Lines should be as blurred as sandy white noise and the brass between thievery, flattery, and the black blood of decision sprayed across the room.
Mind those deltas following suit.
You words so full of frustration still ring in my ears.
What is it I don’t do again?
What was it I forgot this time?
Where was I when you said I was gone?
Where had I gone?
Was my phone off?
My mind gone?
What is it this time, again?
How is it I forget everything that seems relevant
That I never knew about?
What was it that I didn’t remember properly?
Did I not mimic your same examples?
Did I not bend to every whim?
Did I not bleed with you,
for you the hundred times you asked?
Did I not return when I should have stayed away?
Were you not the equal to the rest that surround me?
Are you unable to see the constant torture?
How many questions must I face before I’m enough?
Are these 140 words enough?
Are the 4 hours of phone calls near daily in 4 years enough?
Questions, are they enough?
Did I look back enough?
Is there an adequate number I should have reached by this point?
Did I respond too quickly for you to think I was present?
And how about now, are these words nearing 200 enough now?
Was I supposed to take care of you when you didn’t take care of me?
Am I always to be more than you can be for me?
Is it all my responsibility?
What do you think should happen now?
How again, I am supposed to be?
Should I have been less giving?
Or was my place as a statue in the room?
Was I supposed to never respond?
Never display an opinion?
Was I not to ask for any damned thing?
How can I give you it all until I’m empty?
How about 300?
Are you to drain it all to appease yourself,
Until I’m dead and you are full? Is that enough?
Thought experiment: m(e.)
Lovely Pan Like Succubus: Nachtmahr- JohannHeinrich Füssli (1802)
Arousal Activation: London Grammar – Wasting My Young Years
barflypoet & author of dark fiction
I want to be rich. Rich in love, rich in health, rich in laughter, rich in adventure and rich in knowledge. You?
Learn to Live
Life Is Beautiful
It's all about you and me
We are talking about something we know nothing about.
embrace the impossible
"For your born writer, nothing is so healing as the realization that he has come upon the right word.” —Catherine Drinker Bowen
(...and some I have)
I’m an artist, an illustrator, a photographer, a tinker, a tailor, a mother, a spy