Then shall Frigg's sweet friend fall

1992. poetry and prose. all written by myself.

[menglod]

I’ll cook breakfast even though it’s almost 10pm

Just like you taught me

Just like I would do sometimes on the weekend so you and dad could wake up slowly

Not because I’m hungry

But because Yoshimoto said it before

The kitchen is the heart of the home

I hear you in the hum of the fridge.

[menglod]

Your ribs / between mine / your head / on my shoulder / soft / like / falling / leaves.

[menglod]

The air outside clings to me like a balm for a fever I do not burn with.

[menglod]

I can only hope you get to meet

Everyone else I’ve ever loved

To know you were never alone.

[menglod]

And you do that for me—

Reach in elbow deep

to the worst of me

And pull out what

I didn’t know was left;

Leave my jaw shaking,

My chest vibrates and

If I could look at myself,

I don’t know that I’d recognize me;

You saw me in the marble

And carved me out.

[menglod]

All of me feels like

One giant, purpling bruise

Tender to the touch, and

Evidence of—something.

[menglod]

If death is a wound,

Your absence is a contusion.

Deep, painful,

And tender to the touch and

Worse when the days are short.

[menglod]

There are times when I resent

The heart being in my chest

Especially when—

Especially when.

[menglod]

Dawn of the final day.

I couldn’t stop

The moon from falling

Onto where you stood

But I could always make sure

That you would not stand alone.

[menglod]

Why do we always fall into the trap of thinking we have more time?

[menglod]

How deeply must we love

To accept this weighted grief

Every time

Just for the hope

Of being loved the same.

[menglod]

I resent that

I was ever born

Feeling Strange and Wrong

And confused by the state

You have left thing in.

Bless you

For ever trying

To give me life;

The gift of being able to love

Outshines every suffering.

Thank you,

With a knife

Clutched in my hand.

[menglod]

On a train or bus

With blurs passing by

That should be trees

I do not run for the fear

I embrace the journey

Because nothing touches you

There;

Always in between with

No home or destination

If you belong to nowhere

Nothing can find you.

[menglod]

my mind is

made of knives

and oh, what

a world of soft and

bleeding things

this is.

(why have you had me

sharpen them all?)

[menglod]

There is a burden inside me—

heavy and bleeding—

Made lighter simply,

simply!

By knowing it is there.

[menglod]

It’s jealousy. Not of them, or anyone But of my own inability— The impossibility— For me to experience these things Like they have.

My whole family, just Dust in the wind.

Just like that.

[menglod]

And sometimes it’s okay

To wrap yourself in memories

To shield yourself against

The cold of trauma

And negligence

It’s okay that things

Weren’t always great

And mostly horrible

Because that will never remove

The shimmer of those moment.