W.
I want to stop being sad. I should at least try.
I should convince myself that the painful ache in my heart is a tender massage, a wallowing reminder of your love, rather than an all-possessing slow death. And the molasses memories of you that seep from my pores should remind me that you are a part of me, rather than remind me of the loneliness that melts me like unscented cream wax.
And the brittle edge of losing you should remind me of your touch, so gentle it left bruises. The despondency within the folds of my thoughts should give me breathing room, as the vision of you drains from my body.
But this sadness is too heavy. I cannot fight it. Instead of veiling myself in a false smile, I will pull the sorrow up over me like a blanket, and I will swaddle myself in you. In the vivid memory of you.
I am trying to figure out how I knew you. How we knew each other. The first time. In what lifetime and in what form did it happened? Are we paying our dues for what we did to each other in a past life? Or is it my turn: am I paying penance for the sins of my former life?
The lost connection between us is unbearable, but I know there must be a reason. There has to be an answer, or a logical explanation. Right?
But the night that I met you everything logical drained out of me. Like spilled whiskey, the aroma of our shared-consciousness hung in the air. I saw you, and I knew you. Hearing your difficult words, and watching them in awe as they stumbled visually from your lips: it was all too familiar. I finished your sentences, and saw clearly your childhood. Learning everything about you was like reflecting on my own memories. I already knew you, and I knew your life. But I had forgotten. And you reminded me.
And now I sit confused. When I think back on you, and the things you have told me, I don't know if they are just stories or if they are my true memories brought back to life by you.
But I know that I miss you. And I know that I belong to you. And I know that it took lifetimes to find you. And I will do everything possible to not lose you now. Not again.
My love.
“Education”
My papers,
My theses,
My main points,
Have more purpose,
Than I do.
As a writer,
Instead of my mind as the creator,
My hand has been enslaved,
To their rubrics of rules.
My voice has been terminated,
My thoughts must be confirmed, cited,
And my purpose has been compromised.
It’s terminal,
And they dare to encourage,
“Please! Use ‘I’!”
“This is your work, after all,”
I have not been stripped of my identity,
Instead it’s been falsified by my own hand,
And called “education”.
Slay The Past
Levitate beneath the dust
of unseen tragedies, secrets & lost melodies
captivated by nonexistent consistency &
gravitate towards what could be, ...
leaving what was to mold in unmarked graves
echoing silence of addictions & delusions ...
conform not to the ribbon of sin that wraps
around bone & marrow ...
instead, make today your shiny new story.
if you do, shortly you will see
through a clear glass of Beauty ...