The mind goes…
It reminds me of the screen
I take to falling apart quite gracefully if you would just get the fuck out of my way
who said I had to be whole for you
anyways
who said I needed to be measurements not given by
me
well fuck me and then take my thighs wet
to memories and I will touch upon it now and then
again
but most times i will regret
I will regret
I will regret
not leaving sooner…
Third person, fourth person, none person…
Change inevitable.
Like the clouds changing from dog to tornado and ripping away the child from your arms.
Speak freely of the liquor you ingested to tell you the truth of all things out side of yourself.
I looked at you today and you looked ill for a man of 40.
Eyes yellow. Burnt yellow like the stains on your finger tips from endless tobacco burn.
I wondered if you knew, that we know, you are an alcoholic.
I know you fear the inevitable grave or closet.
But I am here to free you.
Step out into this air I call, you.
I call it you because all air is you.
All air is all things.
So simply complicated at the moment that you must drink to take it in.
If you are wanting to die, and you will, eventually, but if you are wanting to die from alcoholism then you are on your way.
You are allowed to choose to die this way.I will support you in all you choose.
I support you in all you have no control over.
I support you even though you remind me of my father. Do you stick your dick in everything too? . . .I care not.
I judge not.
I only live to witness and to comfort the soul inside the ailed body.
I am here for you.
I am here for your yellow eyes and your nicotine stained hands and lips.
I am here for you while you sit in the basement alone hating everything about yourself, wishing something would change, knowing it is you but wishing it weren’t.
I sit with you and I let you put your head on my shoulder. shhhhh, breathe. shhhhh, take your drink. or . . . don’t.
Either way I am here .
Only the eyes.
Only the story.
Only the poem.
Only the forgotten daughter.
Nothing more.
Nothing less. . . Just witness.
The wounds were many, but nothing she couldn’t bare.
She knew others that had it worse.
Much worse.
She used to read old news paper articles on abuse cases.
One story she remembers particularly well.
A young boy 3 or 4 was put in a closet night after night. Arms tied in a shirt and hung in the closet by a hanger.
All day.
All night.
When the parents needed to get a little more aggression out they would pull out his teeth and finger nails.
The whipping child soon met a horrible, painful end. As you can only run from imagining.
And although she cried, a part of her felt relieved.
Relieved to know others had it worse than her. It made her feel as if she could somehow continue on.
As if someone else’s torture lubricated her cracked existence.
She acted out due to her abuses. Same as any other marked child. Acting out to figure out. . .
Older now.
Her attention span fails her as she gets older.
She tends to ‘forget’ to let herself ravage the old memories.
So tonight she smokes more herb… and forgets to forget to let herself get anything out.
Inhale. . . Shhhhh…Let it out.
Exhale. . . Shhhhhh…get it out.
Heal thy self.
allesor 