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| tiny tea cups, tiny, tiny chairs |
A cloth this vulnerable is shared only with skin of my own, or the lip of a bottle, transcendent and sideways, feverish and hurried, each time I glimpsed backwards you were all still there, and not just you, but the words between us, an advancing garbage heap, fuming and suffocating. I was stalked. I was cornered by abandonment. The typical abundance of thrusted miles did not ameliorate but stop to wake, each and every one of you. The final adversary was uncovered and approached the day before the new year. A fine old friend, she was, but within this distance, political hearsay spoke for us and she quickly defended her stance. My sword has never been anything but flimsy, a premeditated barrier, just for the seconds before the handshake, the hug, the unconditionalness that seems to be so fragile. I slept in the shape of a six for two hours, and upon waking, drove one thousand miles away; I was finally able to grasp the tenderness of their "concrete" declarations as no fault of mine, and perhaps not of theirs, but as an underlining fear that's fed to them through tap water, television screens and smoke. 2015 has been absent of you, and just about any - bodies, but 23 flowers wilt before me along side 46 colors of paint and 100 warm lights. I have created more. I have laughed more. I can speak again. Leaving feeling left behind, behind. I could never congratulate you on your engagement with the patriarchy, but perhaps on your clever tee shirt, and immense smile. I could spit on that playlist, or killer set. I could, but I wont. This is not a confession of forgiveness, nor is it a plea for it. The lot of you know you were excused before I was even provoked. This is a notice of immunity of myself. No shame, no more.