Friday 29 May 2009 photo 1/1
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The streets and alleyways in my head are named ater famous suicides and scientists. They lead all the way into other cities and villages. I emerged from a car crash heart and walked all the way to my feet before realizing it had been the wrong direction. Spent four days-weeks-years hiking; left my love, my life in spite of everything. I held my model-sized soul close to my fingertips, so close to wanting vs. needing. I crawled the very last bit, down on my knees in front of some kind of god, begging forgiveness for my non-belief. Begging forgiveness for someone I still don't believe in, and maybe (see: probably) never will.
Kick the thoughts to their teeth; armed bones on fire with passion, armed persons with motives. Roughed up in a want-to-be-loved kind of way. Messed up in an I-already-am other kind of way. Slapped with the idea of affection going through my own hand. The pretty image of a sound, a signal or clue. Possibly a puzzel, but will it ever change?
Then again, no crashes in days-weeks-years. I stopped waiting for a change, stopped expecting it. I smile longer, harder, better. Never close to what it was, it lasts and should make a point. Do people see bruises and deep cuts anymore? My mirror image is me again, not an attention-starve corpse with a fondness of abnormal identities and maybe abusive relationships (see: probably).
It's going to be a long time until I crawl back to that life, but for now I'm on my knees. The executioner looks exactly like me (it's me) but it's getting easy. I'm a martyr and a killer, but sing me a song and slay two birds in one stone.
Kick the thoughts to their teeth; armed bones on fire with passion, armed persons with motives. Roughed up in a want-to-be-loved kind of way. Messed up in an I-already-am other kind of way. Slapped with the idea of affection going through my own hand. The pretty image of a sound, a signal or clue. Possibly a puzzel, but will it ever change?
Then again, no crashes in days-weeks-years. I stopped waiting for a change, stopped expecting it. I smile longer, harder, better. Never close to what it was, it lasts and should make a point. Do people see bruises and deep cuts anymore? My mirror image is me again, not an attention-starve corpse with a fondness of abnormal identities and maybe abusive relationships (see: probably).
It's going to be a long time until I crawl back to that life, but for now I'm on my knees. The executioner looks exactly like me (it's me) but it's getting easy. I'm a martyr and a killer, but sing me a song and slay two birds in one stone.
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