Dear Little Knives Seeking Sore and Wounded Hearts,
Pardon my French, but it's time you fuck off. I don't mean to be crass, but you seem to have not heard the prayers for strength and peace and "your will not mine," so I'm giving it to you straight.
Enough.
Fuck off.
You don't belong here, so get your damn feet off the coffee table and your sorry ass out the door, you poor and withering fool. That we breathe in gasps, taste our hearts in our mouths, feel our stomachs turn to stone at the sight of you, at the thought of you, at the out of a blue of you, damned little knives, means only that we are not yet dead and so nowhere near to lost.
You and your razor edge, your fine slice, your blooming blood in a bud of split skin are a midnight's flowering, and though the dead will rise, death will not. You are not the only lion prowling for a meal. Light on the horizon. And it will devour you whole.
And did you catch that part where I told you to fuck off?
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6 comments:
This is an awesome post!
This may not offer comfort, but when I moved to the UK for a while I remember sitting there the first day and feeling totally forsaken. Doubts, fears, regrets... they all creep in when one is alone and cut off from the supports left behind in the other place. May God bolster you, hold you, support and carry you through this uncomfortable, prickly, 'shocking' time of adjustment. Peace and a hug to you and India!
Light, Love. we watch, wait.
but sometimes just those gasps: why, where?
"Your blooming blood in a bud of split skin..
Oh no she didn't!
thanks, ms. cecily. it does help. this post wasn't about me, but i guess it could have been and it feels good, all the way over here, to have you, all the way over there, cheering us on and nodding your head at the knowing.
Angela, that was a top shelf rant. Good stuff.
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