I have too much dark inside me, I could scream all night and still the smoke wouldn’t clear.
I’ve cried blood, bled tar, spat salt water into the sink; all this grief and nowhere to put your hands but on me.
I want to take you apart like a castle in the hands of God you say
and now dreams are the only place I hear your voice. I sang myself to sleep behind the bathroom door, my feet propped up
on the porcelain bath. I don’t know what to tell you about the rain and why it falls. there is nothing common sense in collapsing.
there’s nothing left but the railroads and a plug without a socket. this is a metaphor for something too painful to talk about.
I missed the last train home you say,
but I’ve never heard anything that mattered less. once again I gave you all the speaking parts and you never learnt your lines.
I gave you all the speaking parts but you never know when to come in. you’re unrehearsed. love is a distant act at the
end of a script you never planned to read. you’re falling apart and even dawn has never broken like you. for safety, you have your
conscience locked in a box. your soul is a child you trapped in the basement who never cries, just knocks very politely on the
underside of the trapdoor. you always do this. it always has to end like this / with you stretching out your hands but I won’t take
anything you’re willing to give away for free. barefoot I’m scaling the fence, i’m running down the street; the red footprints in the snow
are the latter part of a telegram about mortality. i’m turning over the body in your bed and seeing that it’s mine. here is
my blood in a wineglass, my heart on a stake: if you must, be lot be orpheus be herakles.
maybe hylas thanked the waves for drowning.
Yves Olade, So Close to the Light You Catch Fire response to the @nepenthenet prompt “two faces”
