself, but you in between would mediate nothing. And now you laugh at me, for expecting something more, like all the other girls buried under highways. You can see the day where I lay quiet as you, under your cement. You can see me when I tried to believe there was a witness to my belief. For 25 minutes, I stood under you hoping the length of time would earn me favors. My loyalty to what you stood for. That length of time was as meaningless then as is is now, but I still remember it. It is still an empty place, where the only light was you.
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July 14, 2010 at 3:39 pm
M.
your post with the yellow gloves in the toilet… the small moons with tails… staring at the ceiling… I can’t get the imagery out of my head – it took ages to fathom – powerful, terrifying and beautifully crafted prose – but it’s gone – I only read it once but it’s still in my head. Most words are just noise – but not yours.
thank you (- and I’ll stop commenting!)
July 14, 2010 at 7:49 pm
fionamickunas
Why stop?
July 15, 2010 at 1:59 pm
animusclaro
…not wishing to impose I suppose…
July 14, 2010 at 8:57 pm
fionamickunas
Do you have a blog?
July 15, 2010 at 2:01 pm
animusclaro
sort of – Animusclaro – not so much a blog as a collection of ideas – I’ve been collecting ideas for as long as I can remember – not for any useful purpose – if I dont capture the ideas in words they tend to dissolve into the ether.
July 14, 2010 at 7:06 pm
fionamickunas
You are very kind. I reposted that poem, but is slightly different. I hope I didn’t take anything from it with my changes.
July 14, 2010 at 7:08 pm
fionamickunas
Let me know if I did.
July 15, 2010 at 2:10 pm
animusclaro
Thank you for reposting it – I don’t know if it has changed – it doesn’t seem to – simply stunning prose. Whether you die at 93 in a care home with a tube up your nose or at 30 curled up in a ball in a toilet cubicle with a syringe I dont suppose it matters – it’s all the same – it’s hard not to judge though and almost impossible not to succumb to heartfelt pain at the death by a thousand stabs that addiction brings.