Monday, May 17
Cut, deep. I do not want to write. Pulling on words. Dental floss with that scraping sound as you pull it out of it's container. I never seem to get the right amount. To little and and i end up throwing it out and starting over. Too much and I feel guilty for wasting such a precious commodity. My words feel that way this morning. They smell, stink actually. Rhyme of reason is abandoned as meter and measure fly out the window and into the trash heap. What is one to do with such obvious crap? Again I am sliced open. Cut. Harsh is the shining blade of a trusted one that cuts you deep. Bone deep. Deftly with an oft practiced stroke my heart is neatly, cleanly sliced in two. So perfect, and ever so swift, such that my attacker is long gone before I realize that I am nearly bled out. I am an easy mark. Accepting of others, open and welcoming. It is my nature to be this way. I will not change. Those who keep their skinning knives sharp, their vorpal, killing words honed and ever ready. Hidden. Silent. Sleeping sappers. Waiting for. The right moment. To take what was freely offered and shoplift it. Making beauty into vest. Sublime into ugliness. It is their nature to cut and slice. They will never change. As I learn to heal, they in turn hone their blades ever sharper. Someday I will meet one or perhaps two, who will return my open embrace. On that day I will forget all previous pain. Someday, they will meet another, more practiced than they and they will know the ferocity of the unexpected cut. The cut that goes bone deep. Living by the blade has caused them to perish, as their arteries run dry they die alone. Face down In the gutter. Road kill no one will mourn for or notice. I fear. For theirs is the most wretched life I can imagine.