I know what I am doing; nonetheless I am doing it. Perhaps because I don’t know what I can will myself to believe, after all.
Second chances for fourth place finishers, twice passed over and stuck in the numbing mud , and then broke open and cauterized by a love that boomerangs and blooms for having once been lost.
Amicable split it was not, with strips of flesh in all the nails of all the fingers and all the boards on all the windows hammered tightly shut. Coiled resentment like ropes round a stanchion, betray me twice and I’ll go and wrap my guts around a ceiling fan and jump.
The becalming was the worst. The good intentions left suppurating scars. So and so might have thought that it was destined not to be and marinated me in the mush of this too shall pass. But I like myself raw and unwashed, stinky with virulent refusal. I like myself down and emptied of any chance the better.
The watchers would not have guessed that this breaking core was but a bracing test of malcontent whirling yes finally yes.
Full on February reflux, quarried from this bleak frozen husk, impatience blooming on the hour by the hour. Feet of snow, lashing wind, water quench beneath a skein of ice insists on blood in its breaking. And then transformed and slick with buzz. Yes yes finally.
How you managed to shower me in vital sparks of what I had considered long-dead and too brittle love, so all the pores are tingling rage and a drip lengthens to a slow trickle, is more than mere syllables can sequester into plain sense.