Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Nonverbal, Best Plan
biting the lip until it bleeds, stabilizing the conjured structure of the very language that allows you to breathe. desperately hoping for the change, but too many lives have encountered yours, asking things… telling things… forgetting things you want to forget. the continuous struggle of self vs. self and self vs. you and self vs. self vs. you… a tribute to the words you wish you could’ve said but didn’t say and want to say and want to scream, the things you want to say. there must be a place, somewhere, perhaps a black hole of words and things and ideas of things I didn’t say, wanted to say, want to scream, a grave yard of all the things I wanted to say; not just to you but to you and you and you and you and the one you know and the one we use to know and them and her and him and it and it and you and that and them and this and all the things I wanted to say have gone to this graveyard to die, and it’s full of all the verbal death I have once wanted to say. they don’t always go there though, and sometimes not immediately, sometimes the things I want to say they build and build and build until I can feel them right at my esophagus, I almost choke to keep them down, and sometimes the things I want to say simmer on my skin and I can feel the prick of it’s heat burning me inside and out and I just let it happen, carry around the burn and not say anything, never wishing it away just wearing it away and when I suddenly don’t realize it’s intensity anymore that’s when I know its long gone and left me and died and is off in the black hole of a verbal graveyard I have out there somewhere, and sometimes when it rains and when the right conversation strikes I want to say these things and I cannot find my discarded words so I sit in silence or make up new things to say in their place, or if the rain is just right and the conversation is to a desirable flame I see the words fall on to my clothes with the lightness of a raindrop and sometimes I absorb it and spill it out and then I wish I was dead, wish I could just die and lay nicely in my verbal graveyard, it doesn’t happen much. the verbal graveyard must be under a nice heavy lock and key and it’s grave keeper must know me all too well because to not give me a map might be it’s most nonverbal best plan.