I’m a blanching sack of nerves, stuffed to breaking with the not know-how of this prep. I can’t face anything but sleep. The scratch of the sofa and blueish tinge of my skin beats the rising shriek of uncertainty otherwise offered by ACCOUNTABILITIES.
I’m sucking at excuses, waiting for you to twist my heart into a teasing mushy pulp and reignite my fight to let me sit, glaring, aware, upright&ready this evening.
Which is –
this is what it is.
Something needs to give before I am able to begin. This house weeps with age and I press my body to it in the silence, passing out of now – thankful and beatific – into recollection and grey dawns. I am half-conscious, pressed straight backed against the arm rest. My eyes are shut, spread thin against the worn sunshine of this/that day. A feeling of I’ve sunk myself. I love – everything –. His easy, sloping part of it ushers in half-truths. It irons flat the damp and neverending monotony of this particular day.
I don’t want to be in love again, don’t need another chasing flare of trailing conflict to stick my head and make this – these tracked lines back and forth from my head and the page – count for nothing but what they are; garbled, mindstruck rubbish.