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@raindbowacidkisses
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“I miss you”
One thing I urge adults to unlearn is the stigma surrounding forgetfulness.
Perfect memory retention is rare. A faulty memory can be the result a host of mental illnesses, from ADHD to PTSD. It's not a sign that someone wasn't listening. I have a friend that has a four year gap in her memory due to trauma. I have another with poor short term memory retention because that's one of their autism symptoms.
Your brain can also trick you into misremembering things. I can't tell you how many times I've remembered putting my keys somewhere and unearthed them in a completely different place. I have to remind myself what my birth date is because I said it wrong once and now the wrong date is in my memory forever. I have to come up with mnemonics for birthdays, anniversaries, and events because my brain doesn't do numbers for some reason.
I see people bicker about forgetting a person's favorite food or what their mothers favorite color. I think it's important to forgive people who forget easily.
still not over it and I don’t know if I ever will be
I begged and pleaded to get a gggh http gggghghggtell me what happened but I was hidden away like Rapunzel, locked in a dark castle, with all of them yelling, Rapunzel Rapunzel let down your hair but little did I know you were holding the scissors right there and now I was left with no escape.
“Sometimes giving someone a second chance is like giving them an extra bullet for their gun because they missed you the first time.”
— Unknown
You poured me a glass of water and I drank it like it was the best poison you had ever given me, and as I became weak you grew stronger and stronger taking every last drop of blood from my veins, while slowly rewiring my brain to be the perfect mod but my brain doesn't work that way and instead you left the wires cut, mangled, and a mess. You tried to defuse a bomb you created in this undying mess but instead we were both electrocuted half to death. Memories gone, deep fried tissues, broken down membrane. I can still smell the burnt flesh seeping through this chaotic mess. Is this what death smells like? I can remember it all quite well now.
with you, I could be a lattice and its vine confidently swinging open all the old doors that frightened.
I was your shameless wild orchid trembling with desire; emboldened by our similarities, I took off the mask of serenity and we made love.
somewhere, in the mystery beheld by time’s dimensions; you are still deeply inside supplanting breath.
I thrived for a while in your hands. I became the nectar glistening on the petals of every rose bush.
I invoked dreams and spoke to you in symbols during our moments of painful separation.
slower than your understanding; I undressed more than your body to kiss more than your mouth; and I
placed your ear above my chest, for you to hear the timber of what was profoundly more than concupiscence.
.
snow currently laden's the fields, but I already envision the hour of wildflowers.
they will sprout conspiratorially wherever they please. I expect they are already beckoning for me to rise like plumes of prayers
way up above the clouds. my hand will be reaching for yours–and as if in a pagan like dream riddled with psychic intuition, you will wake from years of doubt knowing:
with you, I was more than the wavering of wishful happenstance.
with you I became the embodiment of love.
It was a night like all the others before it
The unseen owl hooted nearby. A herd of deer grazed in the side yard. I set the table with X amount of plates.
Those in attendance, in lackadaisical custom took their chairs. They talked over one another. I did not listen, though, I occasionally smiled,
but I did not laugh on cue.
Is it possible to forget how to laugh [?] Yes, just as it is conceivable to forget how to cry. If you would have
asked me even ten years ago, I could not have answered you with wisdom, but with a foolish
sugarcoated quip that wreaked of unintended superficiality. You’ve
heard what they say about the roses and its thorns [?]
Better to know the rose having been eviscerated by her claws. I live with what she’s done. It has made
me silent and forgetful. I’m often more machine, maybe less tender, but then there are nondescript evenings in
where I have come around again to some unequivocal truth about the totality of my emotional inertias.
When this occurs, there is a ceding, a breaking of ice in the ocean somewhere off and this allows me
to truly hear the owl at dinnertime; and as if seeing through its eyes, I come into seconds of clarity:
I have been the one who has been shrieking in the dark while life goes on.
I have been like the deer who eat in packs knowing coyotes lurk; and that though laughter and tears
do not come as easily as before, I now know how to praise with every cell in my body
when the eyes release a monsoon of incomprehensible emotions that have had trouble finding its exact language.
Adulthood III.
Can I talk to you about my distaste for faux morality [?] and my need for pedestals
because I am short [?] Can I talk to you about how the concept of regret makes
me want to vomit [?] I don’t mean metaphorically. I mean
literally. Chunks galore. Think, Linda Blair in The Exorcist.
When I’m feeling a tad masochistic, I relent and go
back into the vaults. I flip on on the old switches. I power up
the messages I keep for posterity and try to analyze each
piece of sentiment, as if it were part of a holy dig sight in Ancient Mesopotamia, but
from another |more guru like perspective| , but this is as awful as faux morality.
After my bout of leaning into subconscious Catholicism, I tend to come to the conclusion
that what hurt more was realizing how much of an idiot I was and that perhaps,
I too should regret and pay penance by passing along photographs of a life well lived.
If I’m lucky, that riles up the old steam engines of dignity cast away; and that’s okay.
What’s much worse is when it hits that I still love,
possibly more than I did. How the hell does that happen [?!]
Gen Z posts, not everyone is you, everywhere, every day. If only I had learned this earlier.
Adulthood IV. played to a Harpischord.
I drove up a steep mountain through deep set fog. I was afraid my eyes
would fail to see too late, the sudden silhouette of a pedestrian crossing
or the boxed in shape of a car hurtling through my dash window.
I let go and let life, and said, well, if this is the day, then it is, but it wasn’t. I made it to where I needed to go
and I made it back home earlier than previously anticipated–As for the fog, like a lingering consumption, it did not relent.
She did not dissipate by call of prayers and it was not until early dawn/ next day
that I realized, this phenomena is the only means that unwittingly lures me back to the hinterland where
two ghostly figures still wave goodbye to one another. Both in full discernment–No, that is not true,
one had more than the other, but both played at mime to perfection;
equally producing feigned smiles through sad eyes:
facing a world in where our perspective days would never be lived out quite the same.
The first Him I.
I have become him: primordial fear of ineptitude:
the microscopic traces of something other
that know by their own accord how to pull apart when a magnified eye discovers they have long been the ones in charge.
I can see him as if he were before me sitting at the cusp of all unspoken fears.
Him: chin slumped over a chest belaboring the droning mechanics of lungs that would not stop at grasping at elusive freedom.
I would walk past his room from kitchen to bathroom–while all blinds fought against being binded to sills.
It would be too early for the sun to be out and it made him all the more defenseless; motionless.
I would attempt to walk mid-air over the yellowing linoleum. I would not want to rouse
the aging edifice of a man who’s vulgar bark had always been the guarantee to a bite to come.
I would fly by his opened door. My heart could not feel pity, but curiosity for what looked like
a beast in repose, held secured by an invisible cage.
How had this morning ritual become a rite of passage?
When I turned fifty, the mountain came to me, as I was next: one of the broken prophets of sorrow who was condemned
to carry in hand, the body of a sparrow that had once sung;
and the mountain had me taste the acute bitterness of my father’s life on the tip of my tongue.
This physical epiphany came without warning, one morning,
whispering, it is too early for the sun to descend upon your hour of atonement—
but I will have you breathe; and breathe.
I am sending air and I promise, it will not kill you as it did him.
I began this day by walking away from the wildfire of dying things. It continues to burn as I write. I expect it always will.
I managed to get home. I went indoors–I climbed the stairs to be greeted by Mr. Noodles, my found cat. I reached for the
thermos. Not a drop of coffee was left. I did not despair. I became pleasantly distracted by Mr. Noodles weaving in and out
between my feet. I’m discovering I do not need control of things, people–I do not need to define what is or what may be. It
continues to be bitterly cold outside, but tomorrow Mr. G on channel eleven calls for warmer temps. All the accumulation of last week’s snow
will be for not. I wonder how the trees surrounding my home will hold up against the steady rainfall that is to come [?]
What happens if one of them decides it cannot stand up any longer [?] What if one of them precariously buckles [?] I have
so many worries. Each one is the mouth of a snake eating its own tail. Am I prepared to put them all down; to keep walking away [?]
Today was indicative.
