Laura Lewis, with a prose poem about “a bleeding heart trying to stitch it up before numb sets in.”
Paradise doesn’t always come on time or with palm trees and piña coladas. I found my Eden in the most unexpected place but you wouldn’t believe me if I told you my fairy tale began in a straight jacket. Nightmares need to come true before dreams can come alive. This is a story of a girl, who won’t deny it; I got insanity and I have the medical records to prove it.
I know regrets can kill; it’s unrequited death that kills the most lives. Now white horses show up, because who hasn’t dreamed of being the hero at least once in their life. But oxygen doesn’t travel to the lungs faster than the speed of light once did.
I know the sun skips some peoples homes sometimes, but see, my neighbor was a body of water, and it always shined so hard on it that i swear 1 trillion diamonds dug themselves around there, no blood, just beauty. Summer always ended, though, and the ride back to a place where outside these walls a standoff ghost town lingers.
Sometimes, in mid winter I go back, to the beach where lonely roads remain as lovely as they were because crab apples, kids, and cars realized they can’t co-exist. When I leave, the car ride home makes me regret stopping by because I know the water there doesn’t care if i ever come admire it again. It’s a bit indifferent in that sense, doesn’t care if i notice the way it moves its body so delicately, refreshes the thirst of even the most dehydrated, how it promises to holds ships and never let them drown. Its generosity inspires me, the way it lets life in, no questions, rules or regulations, free of currency, labor, all you have to do there is survive. My first experience with appreciations of art that takes time is the broken glass the sea took on, and when it was healed it gave it back to the land and said I promise, you’ll be found, and cherished, by all the right people. It’s the only place where i feel so fucking free. I guess what they say holds true, the greatest teachers don’t hesitate to leave you there by yourself chained to fate. Unrequited love, is all shakespeare poem-ed it up to be, because my love is unconditional, and i don’t resent growing up for making me miss you, I appreciate it because it took that to realize i dont know what love is, and you showed me that.
This has nothing to do with any of that. This has to do with rejection, and the moments leading up to it, the moments that take to fucking long to get here. This is about a bleeding heart trying to stitch it up before numb kicks in. This is about a crutch, because confessions are something like I know its not mutual and I know your method is silence, but a delusional maybe still lingers in here. If you haven’t learned, the thing about choice is you don’t have one when it comes to matters of the heart in the end only silence remains only silence matters I focus on the silence entertained by the way it moves moments carries the remnants of enthusiasm with me until it is curbed by lips that speak primitive. Unconditional faith is given to the first soul that survived the same spiritual genocide you did. Truth is it won’t. Truth is silence, it lasts forever; truth is, this coping might too. Truth is, maybe, that’s what I need.
This isn’t about any of that. This is about Hope after death, so when they ask you about your truth, confirm the revolving death rumors with a smile that’s so alive even the hopeless can believe in its promise.
photo: nathanmac87 / flickr